Three Calendars And One Bank Trail Explained The Missing Money

The accountant's name was June Sykes. She arrived carrying a small calculator and a lunch sack.

“I don't need the family history yet,” she said. “I need the starting balance.”

I liked her at once.

Under the court's order, Bich supplied statements, transfer records, and receipts through her lawyer. June matched them to the pavilion's copies. I cleared my cutting table so she could spread out the months.

The brass fish held down the bank statement.

“Unusual office equipment,” June said.

“It doesn't let things slip.”

She drew three lines on a sheet. Mara and Caleb, $18,000. Seabreeze Dance Club, $12,400. Leah Ortiz, $11,200.

Those advances had gone into a separate booking account. June could follow each dollar without mixing it with class fees or the old operating balance. She attached a statement page to every finding, then gave me copies with the account numbers covered.

Then she traced the transfers out.

“Fifteen thousand nine hundred went to a contractor,” she said. “The invoice is for a sunroom.”

“We don't have a sunroom.”

The address belonged to Bich's house.

Another $16,000 had paid a personal credit card balance. Bich had labeled both transfers OWNER DISTRIBUTION.

She had made them after my deed was recorded.

“Does calling it that make it allowed?” I asked.

June pushed up her glasses.

“A label isn't permission.”

She also checked every booking against the calendar attached to the management agreement. Bich had listed none of these three commitments. Her written instructions had barred new long-term deals without my approval.

Ruth arranged a meeting with the customers and their lawyers. We used the ballroom, with folding tables in a square. Nobody sat in Minh's old stage chair. I put it away before they arrived.

“You have claims against Bich,” Ruth said. “We also need a written plan for what happens here. Thuy isn't asking you to give up any claim today.”

Leah arrived with a binder full of weddings.

“Two years,” she said. “I sold dates on the strength of her signature.”

The club treasurer, Mr. Ross, laid out his own list.

“Our members are pensioners. We can't pay twice.”

Mara said nothing until Bich's ivory card came out of the file.

Then she stood.

“I don't even want that building anymore. I want my mother's savings back.”

Caleb reached for her hand.

I waited until she sat down.

“I can offer different dates,” I said. “You can take those proposals to your lawyers. If they don't work, we'll record that too.”

“For another deposit?” Mr. Ross asked.

“No. Any replacement agreement must deal clearly with the old payment.”

Ruth had helped me work out prices I could afford. Empty weekdays cost less than empty Saturdays. A club that came every month could bring steadier income than a wedding that never came back.

Lionel brought coffee and then stayed beside the club treasurer.

“Our Tuesday dancers can move to Thursday,” he said. “They'll complain for eleven minutes. I'll time them.”

Mr. Ross almost smiled.

We found room for sixteen of the club's blocks on Sundays and weekday evenings. The remaining eight would be canceled. Leah could move six dates, but four required other halls.

Those were proposals, still subject to final terms. I wrote every one down.

Mara and Caleb's wedding was five weeks away. They had already told their guests where to come.

“We won't compete for October seventeenth,” Caleb said. “We want to leave this mess.”

Lionel knew a fellowship hall with a kitchen and a smooth floor. He called its rental chair while we sat there. It was free that Saturday, for $1,800.

Mara pressed both hands over her eyes.

“We'll have to borrow more.”

“Keep the receipts,” her lawyer said. “Every extra expense.”

When the meeting ended, no one hugged me. That was fine. They left with dated notes, contact names, and copies of the relevant contracts.

I stayed to put the chairs away.

Bich appeared outside the glass doors. She wore the pale gold glasses I had once repaired with clear thread during a benefit dinner.

I spoke through the closed door.

“You need written consent to come in.”

“I know what the order says.”

She slid a folder through the mail slot.

“A settlement,” she said. “We can still keep this private.”

After she left, I opened it beside the cutting table.

She offered me $25,000, my machines, and six months in a small apartment she owned. In return, I would deed the pavilion back and sign a statement saying the costume credits had been a family misunderstanding.

At the bottom, she had added a handwritten condition: You will tell the customers the booking money was yours to manage.