The Finished Job Report Led Us to Six Missing Deposits

"Who signed that?" I asked.

Owen turned the page.

Felix had signed beneath a line that said all customer information was true and complete.

My name appeared in a typed box marked LEAD CONSERVATOR. There was no signature from me.

"The curtains are over there," I said.

Their bottom edges lay open on the table. Pale strips showed where I had removed failed repairs. The new support fabric was still on order.

Owen looked from the report to the cloth.

"How much work remains?"

"Three weeks with help. Longer without it."

He took photographs with my consent. I put a measuring rule beside the open seams so the images would show scale.

Felix came up the stairs.

"Completion means our part of the arrangement," he said. "The buyer takes over the finishing."

"Your report says no further expense," Owen replied.

"That's accounting language."

Ruthie shut her notebook.

"It still has to mean something."

By noon, Vivian had requested access to the company books under my rights as a member. Riverlight wanted the same records under its purchase agreement.

Faced with both requests, Felix gave the outside bookkeeper written permission to release the files.

The bookkeeper, Nessa Quill, met us by video that afternoon.

"I posted the entries Felix approved," she said. "I haven't audited whether a curtain was finished."

"Nobody asked you to know velvet," I told her. "We need the entries and what supported them."

She sent two versions of the customer-deposit ledger.

One was the month-end copy she had emailed us in March. I had saved it under supplies, intending to check our lining order against the budget.

The other was the version included in the sale.

Six deposits had moved from money owed for future work to money already earned.

The total was $64,400.

I printed both copies and set them side by side. In March, each customer had a balance beside the word DEPOSIT. In the sale copy, those same names appeared beside CLOSED. The amounts matched to the penny.

"Could it be a mistake?" I asked.

Nessa took a moment before she answered.

"A mistake could explain one entry. I need to send you the instructions for all six."

The email she forwarded had come from Felix's company address. It told her to close the jobs before the buyer reviewed the books. He had attached the completion forms himself.

Vivian asked Nessa to keep the original email and its attachments.

I wanted to call Felix immediately. I wanted to read every number to him until he stopped using his warm, patient voice.

Instead, I wrote the email's date on my list and handed Simon another record he could check.

Lantern's $28,000 was the largest. The others were $9,600, $8,200, $7,400, $6,000, and $5,200.

I knew those jobs. I could picture each roll of cloth.

"This one was waiting for approval of the test patch," I said. "This one hadn't even been collected."

Nessa shared her screen.

"Felix sent six completion forms. The ledger history shows when I posted them."

"When?" Vivian asked.

"Two days before the sale."

Owen rubbed his forehead.

"Our agreement excluded unfinished customer work. We were told those jobs were closed."

That explained the lie's shape. He had bought equipment, stock, a trade name, and a collection. He had not agreed to supply six customers with work whose money was gone.

The bank records explained where it went.

A week before the sale, the studio had paid $58,000 to clear an equipment loan and $6,400 in related closing charges. The lender had then released its claim on the machines.

"He cleared the equipment for you with their deposits," I said.

"We need an accountant to trace that," Vivian said.

She kept me steady that way. A fact was a fact. A conclusion had to earn its place.

Our customer contracts said advances were to fund the named jobs. Moving them into a new ledger column did not sew a single hem.

An independent accountant named Simon Vale agreed to start the review for $2,800. Riverlight and I authorized access. The company would bear the cost under an interim agreement all sides signed.

Riverlight also stopped release of its remaining purchase payments while its lawyer reviewed the claimed breaches.

For two days, I answered Simon's questions and sent treatment records. I gave each photograph its original file name. I left the dates untouched.

"Don't tidy the evidence," Ruthie warned.

"I know."

"I know you know. You also straighten crooked receipts when you're scared."

I put down the receipt I was straightening.

On Friday, Felix called me from downstairs. He had found, he said, the document that would end my foolish claim.

"You gave the curtain to the company," he said. "You just forgot."

He emailed a one-page contribution letter dated 2021.

At its foot was a picture of my signature.