My Copied Signature Turned Up In An Office Template

"No," I said.

The investigator waited.

"I never signed any delivery certificate."

Nina sat beside me while they asked when I had seen the form, whether anyone could sign for my shop, and who had copies of my signature.

I had signed a vendor information sheet for Keene in January. He needed my address and tax details to set up the account.

"I have my copy," I said.

On that page, my pen had left a small dot inside the hook beneath my last name. The same dot sat on the certificate.

"It looks copied," I said.

"We'll examine the files," the investigator replied.

Nobody asked me to become an expert because I was scared.

Later, the examiner found the cropped signature in a saved certificate template. It came from the scan of my vendor sheet. The office computer held both files.

A clerk named Celia Rusk had filled in the dates. Through her lawyer, she turned over a message Keene had sent after my refusal.

Put his signature on the certificates. He accepted payment.

I read the message during a later evidence review.

I had made good pots. I had been paid for them. Keene had turned those two true things into permission to put a lie over my name.

The office records explained why he wanted the forms.

A lender had asked questions about large cash deposits. Keene's bookkeeper had requested delivery records for the dates. Keene had called the collections payments for vessel-handling services.

My false certificates would have supported his claim that the urns were only empty stock moving between shops. He also could have used them against owners who said the pots carried cash.

The bookkeeper had saved her questions. Keene had saved his answers. I began to feel grateful for people who kept dull email.

The audit took months.

Four businesses had lost $58,800 in the period covered by the charges. Nora's share was $14,700. The other owners had different demands, with messages and records of their own.

My batches helped place the urns and crews at the final six collection rounds. Older entries depended on other proof.

One cash entry could not be confirmed. Dahlia left it outside the total she presented.

I heard about that through Nina.

"She could have included it," I said.

"She couldn't support it," Nina answered. "That's different."

At the shop, fear still cost money.

A rumor said police had found cash in my kiln. They had never searched my shop. Two customers canceled anyway. My loan balance still stood at $11,100 before interest, and legal bills kept arriving.

Nina helped me post a short notice saying I was assisting an investigation and accepting orders. We shared no witness names or evidence.

I made white urns for a while. Green glaze reminded me of Perry's hand at the mouth of that pot.

Then Nora sent a picture of her office window.

The sign said OPEN.

Under the picture, she had written, Still taking calls.

I taped it beside the wheel and mixed a small bucket of green.

Dahlia and I saw each other only during office work. Once, after a long review, we ate sandwiches with Nina and another investigator.

"How's the basil?" I asked. She had told me she was trying to grow some.

"It has requested different management."

"Does the pot have a drainage hole?"

She looked at me.

"That sounds like a question I should have asked earlier."

I wanted to make her a planter. I waited.

Keene and the collectors were charged that spring. The main charges against him were theft, intimidation, and forgery. Celia faced a forgery charge for copying my signature.

Charges were not a verdict. Nina reminded me whenever I wanted to call them the end.

Keene's release terms barred contact with witnesses. Funeral homes found other carriers. Nora and two owners built a shared backup list so no transport company could control all their calls again.

A later review found the original draft of the portrait order.

It had named Nora's dead husband. Keene had replaced the name, attached Nora's photograph, and written a note to the clerk.

Leave her year blank. She will understand.

His voicemail about an error had been another piece of work done in that soft voice.

Nora read the note with her sister beside her. Then she asked when she would testify.

By October, I had filled another shelf with animals.

The coordinator said trial was approaching. I thought that would make the paper less frightening.

It did not.

My subpoena arrived on a rainy afternoon, with my name above the words requiring me to appear in court.