The Seafood Buyer Sent Six Receipts Before The Bank Closed

“Seventy-two thousand,” I said when Celia called Wednesday morning. “She offered me one dollar for the building.”

“Those are separate deals,” she said. “Keep them separate on paper.”

I wrote WORKSHOP on one folder and LEASE on another.

Then I made a third marked HARVEST.

I used to think keeping peace meant setting my questions aside. By Wednesday, setting things in folders felt better.

Nine Reed's full business filing had loaded overnight. Leon was its only listed manager. Its registered mailing address was the same Port Royal box shown on his storm estimate.

That proved a link. It did not prove where our money went.

I told Celia that before she had to tell me.

“You're learning,” she said.

At the dock, Ruth had my certified packet ready. The lot sheets named a licensed seafood buyer, Lark Inlet Seafood, as the final receiver of all six loads.

Nine Reed had arranged the sales.

Gideon stood beside me while I checked the pages.

“There,” he said.

He pointed to a note in the account history. On Monday afternoon, someone had asked to replace our farm's name on the six lot sheets with Nine Reed's.

The request had come from Simone's business email.

Ruth had refused it. The harvest source could not be changed just because somebody wanted a different bill.

“She said it was a cleanup,” Ruth told me.

I rubbed the loop on my cord.

“Can I have that email too?”

“It's in your packet.”

In the parking lot, Gideon said, “Don't get carried away. People fix honest mistakes every day.”

“Six of them?”

“Let her answer that.”

Celia called Lark Inlet with me beside her. Its owner, a woman named June Bell, sounded annoyed until we read the ticket numbers.

“We paid those,” June said. “If somebody says we didn't, I'll send proof.”

“Who told you where to pay?” Celia asked.

“Your client's manager. Mrs. Moultrie. She said Nine Reed handled storm recovery and sales.”

Within an hour, June sent six invoices and six payment receipts. Each invoice showed $10,800. Each payment went to Nine Reed.

The total was $64,800.

There was no guess left in that number.

June also sent Friday's order: 6,000 pounds, at three dollars a pound. Nine Reed had told her the new lease ownership would be settled before the truck arrived.

“Do you want the order canceled?” she asked.

I looked at Celia.

“Tell her the ownership is disputed,” Celia said. “She can decide what her business needs to do.”

June put the pickup on hold while she checked with her own lawyer.

“I'm buying oysters,” she said. “I don't need to buy a lawsuit with them.”

Next, we went to the bank that held our farm account. My name was still on its list of authorized signers. I had signed those cards when we opened it, then let Simone handle every statement.

The banker checked my license and printed three months of records.

No winter sale money had come in.

Our crew had been paid $12,600 from old savings. A piling contractor had received $2,180.

That was the only storm repair payment.

“May I get a copy of that paid bill?” I asked.

The banker gave me the payment record. The contractor later sent the invoice after I showed I was an owner of the customer company.

Two pilings. Labor. Materials. Total: $2,180.

At Celia's office, I opened Simone's repair summary from January. It claimed $64,800 had gone to emergency shoreline work by Nine Reed.

The same number as our missing sales.

I checked each receipt against its ticket. The dates ran from early January through late February. All six loads had crossed the scales after the storm repairs were finished. I wrote the dates in a straight line on a clean sheet.

“She didn't just hide the money,” I said. “She gave it a place to disappear.”

“We can prove the sales were diverted,” Celia said. “The receiving bank records will tell us what happened next. We request those through court.”

We signed papers asking for a full accounting and a temporary order against moving the lease or taking its harvest. Celia also asked for records from Nine Reed.

The clerk gave us a Thursday hearing time.

I went back to work with a stamped copy in my truck.

A customer paid the $1,460 balance on his new canopy. I had been too upset to remember it was due. That payment would help cover Celia's first bill and whatever bond the judge might require.

I was clipping threads when a delivery man came through the shop door.

He asked for my name, handed me an envelope, and left.

Inside was a demand from Nine Reed for $26,400.

It claimed my workshop owed Leon for repairs I had never ordered.