Chapter 11: Three Hundred and Twelve

Constance's office was empty at nine on Monday.

Her auditor sat at the conference table with a laptop and a cup of tea.

He was a small gray man who didn't want to be there.

I put the folder down in front of him.

It held forty-one invoices, forty-one delivery receipts and forty-one photographs of white roses on a grave.

He went through them in twelve minutes.

"They're all in order," he said, and shut the folder. "There's no discrepancy."

"Then why did you flag them?"

"I didn't flag anything, Miss Deming."

Ansel stood by the window with his arms crossed.

He looked at the auditor. Then he looked at the empty chair at the head of the table.

"Thank you," he said. "You can go."

When the door closed, he spoke without turning.

"I should have said it yesterday."

"Said what?"

"That she was wrong."

"You said you'd look at the invoices," I said. "You looked."

"That's not the same."

"No," I agreed. "It isn't."

I took the folder and left.

When I turned the corner onto Hale Street, my shop window was covered in paper.

Hundreds of sticky notes. Hand-lettered signs. A long sheet of butcher paper taped across the glass.

SAVE DEMING & CO. Underneath were signatures, rows of them, in different pens.

The baker from next door stood on the sidewalk with a tray of cinnamon rolls.

"Three hundred and twelve," she said. "We've been up since five."

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