Chapter 7
Story: She Snapped His Pitchfork Into the Muck at a Kentucky Show — Then He Asked Who Signed the Papers
The auditor came on Thursday.
She was a thin woman named Dr. Elaine Park, with iron-gray hair and reading glasses on a chain, and she spent the morning in the office going through Junelle's files. Cyrus stayed out of her way, working the stalls, but he saw her emerge at eleven with a stack of ledgers, and at noon she went through the feed room with a notepad, and at two she was in the tack room, counting saddles.
"She's thorough," Becka said, finding him at the hay rack.
"Good."
"Are you worried?"
Cyrus considered it. The audit was the first thing that had actually unsettled him since the committee meeting. He had replayed his father's words a dozen times, looking for something he might have missed.
*The paper is in the feed bin.* That was all. Not a mention of records, taxes, leases, or anything else that might protect them.
"Worried?" he repeated. "A little."
"I looked her up," Becka said. "Dr. Park. She's actually really respected. Does independent reviews for the state association. She's done a lot of high-profile disputes."
"That's what Junelle wants. Someone respected so nobody can argue with the result."
"Why would she hire someone respected if she expects to come out ahead?" Becka asked. "That seems like a risk."
Cyrus paused. "That's a good question."
At four, Dr. Park came out of the barn office and found him in the aisle. She had a folder under her arm, and her expression gave nothing away.
"Mr. Doyle."
"Ma'am."
"I've reviewed the management records of this facility for the past ten years." She paused. "I understand from the committee that your ownership was only recently established—"
"Eight years ago," Cyrus said.
"—and that this has created some friction with the former management."
"Former?" Cyrus raised an eyebrow.
"The managerial relationship appears to be under review." She said it carefully. "That's not my department. My mandate is the physical and financial management of the facility itself."
"I understand."
"I found a few things." She opened the folder. "Minor discrepancies in the feed ordering — a supplier who was being overpaid and receiving, as far as I can tell, nothing in return." She looked up. "I'll be recommending that the relationship with that supplier be terminated."
Cyrus felt something cold settling in his chest. "Which supplier?"
"Brandywine Feed. Per the records, they've invoiced this facility for approximately $1,200 a month for the past several years. The feed invoices show nearly double the quantity of grain that this barn runs through in a year." She looked at him. "Do you know anything about that?"
"I ring feed from the Millers' mill," Cyrus said. "Always have. They deliver the grain, and I sign for it. I don't know anyone named Brandywine."
Dr. Park nodded slowly. "That matches what I found. The Brandywine invoices were paid by check, signed by—" She consulted the folder. "Junelle Alderman."
Cyrus stood in the aisle, the sounds of the barn around him, and let that settle.
*She was stealing from her own operation*, he thought. Not just the Doyles. Not just the rent that was never signed. She was bleeding the place dry and putting the money somewhere he hadn't even heard of.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"A few smaller items. A vendor for 'tack maintenance' that has invoiced $400 a month for three years. I could find no evidence that any tack was ever maintained by this vendor. Another monthly payment to 'Horseman's Insurance Brokers' that appears to have lapsed two years ago — the policy was never renewed, but the invoices continued to be paid."
Cyrus leaned against the stall. He felt light-headed.
"Is there —" He stopped. "Is there a pattern? These payments, were they—"
"They appear to have benefited a single individual, yes." Dr. Park was direct. "It's not my place to draw legal conclusions, but the financial record is clear. There's a pattern of payments to vendors with no work product, all authorized by the same signatory, over an extended period. I'll be reporting this to the committee and to the association."
Junelle had stepped out of the office while they were talking. She stood in the barn doorway, the orange afternoon light at her back, her face unreadable.
"How did it go?" she asked. Her voice was light, careful.
Dr. Park turned to look at her. "I'll be filing my preliminary findings tomorrow morning, Ms. Alderman."
"Good. I'm sure they'll be thorough."
"They are." Dr. Park paused. "Quite thorough. I've identified several discrepancies in the barn's financial records that I'll be recommending for a full legal review."
The silence hung in the aisle. Junelle's smile flickered.
"Discrepancies? I'm sure they're—minor. Accounting errors. We're a busy facility."
"These are not minor." Dr. Park was calm, flat. "I'll detail everything in my report. If you have any questions about the methodology, I'm happy to address them."
She walked past Junelle and out into the lot. A moment later, her car started and rolled down the drive.
Cyrus and Junelle stood in the aisle. The horses shifted in the stalls. The sun moved across the floor.
"Junelle," Cyrus said slowly, "do you want to tell me about Brandywine Feed?"
Her fist tightened at her side. But she didn't answer.
She turned, walked to her car, got in, and drove away.
The barn was quiet. The brass plate caught the last light of the day, the letters bright against the dark wood.
*Cyrus J. Doyle — Wren Hollow.*
Cyrus looked at it for a long moment. Then he picked up his pitchfork and went back to work.
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