Free Wild Goose Chase by Terri Thayer Page B

mother. This was the shop she had created. I was just trying to keep up and falling short constantly.
    Inside, I could see customers milling about, some already carrying their bags, others waiting at the cutting table, still others fondling the fabric. Vangie, Tess, and the rest of the staff had everything under control.
    I’d used my quota of social energy at the bar, so I stuck to the sidewalk and went around to the back of the store, running my fingers over the old masonry siding as I walked. My great-great-great grandfather, determined to recreate his Boston childhood, had shipped these bricks overland. The shop stood out from the Spanish-style stucco architecture of the rest of the block. It was perfect for a quilt shop, although the traditional feel ended when the customer walked in the door and got a glimpse of the brightly colored fabrics. California twisted tradition, Mom had called it.
    Of course a new owner would change all that. I felt a twinge of doubt. Was I doing the right thing in looking for a buyer? Kym was leaving me no choice.
    I entered through the back door, nodding to a customer as she opened the door to my left that led to the bathroom; the door to the right opened into the classroom. A second classroom was in the loft space. My office was on the other side of the bathroom, and a kitchen was beyond that. From there, it was a short distance to the store’s main space.
    I could hear Vangie singing “My Boyfriend’s Back.” That meant a customer had bought six yards or more of fabric to use for the backing of a quilt. Vangie, despite having just turned twenty-one, was an aficionado of sixties music. She liked to refer to herself as a hippie.
    Shrieks of giggling filtered back to me as Vangie hit the chorus. “Hey now, hey now, you’ve bought a back.” I crossed over to my desk, listening to the joviality, but not being part of it. This was a familiar feeling, being an outsider in what was supposed to be my shop. I felt a flare of anger at my mother for leaving me in this position. I quickly stuffed it down. It wasn’t her fault she had died too early.
    Entering my office, I felt my focus shift. The talk at the bar had brought home the fact that Mom had been right about computerizing the sales and accounting systems. I’d spent the last six months entering every item we had for sale, every bill we owed, every invoice we sent out into the laptop. It had been a huge job, and I had finished last week—except for one outstanding invoice.
    When I’d put the store accounts into our new software, I’d found checks being paid out to a company named WGC, without a corresponding bill of sale. I knew this much from my basic college accounting class—expenses and outlays had to be the same. There was no documentation of what we’d purchased from this company. I’d asked Vangie to get copies of all of the checks made out to WGC, thinking they might reveal information about the company. On my desk was a folder with her handwriting on the outside.
    Attempts I’d made to contact the company had not panned out. There was no phone number to call or any explanation of the charges on the monthly statement. Just a new bill each month, coming from a post office box in San Jose.
    I fanned out the seven checks. More than $3,750 worth of payments to WGC. Under the old system, there was no reconciliation between receiving and accounts payable, so this kind of discrepancy would never have come to light.
    The first check was signed by my mother, the rest by Kym. I turned the checks over and squinted at the blurry endorsements. No signature, just a stamp that read WGC, followed by the imprint of a local bank, one with branches all over the country.
    The checks told me nothing new.
    I threw the folder into the top drawer, disappointed. I’d let myself hope that the answer was here in the checks. Now I would have to double check my inventory input and I couldn’t do that without the laptop.
    A bulging envelope with