I set down my purse.
“Do you have a ledger? Or does it all live in the box?”
“There’s a ledger. I quit being able to make it come out about a year ago.”
“Mr. Brandt, I kept the books at the lumber yard for twenty-two years. Double entry. Give me that ledger and that shoebox and a pot of coffee.”
He looked at me like I’d offered to carry the fifty-pound sacks out for him.
It took me three afternoons at the little desk in the back, by the vet supplies.
As it turned out, Don Swanson had not paid for his creep feed since May. Neither had four others. And there was a deposit from July that had been written in twice.
When I got done, the ledger balanced to the penny. And I’d found him a little over two thousand dollars in charge tickets that nobody had ever billed.
