“Because Dad hid them?”
“Because he was embarrassed that the repairs weren’t finished.”
I frowned.
“That seems stupid.”
“It was.”
Arthur smiled faintly.
“Your father eventually said the same thing.”
“What did you do?”
“I believed my executives when they told me Frank had acted irresponsibly. I dismissed him.”
“And later?”
“Years later, during another audit, I discovered internal correspondence showing those same executives had denied his funding requests while assuring me the maintenance program was fully funded.”
I stared at Dad’s photograph.
“Did you tell him?”
Arthur’s voice became quiet.
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before your parents died.”
I looked at him.
Arthur opened a drawer in the greenhouse desk.
He removed a yellowed envelope.
The front had my father’s name on it.
Frank Foster.
The address was ours.
The handwriting was Arthur’s.
“He never answered,” Arthur said.
“Did he get it?”
“I don’t know.”
