Neighbor Took an Axe to Her Maple Tree — Then a White Envelope Revealed She Was After Something Beneath It

CHAPTER NINE: THE BUYER IN THE GREEN TIE

The buyer arrived five minutes before six.
His name was Quentin Dorsey, and he wore a green tie patterned with tiny silver birds.
He moved with a practical confidence that made other people step aside.
“Is this the demonstration?” he asked when he saw the little harbor on the table.
The gallery director stepped forward and began explaining that the exhibit had raised questions.
Quentin held up a hand.
“I’ve heard about those questions.”
He turned to Everett.
“You told me there was a dispute between two former employees.”
“There is,” Everett replied.
“Then why is there a second working stage in the room?”
Nadia placed her hands on the portable control wheel.
“Because your seller is presenting a decorative reconstruction as the original mechanism.

”
Quentin examined the harbor and the tiny figures.
“Can you show me?”
Everett tried to speak.
Quentin turned sharply.
“I asked her.”
Nadia began the sequence.
The miniature bakery crossed a shadowed street as a lamp brightened in the upper window.
A figure carrying a basket emerged from a narrow doorway.
The lighthouse swept the harbor once and stopped above a painted boat.
Quentin watched the entire nine-minute performance without speaking.
When it ended, he leaned close to the little stage.
“That is rather extraordinary,” he said.
Everett looked relieved.
“We can incorporate some of those movements into our version.”
“Your version?” Quentin repeated.
“I thought I was buying the original.”
Everett shifted his weight.
“You are buying the only surviving complete harbor set.”
“It isn’t complete,” Nadia said.
“And it has never performed those movements.

”
Quentin straightened.
“I purchase mechanical art because I want to see the engineering, not just display expensive furniture.”
Megan liked him a little more after that.
“Then don’t buy something you haven’t seen run properly,” she said.
The gallery director suggested suspending the sale until a qualified review could be completed.
Everett’s face reddened.
“We’ve spent months assembling this exhibition.”
“That doesn’t make it accurate,” Sabine replied.
Quentin looked at the two older women.
“Are you willing to speak publicly about your work?”
Helen glanced at Nadia.
Nadia did not answer for her.
“I will,” Helen said after a moment.
“But first I need to admit what I did when we worked together.”
Everett stepped toward the doorway.
“A personal confession is hardly relevant.”
Quentin blocked his path without touching him.
“You’re the person asking for my money,” he said.
“You’ll stay while I hear it.”
Helen drew in a breath.
She described the failed hospital performance and Solomon’s decision to run the miniature theater too fast.
She admitted that Nadia had warned him, that Iris had tried to protect the painted figures, and that she had remained silent when Nadia was accused of destroying the show.
Her voice shook at first.
Then it steadied.
“I thought that if I agreed with him, I might keep my job,” Helen said.
“Instead I lost my friends, and the workshop closed anyway.”
Nadia’s eyes glistened, but she looked straight ahead.
“I should have told Helen what I changed,” she said.
“But she should have stood beside us when Solomon blamed me.”
Quentin folded his arms.
“And what does this have to do with the object Everett is selling?”
Nadia gestured toward the false harbor.
“The original show was a collaboration.”
“He is selling a reconstruction under a single man’s name.”
“Those are separate issues,” Everett insisted.
“They’re connected by you,” Megan said.
She held up the printed exhibition brochure, which credited every component to Solomon Morrow.
“You made a design that relies on other people’s work, then erased those people from the story.”
Everett looked toward the gallery director for assistance.
The director instead took back the brochure and studied its description.
Quentin loosened his tie.
“I won’t bid on the exhibit as represented,” he said.
Everett’s jaw tightened.
“You’ll regret walking away from an opportunity like this.”
“I often regret things,” Quentin said.
“I prefer regretting them before I pay for them.”
Megan almost laughed, but her phone buzzed.
It was a text from Rowan Pike, the arborist.
Someone had been seen measuring the distance between the maple and the walkway.
The visitor had left a small orange marker near the curb.
Megan showed the message to Helen.
Everett saw their faces change.
“You think I sent someone to your property,” he said.
“Did you?” Megan asked.
“I have been here for the last hour.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
He said nothing.
Megan stepped into the corridor and called Rowan.
He explained that the person had arrived in a commercial pickup truck and claimed to be assessing access for a weekend landscaping job.
Rowan had asked for the property owner’s authorization and sent him away.
“The marker is gone,” Rowan said.
“I removed it myself.”
Megan thanked him.
When she returned, she found Helen standing beside the little harbor.
“We should go home,” Helen said.
“Not yet,” Megan replied.
“Everett has spent the whole day trying to make us leave.”
She looked through the curtain at the crowd arriving in the exhibition hall.
“I want everyone to see what they’re actually being offered.”