Three Repair Tags Led Me to Three Different Owners

Ida's daughter was named June. She lived in Carencro and still had her mother's empty accordion case under a bed.

"He said the reeds had rusted clear through," she told me. "Said it wasn't worth bringing home."

"Your mother brought it in for a bellows patch. The reeds played clean."

June was quiet for so long I checked the phone.

"Are you there?"

"She saved for that thing ten years."

I asked her to bring every paper she had. I did not tell her to trust me. She had already trusted one person behind our counter.

That evening, she laid a folder on my workbench. It held her mother's purchase receipt for $9,700, a family photograph, and court papers naming June to handle the estate.

My intake photograph showed the same pearl face and a small silver crescent above the air button. Ida had added that herself.

"Current auction estimate is $11,200," I said.

June put both hands flat on the bench.

"I don't want eleven thousand dollars. I want the thing she touched."

Sabine had come back with sandwiches. She set one by June without a word.

Then she held out my copy of ticket 1152.

"Theo Vann played a fish fry for us last year. His brother drives our equipment truck. Let me call him."

The dead phone number belonged to Theo's old repair business. He had moved to Lake Charles after his marriage ended. His brother reached him before supper.

"Dorian said you retired," Theo told me when he called.

"He decided that for me yesterday."

"He told me my black box needed a new bass board. I sent another $300."

I opened the ticket. I had quoted $190 for corner work. There was no broken bass board in the intake photograph.

"Bring the message and your payment record."

"Is my box gone?"

"I know where it's listed. I don't know where it is."

That distinction hurt, but I owed him an exact answer.

I remembered Theo counting bills when he first brought his box in. He had asked whether a patch could last another season. I had shown him the worn corners and explained what I could save. Dorian had stood beside us, nodding. He knew exactly what Theo owned and exactly how much that second payment would hurt.

Tuesday morning, the three owners sat at my bench. Sabine had her old receipt. Theo brought a photograph of himself playing his black accordion and a note from its maker recording the number inside. June brought the estate folder.

I set out the three damaged substitutes.

Theo lifted the black one, then put it down like something hot.

"This isn't even the same weight."

"He figured you'd believe it was damaged after repair," Sabine said.

June looked toward the front door.

"Or after somebody died."

I tapped my pencil three times. Nobody spoke while I opened my records.

The originals carried estimates of $8,600, $6,400, and $11,200. Together, they came to $26,200. Each substitute had a moved tag, new cord, and damage absent from the intake pictures.

We photographed them beside a ruler and their numbered tickets. Nobody opened a reed block or tried a repair. Mara had asked us to preserve their condition.

We also called the other eight customers. Their instruments matched their records. Each person agreed to a pickup time, with an identification check and a signed receipt.

One man asked if there would still be a charge.

"Only for work I actually finished," I told him.

By noon, I had reached Cora Bellamy, who owned the auction company. Her rooms were in a warehouse beyond the busy streets near the river.

"I received your lawyer's letter," she said. "I've paused bidding on those three lots."

"Can we inspect them?"

"I need to sort out competing claims first. Mr. LeBlanc sent sale releases."

"From the owners?"

"He said your shop had bought their interests."

Sabine leaned close enough to hear. She shut her eyes.

"Please send the releases to Mara," I said.

Cora agreed. She also said Dorian had offered to move the items away from her warehouse if the dispute caused trouble.

"Please keep every message," I told her.

After that call, I walked through the workshop and turned each empty case toward the wall. I couldn't stand seeing their open mouths.

There were bills to pay, too. The rent was $1,100. Glue, leather, and cloth still cost money. My own account had $3,240 before Mara's fee.

I had expected revenge to feel larger than a column of figures.

Mostly, it felt like checking one more name.

At three, Mara called.

"Come to my office. Bring a sample of your signature."

I asked why.

"The release covers all three accordions," she said. "It says you witnessed each owner's consent."

"I never did that."

"Winona, the signature at the bottom is yours."