We Counted The Returned Pipes While The Bank Released Its Records

Verena had signed the second contract the morning after Sloane told her about the codicil.

The court order had not yet been issued. The contract did not prove she had broken that order. It proved she had agreed to sell the rest after learning that the organ had been left to me.

She had promised delivery of all remaining 454 pipes for $29,400, with a $9,800 deposit.

Beside the title warranty, she had written, “No competing ownership claim.”

Daniel circled that sentence.

“Don't send her anything,” he told me. “We'll put it in the record.”

Mara worked out the returns with Edwin and the Pennsylvania buyer. The estate would advance the refunds under the court's agreement, and the final accounting would decide who bore the cost. Both buyers surrendered their claims to the parts. Neither wanted to keep a disputed instrument in pieces.

The church committee sent the Oboe rank back without seeking its lost weekend of work. Edwin released the other two crates and the tremulant. He did charge the actual storage and return freight.

“I should have asked for the estate account,” he told me.

“I should have looked in my wallet sooner.”

“Doesn't make it your sale.”

Mara also paid the furniture seller $350 and collected the workshop box before his hold expired. She kept the invoice. I kept the regulator out of the rain.

We unpacked everything at the hall under Ruth's supervision. Verena received notice but did not attend. Mara had changed the locks and controlled access while the court sorted the estate.

Ruth laid brown paper across three folding tables.

“No tuning yet,” she said. “Count and condition first.”

Grandpa would have approved.

The two warehouse ranks each held sixty-one pipes. We checked the names scratched near their feet against the rack labels. Some were no longer than my hand. Others rose above my shoulder.

The Oboe crate held sixty.

I counted again.

“Tenor F-sharp,” I said.

Ruth marked a space on the paper.

“Don't fill it with a guess.”

My stomach sank. One missing pipe would not ruin the entire organ. It could be replaced. But I could already hear Verena calling it close enough.

We called Owen, then the church committee. Their volunteer remembered finding a loose metal piece in a padded sleeve and packing it separately to protect it.

“Did you send it?” I asked.

“It should be underneath the cardboard brace.”

Ruth lifted the brace. A narrow sleeve lay taped along its underside.

Inside was the pipe.

I held it up without speaking.

“Six hundred thirty-seven,” Ruth said.

I set it down in the empty space.

The pipe had a small dent, and two wooden feet in another rank had cracked during removal. The regulator's leather was torn where someone had dragged it across the shop box. Ruth photographed each fault before I touched a tool.

By then, the return and repair estimate had reached $7,250. That included the workshop purchase, freight, storage, careful reassembly, and repair of the damage. It did not include moving the organ to a new home.

That bill was still ahead of me.

I had spent evenings calling churches, empty schools, and small theaters. Most had no room. One landlord wanted $2,400 a month and a personal guarantee. Another liked the idea until I described the weight.

Then Shore Room Arts offered a former chapel near Springwood Avenue for $650 a month. Their board would allow a raised platform and a removable pipe frame. I would need insurance and money for the move.

I drew the layout myself. The builder who priced the new frame checked it before I sent it out. Each grant request included that plan, the lease offer, and a budget. I could promise tuning classes because I already taught apprentices on service calls. I could offer public hours because the room had a separate entrance. Those were useful facts to put beside a sad family story.

I sent them the measurements, without promising money I didn't have.

Mara also received Verena's demand for $14,400 in storage fees. She disputed it and asked me for any agreement about the room. I sent the canceled rent checks my aunt had laughed at.

At the hall, Gideon watched me lay the damaged feet on felt.

“You haven't played it yet,” he said.

“I want everything checked first.”

“John taught you that.”

“You taught him some of it.”

He smiled and looked toward the empty racks.

Before leaving, I tapped the stair rail three times. The room answered with its familiar small rattle. This time, all its voices were under the same roof.

Mara called as I was locking up.

“The bank records arrived,” she said. “Both payments went into Verena's brokerage account. Twenty-eight thousand four hundred dollars in total.”

“Is it still there?”

“Enough is. The court has frozen the disputed amount.”

Then she told me about a message attached to Edwin's contract file.

Verena had written, “Close before the grandson brings the amendment in.”