Franklin Brought White Gloves And A List With My Numbers

Franklin arrived at my kitchen door carrying a flat case and a paper bag of rolls.

“Breakfast first?” he asked.

“Evidence first.”

“I hoped you would say that.”

He took off his coat, put on white gloves, and opened the case.

“Those are copies,” I said.

“Habit. Also, it makes me feel stern.”

The lender's page was dated seven months earlier. At the top, in small print, it said Alder Quay Lending. Below that was Petra's name, our workshop address, and a loan amount of $38,000.

“That's not a business loan,” I said.

“The borrower line seems to agree.”

Only Petra was named as borrower.

The attached list described eighty-four custom wig blocks, owned free and clear by the borrower. A photograph showed Petra standing before our shelves with one hand on BX-019.

My blue knot showed just above her wrist.

“Why did she give you this?” I asked.

“She wanted me to see that the collection had been valued at $71,200. She thought a lender's appraisal would support her rental price.”

“She used my tools to borrow money.”

“She certainly said she owned them.”

He did not turn that into a larger claim. I liked him for that.

I brought out my receipt, the bank record that matched it, and C-017.

Franklin read slowly.

“She initialed each page.”

“She complained each time.”

“A useful memory. Less useful than the initials.”

He checked the final page against the first. Both carried the same agreement number. Then he put the originals back in their folder and asked permission before making copies. I gave it. Care could be quiet and still feel like taking my side.

At ten, I met a lawyer named Vanessa Reed in an office near the courthouse. Her waiting room had a plant held upright by a pencil.

I understood that plant.

Vanessa listened without touching the papers until I had finished.

“What do you want first?” she asked.

“My blocks safe. Access to the business records. The apprentices paid.”

“And the business?”

“I built it. I don't want to burn it down.”

She nodded and wrote those answers in order.

Her initial consultation cost $350. I agreed to a $2,500 retainer for the next work. Watching her write a receipt steadied me more than her kind voice did.

She asked whether the collection had ever been offered for sale through the shop.

“Never.”

“Good. The agreement's title uses consignment, but its actual terms describe a temporary loan of equipment. We will show the whole document.”

She tapped the purchase record.

“And the papers that came before it.”

By lunch, she had sent Petra and the lender a formal notice of my ownership claim. It demanded that nothing be sold, moved, stripped of tags, or used as new security while the claim was addressed.

She also requested the partnership's books and a supervised inventory.

“Does that make her stop?” I asked.

“It tells her, in writing, what she has been told. If she moves things anyway, we will have that record.”

My phone lit up before I reached the sidewalk.

PETRA.

I let it go to voicemail.

Her message lasted forty seconds.

“You have embarrassed the company in front of an important client. Those blocks became company property when you put them on company shelves. You cannot rewrite history because you feel left out.”

Vanessa had told me to save messages. I saved that one.

Then Lara called.

“Are we allowed to talk?” she asked.

“Yes. You're allowed to talk.”

“She said lawyers might take our phones.”

“You can choose whether to speak to anyone. Don't delete work records. Don't take anything that isn't yours.”

Lara breathed out.

“She told us to cut off the blue threads. She said the old numbers were confusing the new system.”

I stopped walking.

“Have you?”

“No. Ben said we should wait for written instructions.”

For the first time that day, I smiled.

“That was good judgment.”

“Then she emailed instructions.”

“Keep the email.”

At home, I made a list from memory. BX-019 had a narrow temple and a flat crown. BX-044 had a small dent near the right ear. BX-063 had a heart-shaped hairline traced in faded green pencil.

I could have picked them out without tags. The tags would make it easier for someone else.

At four, Franklin called to say his archive had paused the rental approval. Its board needed proof that the supplier could provide the promised tools.

“How long?” I asked.

“Nine days before they choose another supplier.”

That meant losing the largest contract we had ever been close to signing.

I was still holding the phone when someone knocked.

A courier stood outside with a legal envelope addressed to me.

Inside was a copy of a financing filing and a letter from Alder Quay Lending.

The letter said its records included our company as an additional collateral owner.

It demanded access to the workshop on Friday to inspect the blocks.