Greta Spread My Old Freight Receipts Across The Theater Table

Greta met me in the Bellweather lobby under a ceiling full of cracked plaster stars.

The theater stood on a side street near Main Street. Its doors had been shut for eleven years. Outside, a bus hissed at the curb. Inside, the air smelled of cold velvet and old leaks.

"Show me," she said.

I laid the inventory on a folding table. Beside it went the freight receipt, the canceled payment, and photographs from my old shop.

Greta adjusted her glasses.

"Ninety-four cases?"

"Containing one hundred and sixty-two molds. Some need two jackets."

"And these three marks?"

"Mine. They keep me from putting the wrong halves together when the labels get wet."

"Do they prove ownership?"

"They prove which molds the papers describe. The papers prove how they went there."

She nodded. I liked her more for asking the hard version.

Our partnership had bought other molds. Twelve plain coping shapes and two window heads. I had marked those with a square, and the business had paid $8,900 for them.

"Those stay," I said.

"Even after this?"

"They're ours to account for. These are mine."

Greta called a lawyer named Vera Senn. I paid $1,500 from my savings for an initial retainer. Greta offered to cover it.

"Keep the theater out of my bill," I told her.

"Fair," she said. "I have enough bills in it already."

Vera arrived with wet shoulders and no promise that this would be easy.

She read the partnership agreement first. It gave us equal interests. It did not turn property loaned by a partner into a purchase.

Then she read the release Malcolm wanted me to sign.

"That's a very large house he's trying to build on a $3,200 check," she said.

I showed her his message about the broker.

She stopped smiling.

With my permission, she called him. The call went on speaker.

"We are asking you to preserve the listed property and allow an inventory," she said. "I will email the demand and supporting records."

"Dionisio took company records," Malcolm said.

"These are his copies."

"Those molds were his investment."

"Send the document transferring title."

"It's understood."

"Then please send what records support that understanding."

He hung up.

Vera looked at me.

"We ask a judge for protection if he won't agree. Until then, don't cut the lock. Don't drive away with anything."

"I don't own bolt cutters," I said.

Greta folded her arms.

"I do."

Vera looked at her until she added, "I heard you."

We spent the afternoon making a list a stranger could follow. Case numbers. Shelf positions. Old repair scars. The pear-shaped patch on jacket 61. The bent steel strap on 28.

On the theater table, my working life turned into rows.

Greta brought the Bellweather contract. The full price was $96,000. The committee had paid $68,000. The last $28,000 depended on delivery and installation.

"We can't lose the facade money to a fight," she said.

"I won't ask you to."

Vera drew a line between the two piles.

"Your molds are one issue. The theater's order is another. We need records for both."

I explained that the theater pieces had already been fired. They were finished clay, with their own ownership and payment records. I could reclaim my plaster molds without taking a single tile meant for the building.

"Good," Greta said. "Then nobody gets to hold my roofline hostage."

At four, Vera sent the demand. At four seventeen, Malcolm replied that a sale would cover shop debts and that I could bid like anyone else.

She turned the screen toward me.

"That makes tomorrow more urgent."

We signed sworn statements. Mine described each shipment and the loan terms. Greta's described the threat to the theater schedule and what she had heard at the gate.

As we worked, she moved a small envelope from under the contract.

A photograph fell out.

It showed a woman's face framed by swept leaves. Her cheeks were full. Her mouth was open, as if she were blowing winter down the street.

"The North Wind," Greta said. "The center panel over the entrance."

"Still missing?"

"Since the emergency removal in 2019. We have searched every storage list we could find."

I knew the face. I had made a small study from that photograph, years before. It had never been fit to replace the original.

Greta put the photograph away.

Vera's phone chimed. She read the screen, then called the court clerk back while we waited.

When she hung up, she slid a notice across the table.

Our request for emergency protection would be heard at nine the next morning.