An Empty Wig Box Brought A Wardrobe Supervisor To My Table

I called Simone instead of answering by text.

"Please don't promise that piece to anyone," I said. "I don't know where it is."

"That's a fairly large gap between your answer and his."

"There may be others."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Where can we talk?"

We met at a small café off Habersham Street. She bought tea. I brought the agreement, my build book, and the blue-and-yellow braid.

"I'm forty-six," she said when I asked how long she'd toured. "I've spent twenty-four of those years finding things somebody swore were on a truck. Start at the beginning."

She was Haitian American and had grown up in Jacksonville, helping her mother mend uniforms. She still checked a hem with her thumb before looking at the label.

She checked my build book the same way, touching the stitch sample taped beside LP-014.

"You make the back seam flat," she said. "Most people leave a ridge."

"A mic pack can catch on a ridge."

"Exactly."

I told her about the lock.

She put down her cup.

"He called you unreliable while we were sitting under a shelf full of your work."

"He says things that make the next ten minutes easier for him."

"And harder for everybody else."

She worked for Bellwether Road Company, which was rehearsing a musical called The Orchard House. Their first public performance was in nine days. They needed a wig package, fittings, and someone who could support a six-week tour.

Gideon had shown her my copper piece as a possible look for the lead, then failed to produce it at the fitting.

"Did you sign with him?" I asked.

"Our office handles contracts. I handle what touches people's heads. I asked for the paperwork this morning."

I showed her the stock schedule.

She stopped at the ownership clause.

"He signed this?"

"Every page."

The agreement required my written approval for each rental. It also allowed me to end consignment after an unapproved release or denied access. Gideon had personally promised to return the numbered pieces and cover damage caused by an unapproved rental.

He had called those terms fussy.

I had called them the price of using my savings.

"I can't tell you where fourteen went," Simone said. "But I can make sure nobody in my crew cuts or dyes anything from your shelves."

"Thank you."

"That protects my people too. We don't walk into ownership fights blind."

From the café, I called my lawyer, Nessa Cole. She still had the agreement in her files.

"Send me the lock photographs," she said. "And don't try to get inside without an arranged inspection."

"I still have a side-door key."

"Keep it in your pocket. We want a count, witnesses, and no argument about what you removed."

By four, Nessa had sent Gideon a notice ending the consignment and demanding access. It listed the twenty-eight numbers, asked him to preserve all rental and payment records, and proposed an inventory the next morning.

He called me six times.

I let the calls go to voicemail.

His seventh attempt was a text.

You're embarrassing us over a scheduling issue.

I forwarded it to Nessa.

Then I opened my shared booking account. My password still worked, though my calendar had gone blank.

The payment ledger had not.

Gideon used it to issue receipts. He liked its neat printed totals. He had forgotten that I could export the underlying entries.

There were three rentals I had never approved: $2,200, $3,150, and $3,250. Each entry carried stock numbers in the notes. Together, they made $8,600.

The ledger also showed a payment of $14,700 from Bellwether Road Company.

I read that line twice.

"He told me you hadn't signed," I said when Simone answered.

"I told you I hadn't seen a contract. Those aren't the same thing. Send me the receipt number."

I exported the ledger and saved the original file without changing a cell. Then I printed the entries with their dates.

Under the Bellwether payment was a note: Six weeks. Nine units. Balance before opening.

The room seemed to shrink around my little desk.

I had imagined one dishonest local rental. Perhaps two.

Nine units meant a full rack. It meant different head sizes, spare lace, travel blocks, and a plan for sweat and quick changes. It meant somebody had promised work that only I knew how to do.

At six, Gideon finally answered Nessa by email.

Inspection permitted, 8 a.m. No removal. My business has existing commitments.

Below it, he had attached a photograph of the new sign as if it were a deed.