The Tour Contract Put My Name On A Truck Schedule

"Did you agree to travel?" Nessa asked.

"No."

"Did you approve any part of this contract?"

"No."

She turned to Simone. "Your company needs its own lawyer. Today."

Simone was already dialing.

We sat in Nessa's office while rain ran down the window. She gave me a clean towel for my wet sleeves. I had not noticed that I was cold.

My name appeared three times in the tour contract. Gideon had listed me as his staff wigmaker, promised fittings, and promised that I would travel for six weeks.

He had not forged my signature. He had simply signed his own name beneath promises about my life.

"Our stage manager thought you worked for him," Simone said.

"That's what he told everyone this morning."

"He told our office you were salaried."

I braided a red scrap into the blue and yellow. One loose end kept slipping free.

Nessa filed a claim for return of my property and unpaid rental proceeds in Chatham County. She included the signed agreement, stock schedule, photographs, ledger export, and Gideon's written refusal to release the pieces.

The filing fee and service cost came to $320.

I paid from the money set aside for new lace.

That hurt more than I expected.

Bellwether's lawyer sent a notice of dispute that afternoon. The company would hold Rack B in Savannah, unopened except for a witnessed check. It would also hold the unpaid $14,700 balance while the contract dispute was sorted out.

It did not send that money to me. I had no contract with Bellwether.

"We need to be very clear about that," Nessa said. "Their loss and your loss are connected. They are still separate claims."

By evening, Gideon had hired a lawyer named Peter Vail. Peter agreed that no numbered piece would be moved or altered before a prompt hearing. The promise covered both the studio shelves and the touring rack.

Nessa sent me the written agreement to keep with the inventory. It named every location and required notice before anyone opened the rack. I checked the nine numbers again. They matched. I was learning that relief could come from a very dull page, provided the right people had signed it and somebody had kept a copy.

For the first time since the lock changed, I slept six hours.

The next morning, Simone met me at the warehouse.

"We have permission for the condition check," she said. "Our lawyer sent yours the terms."

The case stood between painted porch flats and boxes of stage fruit. A printed label read SHAW ORIGINALS.

Simone covered it with the inventory sheet while the receiving clerk unlocked the door.

There were my nine pieces.

LP-014 hung on the top rail, copper curls pinned flat for travel. A piece of hard tape had been stuck over its white tab.

I lifted the tape slowly.

"Don't tear the lace," Simone said to the clerk, who had reached to help.

"I won't," I said.

"I know. I was telling him."

Under the tape, the number was still there.

We matched all nine units to my build book. Nobody had stolen the tabs or changed the foundations. Whoever packed them had known enough to keep the blocks upright, but not enough to leave the fronts free of sticky tape.

Two needed careful cleaning. One hook had pulled through a lining. My written repair estimate was $420 for all three.

Simone signed the condition report. The clerk signed below her.

"We can use other wigs," she said. "I need you to understand that. You aren't responsible for saving our opening."

I looked at the copper curls.

"I would like to do the job. On terms I actually agreed to."

"Then get your property back. After that, send us a price."

Our hearing was set for Friday morning. Gideon spent Thursday sending messages through Peter about how much the business would suffer if I removed the stock.

He offered to give me a new key if I withdrew the claim.

Then he offered $1,500 and a public thank-you.

Nessa asked for the complete rental records and bank statements instead.

That night, I checked my saved booking emails against the ledger. The three hidden local rentals each had dates when Gideon had told me the studio was closed for repairs.

The largest, $3,250, fell on the weekend I had paid for a plumber who never came.

I marked that entry for Nessa. I did not add it to my claim without proof.

At 9:18, Simone called.

"Our office has the original sales proposal," she said. "Not just the signed contract."

I pulled the loose red strand through my braid.

"What does it say?"

"That he built the whole stock himself. And there's a signed list saying he owns every piece."