Della Brought The Last Booking List And Asked For Mercy

Inside Della's envelope was a sales packet for twelve more towns.

The cover showed my king, my wooden horse, and a photograph of Alma checking a light bar. It offered two traveling units for the coming spring.

On the price sheet, Russell had written a note to Della: Collect deposits before Jian makes this difficult.

I placed the sheet flat on Ruth's table.

“Were any sold?” I asked.

“No,” Della said. “Those were prospects.”

“We need to check that,” Martin said.

He had joined the meeting with his laptop and a paper list. Both lawyers agreed that he would match the contacts against payment records and get written answers from the towns.

I did not want another surprise hiding behind the word prospect.

Della's lawyer handed Ruth a written offer. Della would return her $4,800 fee and help finish the accounting in exchange for a settlement of our civil claims against her.

“I didn't keep most of it,” Della said.

Alma leaned forward.

“You kept my name.”

Della looked down.

“Russell told me the forms were company property.”

“My signature isn't a light stand.”

There was a long quiet after that.

Ruth asked Della to explain the copied approvals. Della admitted in a signed statement that she had placed Alma's and Eli's signatures on documents without asking them. Russell had approved the use and the second-unit sales.

She had also told the venues that Red Willow was Prairie Lantern's payment office. It was a separate business under Russell's control.

“Why?” I asked.

“He said we could fill the gaps before anybody complained.”

“There were no gaps,” I said. “There was one troupe.”

Della rubbed the edge of her sleeve.

“I wanted the booking fee.”

That was the first answer she gave without leaning on Russell.

We did not settle at the table. The venues had their own claims, and Alma and Eli needed their own advice about the false approvals. Ruth arranged for the affected people to receive the facts and review the proposed terms.

Over the next week, Martin checked the twelve prospects. None had paid. He also matched every second-unit deposit to a bank entry and a venue confirmation.

There were eight. We finally had a full count.

Nora and her brother supplied their instructions. A second substitute crew did the same. They had been hired for honest work under false claims about what the company had promised.

“They get paid for the work they did,” I told Ruth. “Russell doesn't get to make their wages the refund fund.”

The three halls that had received substitute shows asked for their full deposits back. The five future venues canceled. Aurora also sought the $640 screen repair.

Those claims totaled $19,840.

Add $6,840 in crew wages and my $4,320 rent claim, and the unpaid amount reached $31,000.

Seeing it in one column made me sit down.

I had spent years teaching wooden bodies to carry their weight. Russell had spread his weight across everyone else.

His lawyer proposed paying from future ticket sales.

Ruth read that sentence over the phone. Alma laughed once, without humor.

“Tell tomorrow we've stopped extending credit.”

Ruth said we wanted funded terms, records of every payment, and consequences if they failed to pay. No fresh deposits would cover old refunds.

Russell called me that night.

“You know what this will cost me?”

“Thirty-one thousand dollars across all the claims.”

“I'm talking about my life.”

Through the storage-room window, I could see Ben and Eli building a padded rack from lumber I had bought. Alma was teaching Tess to label power cables at both ends.

“You spent pieces of theirs,” I said.

He hung up.

Two days later, his lawyer supplied a proposal backed by the sale of Russell's personal pickup and fishing boat, along with money from his savings. Della's $4,800 would be paid first. Russell would provide the remaining $26,200.

Payment would go through a neutral account for distribution under the signed terms. Agreed costs and professional fees were listed separately.

Nobody would sign away a claim merely for a promise that a boat might sell.

While the lawyers worked, I wrote four job offers for a new company. I called it Threadlight Players. Each offer showed wages, travel pay, rehearsal hours, and the date of the first guaranteed check.

I left the start date blank until the money and bookings were certain.

On Friday, Ruth arrived at the storage room holding a delivery envelope.

“The first funds have cleared,” she said. “And Russell has signed away his right to run Prairie Lantern.”