We Opened The Damp Case While The Bookkeeper Followed The Money

The storage operator met us Saturday morning with a cart and two copies of the release form.

"I read the order," he said. "You tell me where to sign."

Gwen had arranged for her lawyer's assistant to attend. She didn't come herself.

The black case sat behind a rolled carpet. Its white latch tape had curled at the edges.

I photographed it before we moved it. Then I recorded the serial number on the release sheet and opened the case for a brief inspection.

There was a pale spot on the lining. The strap felt cold and slightly damp.

"Don't play it yet," Emil said.

"I won't."

I checked for loose parts without pushing the bellows. Nothing rattled, and the grille was straight. We noted what we could see, signed the sheet, and took it into the van.

At Emil's house, I let it rest in a dry room away from the heater. I checked it again the next afternoon.

Two valves had curled. One reed tongue showed a small mark I wanted to clean before it spread. I photographed each spot beside a ruler.

The damage was repairable. My written estimate was $325, including the needed work and final tuning. Another restorer reviewed the photographs and agreed that the price was fair.

I kept that reply too.

When the work was done, I closed my eyes and pressed my three notes.

Low. Middle. High.

The middle note held steady this time.

Emil stood in the doorway with two cups of tea.

"There she is," he said.

I had not cried at the preview or in court. I nearly did over that plain sentence.

On Monday, our bookkeeper, Ruth, called with the ledger open in front of her.

"Three transfers," she said. "Seven hundred dollars each. December, January, February."

"To whom?"

"Talbot Property Services. They're labeled Building Reserve."

"In addition to the rent?"

"Yes."

I opened the statements. There they were, below the regular $900 payments.

Gwen had sent me monthly sales summaries. I had saved the bank statements but trusted Ruth to match them at our quarterly review. That review was due in March.

Gwen had planned her preview for February.

"Is this an audit?" I asked.

"A reconciliation," Ruth said. "I can show what came in and went out. I need approval records to explain these transfers."

There were no approval records in my files. The company agreement required both members to approve owner withdrawals in writing.

Leah asked Gwen's lawyer for the missing approvals and any bill behind the reserve.

His answer came two days later.

Gwen said the roof might need work in spring.

The lease placed roof repairs on the landlord. More to the point, no roof work had been ordered. The $2,100 still sat in Gwen's property account, according to the records her lawyer supplied.

Ruth marked it as an amount owed back to the company.

"What about Mara's money?" I asked.

"It never entered the workshop account. I can't list it as workshop cash."

One missing instrument. One missing payment. Three extra transfers.

They had felt like one huge mess while Gwen was talking. On Ruth's sheet, each had its own line.

That afternoon, Mara came to see the accordion. Her lawyer knew about the visit. I had sent photographs first and made clear that seeing it did not settle her refund claim.

She stood with her hands in her coat pockets.

"I thought you'd hate me," she said.

"You bought what someone told you she could sell."

"I still wanted to take it home."

"I understand."

She looked at its long keyboard.

"My son has never held one that size."

"What did his teacher suggest?" I asked.

"We hadn't asked yet. Gwen said a serious instrument would last his whole life. I thought buying once was smarter."

I pulled out a chair for her.

"It has to fit his hands and his shoulder first. Then his teacher should hear it."

"I should have brought him."

"You can still bring him. There's no deadline on a price card here."

She sat down. We talked about straps and weight while Emil made another pot of tea.

Emil brought out my small student accordion. I had bought it for $140 and rebuilt its bellows in quiet hours between paid jobs.

"He could try this," I said. "Here, with me. If you want."

For the first time, her face eased.

"Would that cost anything?"

"The fitting wouldn't. Any loan or sale would have its own written terms."

She smiled at that.

"I'd like written terms."

After she left, Leah called. Gwen had offered a settlement, but only if I said the preview had been a misunderstanding.

"Do I have to answer tonight?" I asked.

"No. Read the draft first."

The draft arrived ten minutes later, with a sentence that would have made me share the blame for signing my own name.