My Paint Ledger Answered The Charges In The Lawrence County Courtroom

Ruth read Cedric's statement twice before she spoke.

"He's counted every payment for your work as theft."

"Even the year I did twelve figures?"

"Especially that year."

The $28,400 covered seven years of painting and repair. Some years I had earned more at other rides than at our aunt's. I had charged Juniper less because I wanted it running.

I brought my invoices, approved budgets, and canceled checks. Each invoice named an animal and the work done. Inez had signed the work orders while she managed bookings. My trustee reports listed the payments as well.

"Will this be enough?" I asked.

"It will answer the charge," Ruth said. "We should still have someone independent review the accounts. You want clear books, not just a good argument."

The review would cost $2,100. I approved it in writing and felt sick at spending ticket money to prove I had not stolen ticket money.

Greta came over that night with two folders and a pot of soup.

"I found my service logs," she said. "Also, you forgot supper."

We matched my invoices to her dates. When I had painted the goat, she had replaced its pole bearing. When I had repaired the hare's ears, she had balanced its sweep arm.

At one in the morning, she fell asleep sitting upright.

I put a blanket over her shoulders. She woke just enough to say, "Don't lose that little washer on the table."

Three days later, we went to the Lawrence County courthouse.

I had polished the paint out of my nails. A blue line still showed beside my thumb.

Cedric wore his camel coat over a dark suit. He tried to catch me near the courtroom door.

"We can keep this in the family."

"You filed it with the court."

"Because you wouldn't listen."

Ruth stepped beside me, carrying a box of records. We went in together.

The hearing concerned temporary protection. The judge said there would be no final ruling on fraud that morning.

Cedric's lawyer held up the codicil.

"The decedent clearly wanted my client to have the carousel."

Ruth handed up the earlier transfer and its attached inventory.

"Whatever her later wishes, this property had already been transferred. The trust has held and insured it for seven years. Ms. Ellis has served as trustee throughout that time."

The judge asked me about the accounts.

I described the separate bank account, annual reports, and Inez's booking role. Then I explained my painting fees.

"Were those payments hidden?" the judge asked.

"No. They were listed by check number. I brought the checks."

Cedric's lawyer looked through the copies Ruth gave him. His client leaned close to whisper. The lawyer moved his papers and kept reading.

"Why didn't you tell your cousin about the trust?" he asked me.

"He never asked. When he announced the sale, I called the lawyer who held it."

My voice sounded plain in that room. I was grateful for that.

Ruth showed the buyer's contract next, then the four pairs of photographs. She did not claim my moths proved a crime. She used the mounting holes, repair marks, and numbered records to show why we needed protection.

"We need the original animals found," she said.

Cedric shifted in his chair.

The judge barred him from selling or moving any listed trust property. He ordered records preserved and required Cedric to produce documents about the four figures. I remained trustee. The independent account review would go forward.

The court also held off on Cedric's request to become executor while the estate objection was heard.

Outside, he caught up with us on the steps.

"All this over four wooden animals," he said.

"Then tell us where they are."

He buttoned his coat.

"You always did need someone to tell you what things were worth."

I watched him walk away. For years, that kind of sentence had followed me home. That day, I wrote it down with the time beside it.

At the shed, Greta had put clear covers over the four suspect figures. She had tagged them with dates and left them off the working platform.

"No accidental repairs," she said. "People get helpful at the worst times."

We made copies of the court order. One went on the door. One went to the shed owner. I gave one to the mechanic who sometimes covered for Greta.

The next evening, my phone rang while I was washing brushes.

"I'm Owen Bell," a man said. "I made those copies for Cedric. He told me the originals were going into a museum. I just got your court order from his lawyer."

I turned off the water.

"Do you know where our animals went?"

"Yes," he said. "And he asked me this morning to change the name on the shipping papers."