The Auditor Compared My Auction Papers With The Storeroom Count

Elsie met me at the district office that afternoon. She carried a folder with a broken rubber band around it.

"I was told not to discuss this with vendors," she said.

"By Wain?"

"Yes. Then the superintendent told me to bring the sale file to this meeting. I liked that instruction better."

We sat across from Ruth Fenn, an outside auditor the board's finance committee had called after reading my letter. Superintendent Vera Bell sat beside her.

Wain's chair was empty.

Ruth had set a blank pad in the middle of the table.

"Start with what you bought," she said.

I gave her copies of my receipt and inventory.

"Twelve retired horns. Some missing parts. None safe to hand a child without work."

"Why pay eighteen hundred sixty dollars?"

"Three decent valve blocks. Some usable bells. Enough to build loaners and sell the rest as parts. I took a risk."

Elsie opened her folder.

"The board approved this surplus sale in September. These are the lot photographs. These are the bids. This is the deposit finance posted."

Ruth placed my inventory beside the copy from finance. Every number matched.

She put Wain's attachment below them.

"This copy substitutes six items," she said.

"I didn't make it," Elsie said. "I didn't approve a change."

"Did Mr. Okada receive anything outside his lot?"

"No. I checked each number against the metal, not the case. We both signed at pickup."

The superintendent pressed her lips together.

"Mr. Wain told me the sale covered empty cases."

Elsie turned the auction notice toward her.

"It said twelve retired brass instruments with cases. He approved that wording."

I watched Vera Bell read it. She took more time than Wain had given my whole name.

Elsie passed over the pickup log next. It showed the van plate, the loading time, and the twelve metal numbers she had checked. One horn had been too dirty to read at first. We had cleaned the stamp together before either of us signed. I remembered being cold and wishing she would hurry. Sitting at that table, I was glad she hadn't.

Ruth asked for permission to examine the three horns still at school. I gave it. Vera agreed the hold would end after that check, within the forty-eight hours on our signed sheet.

Then Noor came in.

She had arranged class coverage and brought a statement she had written alone. She handed it to Ruth before she sat.

"On October twentieth, I saw Mr. Wain roll six black instrument cases out of the storeroom," she said. "Four trumpet cases. Two larger cases."

"Did you see the horns inside?" Ruth asked.

"No. I won't say I did."

"What did he tell you?"

"That they were going to a partner for setup. I asked for a work order. He said central office had it."

Ruth wrote that down.

"Was there a work order?"

Vera looked toward her office door.

"We're checking."

I knew how six cases could look like nothing. Schools moved things all day. Chairs, uniforms, boxes of fruit for fundraisers. A man with keys rarely got asked to open his cart.

A man with a little hammer got marched out.

Ruth showed us the October 22 count. It listed the six new horns as present, checked by Wain. Beneath the list was his signed statement that he had verified the equipment in person.

"This makes the missing instruments a separate matter," she said. "Your purchase can be valid while the district still has missing property."

"Please write that clearly," I said.

Vera nodded.

At the door, Wain was waiting.

"Quite a gathering," he said.

Ruth asked him to come inside. He looked past her at me.

"Your repair bill is under review now. You can expect your vendor status to follow."

"My bill is for work you already accepted."

"Work can be checked again."

I took out my pad and wrote his words while he watched.

"You think that scares me?" he asked.

"I think I'll want the wording right."

I went back to the shop. A customer had canceled a $420 student-horn overhaul after hearing about the school scene. I saved her message and the work estimate. Then I checked the mouthpiece on a different trumpet until I could hear air pass cleanly through it.

Two taps, a pause, one tap.

At four, Ruth emailed. The storeroom shelves were empty where the new horns belonged. She was asking local repair and resale shops whether the six serial numbers had crossed their counters.

At five, my phone rang.

"This is Darla Keene, over in Fairmont," a woman said. "The auditor told me you might know how this started. I have those six horns."

I stood up.

"Who brought them?"

"A district administrator. And I've got the paper he signed."