We Opened The Workshop Beside Three Crates Bound For Collection

The freight company answered before seven.

"I'm reporting disputed ownership of the goods," I told the dispatcher. "My lawyer can send the filing. Please hold the pickup."

He asked for the shipment number. I read it twice.

"We won't collect a disputed load until our office clears it," he said. "I'm marking it held."

I wrote his name beside the time.

Then I made tea I forgot to drink.

At nine, Nora called. Rosalind had hired a lawyer. He had received our papers and would meet us in court that afternoon to address temporary access and the books.

"Bring the bank originals," Nora said.

I took the blue folder. The fallen leaf stayed on my table, under a clear plate so it would not curl.

At the courthouse in Bend, Rosalind sat beside a man with a narrow leather case. She had brought no sweet rolls.

"This is a business disagreement," her lawyer told the judge. "My client has concerns about accounting."

Nora set down the rent notice.

"These concerns were sent to customers as settled facts. We have payment records and the landlord's sworn statement. We also have a scheduled shipment of customer property."

The judge read Martin's statement. Then she read the lease dates.

"What expired on September thirtieth?" she asked.

Rosalind's lawyer leaned toward her. Their whispering stopped.

"A separate agreement for use of the space," he said.

"That is not what this notice says."

Rosalind looked down at her hands.

The judge did not decide the whole case that day. She signed a temporary order that allowed my access, barred either partner from moving or selling the books, and required an inventory. Business records had to be kept. Customer property had to stay put until the court approved a return process or the parties agreed to one.

Jasper would supervise the inventory. Both lawyers agreed to him after Nora explained his background.

"No one opens a crate alone," the judge said.

I liked that sentence enough to write it down.

Martin met us outside the studio with a locksmith. He smelled of cold air and truck heater dust.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You didn't change the locks."

"Still my building."

Rosalind arrived with her lawyer. She watched the locksmith fit a new cylinder, then held out her hand for a key.

Nora checked the order. Until the next hearing, Rosalind could enter only by arranged appointment with another person present. She lowered her empty hand.

Inside, the studio smelled wrong.

Our usual smell was paste, leather, and the faint heat of the finishing stove. Now it smelled of fresh cardboard and packing foam.

The long workbench was bare. Three crates stood along the back wall. Each bore a shipping label and a number in black marker.

"Those are supplies," Rosalind said.

Jasper read the label on the first crate.

"Supplies do not usually need a declared value of forty-eight thousand six hundred dollars."

Her lawyer touched her arm.

We photographed the sealed crates first. Then Jasper cut the tape while Martin recorded the opening on his phone.

The first layer held twelve fitted book boxes.

I recognized my pencil marks on every lid.

Ruth's cookbook was wrapped in blue tissue. Owen's fishing journal lay beneath it, still clamped between the thin boards I had cut for its repair. The red prayer book I had finished Monday night was there too.

Jasper lifted nothing until he had checked each item against its intake number.

"Twenty-seven books," he said when we finished all three crates.

Rosalind stared at the floor.

One box had been packed too tightly. A corner of Ruth's cookbook cover had bent under the lid. Jasper laid it flat and set a light board over it.

"You don't stack a family's history like floor tiles," he said.

His voice was low. I had heard him raise it only once, at a man who folded an old map to fit a trash bag.

Inside the last crate, we found an envelope taped to the packing list.

Nora photographed it before opening it in front of everyone.

The first page was an invoice for a private collection of historic household volumes. The seller was our studio. The signature was Rosalind's.

The buyer had paid a $12,000 deposit.

The unpaid balance was $36,600.

I read the words beneath the price.

SELLER WARRANTS CLEAR OWNERSHIP AND FULL RIGHT TO TRANSFER.

"Whose collection?" I asked.

Rosalind's lawyer took the invoice from her before she could answer.

The bell over the front door rang.

A tall man in a wool coat stepped inside, holding his own copy of the same invoice.

"Bram Hallow," he said. "I was told my books would be ready for pickup."