An Astronomer's Inventory Put a Price on the Empty Telescope

I saved Malcolm's threat and called my supervisor myself.

"A family dispute may reach the office," I told Celia. "It involves my aunt's trips. Please preserve my run sheets and vehicle location records."

"Give me the dates in writing," she said. "Drive your afternoon route. I'll handle any complaint through the normal process."

That was all I needed from her that day.

Dr. Dana Pruitt reached Ely on Wednesday with a cardboard tube, a canvas bag, and two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

"I forgot lunch would happen," Juniper told her.

"You usually do."

Dana was a retired astronomer who had known Miriam for nineteen years. She laid her records on the observatory's small kitchen table. I used the red clothespin to keep the top pages from lifting in the draft.

There was a signed loan agreement from 2014. There were photographs, annual check sheets, and a fresh inventory she had sent Miriam in August.

"I loaned the mirror," Dana said. "I never gave away title to it. Miriam owned the building, the mount, and the little guide scope. Those are different items."

She showed me the line.

PRIMARY MIRROR, 22 INCHES. IDENTIFIER RB-17. OWNER: DANA PRUITT.

The latest appraisal was $54,000.

I thought of Malcolm calling the place scrap.

Dana bent over the empty cell without touching it.

"Four retaining clips," she said. "They removed it properly. Whoever helped knew enough not to break it."

Juniper opened her laptop. She had photographs from the August volunteer night and gate entries from the weeks after it.

"Malcolm checked out a key on August twentieth," she said. "He wrote 'roof inspection.' Miriam was in the hospital."

"I was with her," I said.

The hospital room had faced a brick wall. Miriam had asked what the sky was doing. I had told her about the thin moon above the parking lot.

My phone chimed with an email from Paula.

Malcolm had supplied an asset schedule.

I read it twice before passing the phone to Dana.

The mirror appeared under DISPOSED PROPERTY.

Buyer: Basin Glass Salvage. Sale price: $38,400. Proceeds retained against site expenses.

There was an invoice from Malcolm's own business, Levin Field Services. Under the item description he had typed ESTATE OPTICAL MIRROR, RB-17.

"He used my number," Dana said.

Her voice had gone quiet enough that Juniper stopped typing.

"Maybe he thought the loan had ended," I said.

Dana turned to the last sheet in her tube. Miriam had signed the annual loan acknowledgment six weeks earlier. Malcolm's signature appeared beneath hers as witness.

I no longer offered him that excuse.

We called Paula. She told us to preserve the files and send copies, then let her make a formal demand. Dana hired her for the mirror claim too, after they discussed the separate interests involved.

"What can I do now?" I asked.

"Keep the building secure. Photograph it. Don't go hunting through anyone else's property."

Juniper raised a finger.

"Can we ask the buyer whether he has it?"

Paula considered that.

"You can ask. Don't argue. Save the response."

Basin Glass Salvage had a public office number in the records Malcolm supplied. Its owner, Vernon Pike, answered on the third ring.

I put him on speaker. Juniper wrote the time at the top of a fresh page.

"I'm calling about the RB-17 mirror purchased from Malcolm Levin," I said.

"Never bought one."

"There's an invoice for thirty-eight thousand four hundred dollars."

"That mirror never existed. Your brother made that line up."

Dana leaned toward the phone.

"It existed in my telescope for eleven years."

"Then ask him. All I collected was an empty transport box and some old packing. Six hundred dollars."

"Please send us that receipt," I said.

"Have your lawyer ask."

The call ended.

Juniper looked at her notes.

"I wrote his exact words. You both heard them. Please sign underneath."

It felt strange signing a record of a phone call at Miriam's kitchen table. I signed anyway.

We spent the next hour matching the August inventory to the room. The guide scope was present. So were six eyepieces, two heaters, and Miriam's battered moon atlas.

Only the main mirror and its fitted travel case were gone.

Juniper searched the shared volunteer mailbox for the case number. Miriam had used that address for delivery notices, so somebody would be there to open the gate.

"There," Juniper said.

An insurance broker had copied the mailbox on a transport certificate dated August twentieth. The attachment had arrived during Miriam's hospital stay. No volunteer had opened it.

The cargo was listed at $62,000.

Below that were the mirror's number, Vernon's business name, and a warehouse address outside Pioche.