The First Returned Trunk Carried A Crown And My Forged Consent

I called the resale agent before I called Adrian.

"I didn't sign that," I said. "My company owns those wigs. Please preserve the email that brought you this form."

The agent, Joel Vann, stopped sounding sleepy.

"We have an $8,000 buyer deposit in escrow."

"Keep it there until this is checked."

He agreed to suspend the sale. I sent him the inventory schedule and the first page of our consignment agreement.

Then I called Beatriz Molina.

She answered from a loading dock in Pennsylvania. I could hear a cart rattling behind her.

"If this is about the silver queen's hairline, I already fixed the pin marks," she said.

"It's about who owns her."

The cart stopped.

Beatriz was forty-five, Ecuadorian American, and the touring wardrobe supervisor for The Glass Orchard. She had worked enough bad load-outs to know when a person needed a chair or a lawyer.

"Tell me the short version," she said.

I did.

"Do you have your contracts?"

"The originals."

"Good. Don't call him again tonight."

She gave me a lawyer's number. Then she asked how many wigs her tour held.

"Three," I said. "All in trunk fourteen."

"That's what my count says. Adrian sent new ownership papers last month. I kept the old ones too."

"What new papers?"

"I'll scan them. Then I'll get you the trunk."

"You have performances."

"We have understudy pieces. They fit. We'll finish the week without your best stock."

That was Beatriz's loyalty. She checked the pins before she promised the rescue.

The next morning, I paid attorney Elin Mercer a $3,000 retainer from my savings. I sat across her desk with a canvas bag of folders.

She read the agreements before she asked about my marriage.

"Your husband signed as booking manager?"

"On every schedule."

"And the productions acknowledged your ownership?"

"Their supervisors signed the attached receipts."

She turned another page.

"Three missed monthly statements. No remittance in sixty days. These terms let you recall the stock. We'll give notice through my office. Nobody is going to climb through a warehouse window."

"I still have a key."

"Then keep it in your pocket for now."

Elin sent notices to Adrian, the resale agent, and the five touring productions holding my eighteen traveling wigs. Each notice listed inventory numbers and return terms. She asked the tours to preserve all ownership changes and payment directions.

I gave return dates that allowed time for backup fittings.

I had made those wigs for people who had to walk onstage. Their rent did not stop because my husband lied.

Adrian called at lunch.

"You hired a lawyer before speaking to me?"

"You sold my inventory before speaking to me."

"It wasn't sold. It was a rescue plan."

"For whom?"

"You always do this. You focus on one tiny detail."

I looked at the clause beside his signature.

"Then your lawyer can explain the larger picture to mine."

I ended the call while he was still talking.

On Thursday morning, Beatriz arrived at my Clinton Avenue workroom with trunk fourteen in a rented van. She had arranged her assistant's coverage and come on her day off.

"Where's the lift?" she asked.

"There isn't one."

She looked up the narrow stairs.

"Your next place gets a loading door. Put that on your dream board."

We hired the locksmith's nephew to help carry the trunk. I paid him $40 and got a receipt.

Before opening it, we photographed the straps, shipping label, and lock. Beatriz signed the return sheet. I checked the three inventory tags against my list.

Then I turned back the silver queen's left ear tab.

My small copper braid lay flat against the cap.

I had expected relief. Instead, I felt a sharp ache behind my ribs.

I had tied that braid at our kitchen table while Adrian slept upstairs. I remembered the cup ring on the wood. I remembered thinking we were building something safe.

"She's yours," Beatriz said.

"They all are."

She pulled a clear document sleeve from the trunk's lid pocket.

"Here's the rest. Our company manager made certified copies for us and kept scans. The originals came back with the goods, as your lawyer requested."

Inside was a transfer form bearing my name. It gave ownership of the three wigs to Lantern Route Services LLC for one dollar.

"I didn't make this," I said.

"I figured. You don't write a seven like that."

There was also a payment notice directing the tour's next rental fee to Lantern Route.

The notice showed $21,600 paid.

My share should have been $18,360. I had received nothing.

I called Elin and read the new company's name.

"Don't write on any of it," she said. "I'm sending someone to collect the originals."

Beatriz reached into the sleeve again.

"Hold on," she said. "There's a second authorization under this one."