A Third Trunk Arrived While Adrian Tried To Lock The Warehouse

The release offered me $5,000.

For that amount, I would surrender the wigs, approve every past transfer, and agree that all rental income had been properly paid.

It also said I had chosen to leave the business.

I sent it to Elin without writing on it.

"He wants your real signature underneath his false ones," she said.

"He called it a clean ending."

"It's an exhibit now."

She filed the civil case that afternoon. It named Adrian, Whitaker Stage Supply, Lantern Route, and Nola. She asked for an accounting, return of my company's goods, payment, and an order to stop any sale or destruction of records.

The marriage would need its own case.

"One set of papers won't fix everything," she told me. "We can still keep them from making the damage worse."

Adrian changed the warehouse lock before anyone ruled on anything.

Our cutter, Gwen, called me from the parking lot.

"He told us you stole stock."

"I recalled seven wigs under our contracts. The return receipts are with my lawyer."

"He said the rest are being sold to cover our wages."

I closed my eyes.

Gwen had worked beside me for six years. She had a son starting community college. Adrian knew exactly which worry to press.

"Are you paid through Friday?" I asked.

"Through last Friday. He owes this week."

"Save your time sheets. I can't promise his payroll. I can promise I won't put your name on anything you didn't do."

She was quiet for a moment.

"There's a moving truck booked for Wednesday. I saw the order on the desk."

I wrote down the time and sent it to Elin.

Her office contacted the carrier. The resale agent confirmed the sale remained suspended. The carrier canceled its pickup after learning ownership was disputed.

Elin requested an urgent hearing.

I spent the waiting time finding space.

The upstairs workroom could hold seven wigs and my fear. It could not hold sixty-four wigs, shipping trunks, and two fitting chairs.

The locksmith showed me an empty ground-floor room behind his shop. It had a sink, a wide back door, and shelves that had once held lock parts.

"Nine hundred a month," he said. "Month to month until you find somewhere bigger."

I measured the doorway with my tape.

"Does the roof leak?"

"Only if the sky falls."

"Put the roof condition in the lease."

He grinned, then wrote it down.

Beatriz arrived that evening carrying takeout and a borrowed hand truck.

"Eat first," she said. "Then we move the queens downstairs."

She had arranged her next week of tour calls so she could help on two mornings. I asked what I owed her.

"Van fuel. Lunch. And you hire a proper freight crew when the warehouse stock comes back. My loyalty has knees."

I kept her receipts in a separate envelope.

The third trunk arrived the next day from a touring mystery. Number thirty-one carried five wigs and a thick packet secured under its shipping board.

Each cap still had its copper braid.

One wig smelled of orange powder. Another had a snapped comb. I logged the damage, then looked at the papers.

The packet included a document called Owner Consent To Collateral Pledge.

It said my company had approved the use of twelve premier wigs as security for a $54,000 loan to Lantern Route.

Beside my copied signature, someone had typed my old home address.

I sat down on the floor.

Beatriz took the packet from my lap and placed it on the clean table.

"Breathe. What does the next page say?"

The next page was a rejection letter. The lender had asked for clear proof of title and received conflicting schedules. No loan had been issued.

I read those last words aloud.

"Good," Beatriz said. "Now we know one thing they tried that didn't work."

The tour's company manager had included an email chain. She had refused to sign as a witness because she had never seen me sign anything.

Adrian had replied that my hands hurt too much for office work.

I looked down at my fingers. There was a small callus where my hook rested. Nothing else.

That lie hurt more than I expected.

He had taken the labor he used to praise in public and turned it into a reason I could not speak for myself.

At four, Calvin called. The outside payment records matched my archive so far. None showed a payment to me or an approved credit.

"Keep going," I said.

At six, Elin called again.

"We have a hearing tomorrow morning in Newark. Adrian has filed a sworn response."

"What does it say?"

"That you gave him all sixty-four wigs as a wedding gift."