Yolanda Brought Her Agreements To The Studio's Newly Changed Door

My key turned halfway and stopped.

Yolanda stood behind me with a flat leather folder under her arm. She wore a dark wool coat, though the sun had already warmed the adobe wall.

"Try it once," she said. "A lock doesn't improve from being begged."

I took out my phone and photographed the new cylinder.

Devin opened the door before I called him.

"This is awkward," he said. "I was going to explain."

"Then explain," Yolanda said.

He smiled down at her folder.

"We're sorting out a divorce. Cora's upset. I changed the locks to protect inventory."

"My inventory?"

"The studio's collection."

She took out her agreement and held it at the height of his chest.

"Read the first sentence."

He did not look down.

"These old forms don't reflect our current arrangement."

"Then show me the new one I signed."

Behind him, T-17 had come off its wall bar. It lay rolled on our padded worktable with a strip of packing tape around its cover.

I felt the knot count start against my teeth.

"Don't use tape near that wool," I said.

"It's on the cover. You're proving my point."

Yolanda stepped forward. He blocked the doorway with his shoulder.

"I would hate to call the police over a misunderstanding."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"Call someone who can read."

I touched her elbow. I did not want our first clear proof of ownership buried under an argument about a doorway.

"We'll leave the paper with your lawyer," I said.

Devin relaxed.

"Good. Let's all be sensible."

At the truck, Yolanda said, "That sounded like a man thanking us for extra time."

I called an attorney named Mara Velez. She had handled a lease dispute for the studio two years before. After checking for a conflict, she agreed to represent me in the divorce.

She read the bank statements that afternoon.

"Did you approve these transfers?"

"No."

"Could he send money without your signature?"

"Yes. Either member could pay ordinary bills."

"Then we prove what these payments actually were. We don't assume the bank broke a rule."

She made copies of the consignment agreements. Her finger stopped on the return clause.

"An owner may end the consignment in writing. You're the named custodian. Get clear instructions from each owner. No one should go in and start carrying things out."

Yolanda borrowed her pen.

"I can make my instructions very clear."

By dinner, all ten owners had received my calls. Some were angry. One asked whether smoke or moths had damaged his weaving. I told each person exactly what I knew, including what I had not yet learned.

Nine sent signed directions that night. The last owner, a retired school librarian in Las Vegas, New Mexico, brought hers the next morning.

All twelve pieces were to be returned to their owners through me.

I spread the authorizations across my rented kitchen table. One owner had written his directions in careful block letters because his printer was broken. Another had attached a photo from the day she carried her weaving into our shop. I called both back to confirm what they wanted. Their trust had a weight I could feel even through the paper.

Their lawyer would be separate from mine. Yolanda found one through a collector she trusted. His name was Owen Baca, and his first question was whether we had photographs of the backs.

"Every inch," I said.

"Good. Fronts can look alike. Repairs usually don't."

Mara sent Devin and his lawyer a demand to preserve the rugs, records, camera files, and email. Owen demanded access for an agreed pickup with a written inventory.

Devin replied to me instead.

Please don't turn clients against us. Nobody benefits if the business fails.

I saved the message and did not answer.

That evening, Mara called with a public business filing she had found.

Arroyo Stock Supply had been formed six weeks earlier. Devin was its sole manager. Its mailing address was a rented box in Española.

"Any real supplier relationship you know about?" she asked.

"None."

"Any delivery tickets?"

"He gave the mediator invoices. That's all."

I put those invoices beside my intake ledger. Each listed accession numbers from my own records. Each claimed a purchase of pieces that had come in for care and possible sale on consignment.

The dates were wrong, too. One supposed shipment fell on a Sunday when the studio had been closed and Devin and I had been at his cousin's cookout.

I marked the date on a copy, leaving the original clean.

At ten, my phone lit up with an email from a freight company. Devin had used the studio's general address for the booking.

It thanked us for arranging a collection the next morning. Twelve wrapped textiles. Insured value: $214,000.

Below that was a delivery address in Arizona and a request for a signature from the purchaser.