A Storage Address Led Me To A Different Name Onstage

Estelle put one finger on the storage dates.

"Ten weeks billed ahead," she said. "That's why the amount looked so large. But where did the money come from?"

I called Ruth. She said the bank review was still open and asked me to send the bill through the secure channel she had set up. I walked a copy to the branch instead.

I was willing to learn new things. I was not required to learn them all that week.

The shed outside Palo stood beside a gravel drive and a soybean field shaved down to stubble. Its owner, Dale, met us by the gate.

We stayed on the public side.

"I own these costumes," I told him. "I need to know if they're here."

He read the bill.

"This says you're the customer."

"I never agreed to storage."

Dale went into his office and returned with a carbon invoice.

"She asked me to charge her firm," he said. "I charge nine hundred dollars a month for that space. I don't know where she got twenty-one thousand."

"May I have a copy of the invoice tied to my shop?"

He copied it. Across the top was Second Bell's name. Beneath that, Nadia had written, "Client stock: Voss."

He would not open the shed.

"My renter has the key."

"That's fair," I said.

As we walked back, he called after us.

"They don't bring much out now. Just the van on Thursdays. Says Prairie Lantern Wardrobe on the door."

I wrote that down.

Estelle watched my pencil.

"You always leave room between entries."

"For what I find later."

"Good habit."

That afternoon I met Leah Mercer, a lawyer whose office sat above a bakery near downtown. I paid a $2,500 advance from savings Graham had never managed.

Leah read my business papers first.

"He called himself the owner?"

I showed her his sale receipt.

"He thought handling my bank screen made him the owner," I said. "I held the company papers, the stock register, and the only right to approve a sale."

She made three copies.

Then she wrote to Graham and Nadia. The letters told them to keep the garments, records, phones, and messages. She demanded the stock back and asked for a full account of the insurance money.

She also helped me file a police report. I gave the officer the original check to examine, received a property receipt, and kept clear copies.

"No visits alone," Leah told me. "No arguments by the shed. Let the records do the walking."

I liked that better than Graham's advice.

Prairie Lantern had no street office. Its small rental page named Nadia as contact. A photo showed racks beneath bright shop lights.

In the back row, I saw a green sleeve.

I printed the page with its date showing.

Then I called a school drama teacher named Beth, who had rented from me for twelve years.

"Did someone offer you replacement stock?"

"Prairie Lantern," she said. "Graham gave me their number. He said you had retired."

I pressed my hand flat against the table.

"I haven't."

Beth was quiet. Then she said, "We're fitting the winter show tomorrow. Come look."

She had paid $480 for twelve costumes. Her rental sheet called every item "newly acquired estate wardrobe."

I went with Estelle and Beth's permission.

The school hall smelled of floor wax and warm paper. A boy in a patched waistcoat stood on a box while Beth pinned his cuffs.

"Can I check the inside?" I asked.

He lifted his arms.

A little shirt button sat backward under the facing. I tilted it on its thread. Inked on the hidden face was stock number 418. My register listed its brown cotton lining and the small darn beside the pocket.

Both were there.

Beth held up her phone to take pictures while I held open the seam. The boy grinned.

"Is it famous?"

"Only to me."

We checked eleven more pieces. Six appeared on the destroyed list. The other six came from my dry stock.

Beth copied her rental contract and offered to speak to Leah.

"I'll need substitutes for Friday," she said.

"I'll find them," I promised.

I found them through two neighboring shops. They charged me their cleaning cost, $96. I paid gladly. The children had done nothing wrong.

When I reached home, Graham's suitcase sat by the stairs. He was waiting at my kitchen table with an open envelope.

"You've upset Nadia," he said.

He pushed the letter toward me.

Second Bell demanded another $6,400 in storage charges. Unless I paid by Friday, Nadia planned to sell the seventeen crates.