The Inventory Visit Put Nine Accordions Back In Safe Hands

June got Dorian to cancel the movers in writing while we waited for a hearing. She also arranged a supervised visit the next morning so I could protect my customers' property.

"Access for inventory and pickup," she told me. "No release of your rights. I put that sentence in the agreement twice."

Lucinda brought numbered labels, a camera, and an empty cookie tin.

"What's the tin for?" I asked.

"Your loose screws. I know you."

Dorian met us at the shop with a man from a moving company. The man wore a back brace and looked unhappy to be there.

"I was told everything belonged to Bell," he said.

"Nine of these instruments belong to customers," June replied. "Nothing leaves without an item on the list."

He turned to Dorian. "You didn't say that."

Dorian studied his phone.

Inside, the shop smelled of warm wood, old cloth, and the orange oil I used on cabinet handles. Somebody had moved my bench six feet. A stack of bass reeds sat near the edge.

I set them back in their tray.

"You have forty minutes," Dorian said.

June held up the written agreement. "Ninety."

The mover took off his gloves and leaned against the wall.

I started with Neal's red accordion. I pressed the key, heard the thin breath where its note should have been, and hummed the F sharp.

"Does that help?" the mover asked.

"It tells my ear what my hands are looking for."

I opened the treble side, flattened the curled valve, and checked it on the tuning bellows. The reed spoke clearly. Nothing dramatic had broken. A small piece of leather had been kept from lying where it belonged.

Lucinda watched Dorian while I worked.

"Funny," she said softly, "how much trouble a little thing out of place can cause."

We photographed each instrument with its repair tag. June wrote the owner's name and case number. I called customers one at a time and asked them to collect their property at my house.

"Are you closing?" one asked.

"I'm working on staying."

That was the most I could promise.

The gray cabinet was still locked. I opened it, removed the visiting copy of the agreement, and showed June the yellow tab.

"Leave the cabinet itself?" I asked.

"Yes. It's yours, and this is still your claim to possession. Take the records and the small tools you need."

Dorian laughed from the doorway.

"You two keep saying claim. Doesn't mean he owns anything."

I looked up from the drawer.

"Did your father ever miss a payment from me?"

"He complained about you all the time."

"That wasn't what I asked."

For once, he had no quick answer.

In the back room I found three cardboard boxes of piano keys, two rolls of bellows cloth, and my wife's old green stool. She had sat there sewing case covers before she died. Dorian had put a disposal sticker on it.

I peeled off the sticker without speaking.

Lucinda set the stool by the door.

"That comes with us," she said.

June checked it onto our list.

By eleven, all nine customer cases were in Neal's pickup. He had taken the morning off to help. The mover signed a statement that he had loaded nothing and received no customer property.

"I like a clear list," he told Lucinda.

"A sensible man," she said.

Outside, Dorian followed me to the curb.

"Five thousand was yesterday's offer. Today it's three. Lawyers cost money."

"I noticed."

"You can rent a garage. How much room do you need for those little boxes?"

I had rebuilt a concert instrument in that shop that took both of us to lift. But size wasn't what he meant.

"Put this offer in writing too," I said.

That afternoon, I returned eight accordions and kept Neal's overnight for a final check. Several customers offered statements about the notice. Rosa wrote hers at my kitchen table, pressing hard enough to mark the sheet below.

June filed our lawsuit. She asked the court to protect the building, stop any sale, and restore my access while the ownership claim was heard.

I paid her a $4,000 retainer from the money I had saved for new shop lights.

Near supper, she called.

"His lawyer just sent their claimed default."

Lucinda took out her notebook.

"Amount?"

"Seven thousand two hundred dollars. April through September."

Those were six cleared installments in six numbered sleeves.

Then June read the last line: unless I withdrew my deed claim, Dorian would ask escrow to return the signed deed to his father's estate.