Part 2: The Blue Ledger

The following morning I called Priya Shah, an estate attorney recommended by a friend. She asked me to bring the proposed agreement, the will, and any information I had about the house. She also asked what I wanted from the estate.

I had expected to say that I wanted my share. That was true, but incomplete. I wanted my father's instruments cataloged before anything was sold. I wanted Daniel's studio idea considered on its merits. And I wanted to know whether the blue ledger contained instructions that would help us make those decisions.

Priya explained that the administrator had duties to the estate and its beneficiaries. She did not promise that I would receive the house or that a notebook would override a valid will. She said we should ask the administrator to preserve the property, provide the inventory, and arrange access to the workshop in a way everyone could observe.

The will left the house to Daniel and me in equal shares, subject to the estate's debts and expenses. It also mentioned a separate collection of instruments and directed the administrator to consult a list my father had prepared. The blue ledger might be that list, but no one could know until it was found.

Priya wrote to the administrator's attorney. He replied that he would arrange a visit to the house on Friday and invite both beneficiaries. He asked Daniel not to move equipment or make changes until the visit. Daniel agreed in writing.

My mother called me that evening. “You embarrassed your brother.”

“I asked for an inventory.”

“He has worked hard on the studio plan. Your father would have wanted him to succeed.”

“I want him to succeed too. That doesn't tell us what the will says or where the instruments belong.”

She was quiet, then said, “The piano bench is locked because the key was lost.”

“Who told you that?”

“Daniel.”

The key had been attached to a small brass tag shaped like a musical note. My father kept it in the top drawer of his desk. I did not tell my mother where I thought it was. The administrator should check the desk in front of everyone rather than rely on my memory or let anyone accuse me of searching alone.

On Friday I arrived with Priya. Daniel was already there, standing beside the workshop door. He had brought an architect's sketch of a recording room. The architect had proposed retaining the old workbench and using removable panels to improve the sound. It was a thoughtful design.

“I didn't know the will mentioned a list,” Daniel said.

“You should have received the same documents I did.”

“I got the first two pages from Mom. She said the rest was routine.”

Priya asked the administrator to send him a complete copy. Daniel looked embarrassed. I was tempted to say he should have asked for it himself. Instead I asked whether he would like to be present while the desk and bench were checked.

The brass key was in the top drawer, beneath a packet of tuning forks. The administrator used it to open the bench. Inside lay the blue ledger, a folded program from my first school concert, and a sealed envelope addressed to both of us.

Daniel reached for the envelope, then stopped. “Should we open it together?”

“Yes,” I said.

The first line was in my father's handwriting: Before you decide what to do with the workshop, please find the owners of the instruments on these pages.