We Counted Sixteen Pianos Beneath The New Showroom Sign

Conrad had hung the new sign by morning.

Phelps Piano Gallery.

My last name had left a pale shape on the brick where the old letters had blocked the sun.

Lena stood beside me with a printed email. Conrad's lawyer had agreed to a one-hour inspection. We could photograph, count, and check serial numbers. Nothing could leave yet.

“You brought a lawyer for a misunderstanding,” Conrad said.

“You brought a locksmith,” I said.

He stepped aside.

Estelle waited outside. He had refused to let her join us. She sat on her folding chair beneath the window and opened a paperback.

Inside, the shop smelled too sweet. Conrad had put bowls of cinnamon oil on the counter. He had always hated the smell of glue.

“We're going in order,” Lena told him.

I opened my ledger.

The first piano was a black baby grand with cloudy patches in its finish. MR-063. Mine. The serial matched. Its red wool loop hung from the hinge support.

Conrad watched me lift the lid.

“That's not a deed to a house, Hiro.”

“No. It's a custody tag.”

Lena photographed the serial stamp and my matching page.

We did that eight more times. All nine instruments owned by Matsuda Restoration were there. Together they took up most of the good floor space.

The concert grand sat on a new round rug. A small brass card on its rim read RESERVED FOR PRIVATE EVENT.

“What event?” Lena asked.

“A lender reception. It's canceled now.”

Conrad said it as if I had spoiled a birthday.

Next came four customer pianos. A console from a retired bus driver. A baby grand from a school music teacher. Two uprights from families who had saved for repairs.

I checked their parts trays too. I had put each set of screws in a marked jar. One jar had been tipped into a coffee mug.

I took a photograph before touching it.

“You always make everything look like a crime,” Conrad said.

“Then don't tidy my screw jars.”

There were three more pianos. Those belonged to the joint company. I marked them separately and took no custody tags from them.

Sixteen instruments.

One of the company's uprights was the piano I had heard through the door. I shone my small light beneath its strings. A crack ran beside the bass bridge, just where the buzz had placed it. I noted it on the company sheet. Whoever bought that piano deserved to know before paying.

Seventeen ledger entries.

“Estelle Baptiste,” I said. “Walnut upright. Serial 44182.”

“Off-site.”

“Address?” Lena asked.

“The movers handle that.”

“Which movers?”

“I'd have to check.”

On the workbench sat the upright's bottom panel. I knew its grain. A pale crescent marked the place where Estelle's sister had set a wet flowerpot years before.

The piano had left without its panel.

I bent to look beneath the bench. Its action cradle was empty. The old hammer flange lay in a labeled bag beside a fresh one I had fitted halfway through the repair.

“It wasn't ready to travel,” I said.

“People move unfinished pianos.”

“Who moved this one?”

He checked his watch.

“Your hour is nearly done.”

Lena wrote the time on her pad.

At the front desk, Conrad's assistant, Beth, held a sheet of paper so tightly its edge shook. She had worked there eleven weeks. She looked at him, then at me.

“Should I get the delivery file?” she asked.

“Not now,” Conrad said.

“Please preserve that file,” Lena said. “Our letter covers it.”

Beth set the page facedown.

We left without forcing another drawer open.

Outside, Estelle shut her book.

“Well?”

“Yours wasn't there.”

She took off her glasses and wiped them. Her hands stayed steady.

“He said storage?”

“Yes.”

“Then we'll need a storage address.”

That afternoon Lena asked the court for an order to keep the disputed instruments and records in place. She requested a prompt hearing, with notice to Conrad's lawyer. The lender received copies too.

I called the four other customers. I told them only what I knew. I had been denied access. Their pianos were present. My lawyer was arranging return.

“Are you still doing the work?” the bus driver asked.

“Yes, if you want me to.”

“Then bring mine wherever you land.”

His trust made my throat feel tight.

Near closing time, Beth called my business number.

“Mr. Phelps told me to empty the old delivery folder,” she said. “I didn't. I gave the whole thing to his lawyer.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn't know it wasn't his.”

Before I could answer, Lena's email arrived. Conrad's lawyer had sent the file and asked for a private call.

One page showed a paid invoice for $6,800. Another showed a delivery address in East Peoria.

The invoice called Estelle's upright an estate piano.

Below that were the words SOLD, PAID IN FULL, and Conrad's signature.