The Judge Asked Who Had Signed Beside The Salamander

Marlene's lawyer accepted a Wednesday afternoon hearing after Ada sent him the pickup notice.

By then, the storage owner had agreed to hold the crates for one day. He wanted a court order or both members' signatures before he released anything.

"I rent space," he told Ada. "I don't settle puppet ownership."

It was the most sensible thing anyone had said about my work all week.

I borrowed a navy jacket from my mother. In the courthouse in Berryville, its cuffs covered the glue burns on my wrists.

Marlene arrived wearing her cream coat. Her lawyer, Paul Voss, carried a slim case. She carried nothing.

"There she is," Marlene said. "Our assistant with a filing fee."

Ada touched my elbow. We kept walking.

We waited outside a courtroom where someone was arguing about a fence. Soren sat beside me with the rehearsal binder flat on his knees.

"You can still settle this," Marlene told me.

"Return the puppets and the receipts."

"You mean stop the expansion."

Her lawyer asked her to speak with him down the hall.

When our case was called, I stood behind a table that had no curtain to hide my shaking legs.

Ada asked for the puppets to be returned to the workshop, both members to preserve records, and Marlene to stop selling or moving the disputed property until a fuller hearing.

"We're not asking you to decide every claim today," she said.

Paul said Marlene had moved equipment to protect it during a business dispute. He said the new deals would bring needed money.

"What new deals?" the judge asked.

"Licensing discussions," Paul said after looking at his client.

Ada placed Schedule A under the document camera.

My old drawing of Moss filled a screen. His first eyes had been too close together. I had crossed one out and drawn it again.

The judge leaned forward.

"Ms. Cobb, is that your initial beside this design?"

"Yes. But we never meant those pages to stop normal business."

"Your lawyer can address what they mean. I asked who signed them."

"I did."

The judge looked at the sale-card photographs next.

"And who authorized these prices?"

"I handle bookings," Marlene said.

"Did Ms. Rosen give written consent to license the characters?"

Marlene looked at me as though I had hidden something under the table.

"She knew we needed revenue."

Ada didn't raise her voice. She laid out the cleared school payments and the company's account statement.

When it was my turn, I described what I had seen. I didn't call Marlene a thief. I gave dates, amounts, and the account's last four digits.

Paul asked whether I understood touring expenses.

"I understand invoices," I said. "I pay them."

He asked whether I had ever said Marlene could manage sales.

"Bookings for approved live shows, yes. Selling rights I own, no."

Soren identified the binder and explained where it had been kept since we signed. His voice was so soft the clerk moved the microphone closer.

"I build scenery," he said. "I keep the pages people need when scenery falls down."

The judge entered a temporary order. The puppets would return to the workshop under a written inventory. Marlene had to provide access and preserve the business records. Neither of us could sell or dispose of company property while the order stood. Ada explained that my own character rights were still mine, but the wider claims would need more time.

I had to post a $1,500 bond for the temporary relief.

That left $600 of my savings.

I paid it without asking Moss what he thought.

Thursday morning, the storage owner cut the seal on the first crate while Soren recorded each item.

Moss's jaw hung crooked. His lower control rod had been forced into the packing foam.

"Repairable," Soren whispered.

I held the head steady and checked the leather hinge.

"Window three is open," I said in the unfinished head's clerk voice.

It sounded silly in a storage shed. I needed it anyway.

Nell had both antennae. Aunt Slate had a fresh scrape on her shell. We signed the inventory with the damage noted and loaded everything into Soren's truck.

The workshop's landlord met us with keys and a receipt for the lock service. Ada had sent him the order.

Inside, my bench was bare. The grain of the wood showed pale shapes where tools had stood for years.

My tools were in a carton beneath it.

I unpacked them one by one. Soren checked the travel pouch attached to Moss's crate for his spare rod.

"Leah," he said.

He handed me a signed contract for Fern Hall.

Under it lay another signed contract, this one for the Ozark Window Arts Room in Harrison.

Both promised the same three characters, the same fall dates, and the same word: EXCLUSIVE.