The Papers In My Tool Bag Changed Who Owned The Jars

Fenella locked the studio door after Ansel drove away.

"He'll complain," I said.

"He can add it to his list."

She cleared a dry patch on the bench. I laid out my blue folder beside the false inventory.

The first document was called Gift Deed And Acceptance. Grandma had signed it on August twelfth. I had signed beneath her.

It gave me the numbered glaze sample jars 001 through 216, their tied tiles, and the notes kept inside them. It said the gift took effect that day.

The house and studio were not included. Neither were her wheels, kiln, or ordinary dishes.

"Read the next page," Fenella said.

I knew what it said. I read it anyway.

Grandma's lawyer, Vera Kells, had signed an acknowledgment of delivery. Attached were eight inventory pages with the jar numbers, colors, tile marks, and condition notes.

Fenella had signed as my receiving agent.

"You took the key," I said.

"And put them in the archive room. Changed that little lock myself. Your grandmother kept permission to study them while she lived. That didn't make them hers again."

I remembered Grandma handing Fenella the brass key. Vera had made us wait while she checked every shelf against her list.

I had been leaving for a repair job near Rawlins. Grandma had pushed my copies into my hands.

"You keep records of a heating element," she'd said. "You can keep records of me."

Now I called Vera.

She listened without breaking in. Then she asked me to read the revised inventory's date and page count.

"Seven pages," I said.

"Mine had eight. Bring both sets. Photograph the shelves first. Don't remove anything on your own today."

Her office was three blocks from the courthouse. Fenella rode with me, holding the false list flat on her knees.

Vera had a small waiting room and a desk with no pictures on it. She put on glasses when she saw Fenella's signature.

"Did you sign anything on August nineteenth?"

"I was in Cody having my eye checked. I couldn't have signed that straight if I'd wanted to."

"Do you have the appointment record?"

"In a drawer. Along with the bill that nearly took the other eye."

Vera made copies. Then she opened her own saved scan of the gift documents.

The same eight pages appeared on her screen.

"Your uncle asked for the will last week," she said. "I sent a copy to him as the nominated executor. The probate filing is public now. You can have a copy, too."

The will left the house and studio building to Ansel. Other money was split among Grandma's three grandchildren. It gave Ansel no special right to things Grandma no longer owned.

"So why didn't anyone tell us?" I asked.

"I can't tell you what he told the family. He didn't ask me whether these jars belonged in the estate."

She pointed to the freight order.

The collector was Cedar Trace Restoration Supply in Cheyenne. The pickup had happened six days earlier. The description said eighteen antique glaze reference vessels, assorted.

No individual numbers.

"He took away their names," I said.

Vera looked up.

"The numbers are how we match the notes. Without them, they're just jars."

She wrote that down.

The public auction was set for the following Saturday. Ansel's online catalog valued the whole archive at $184,000. A red banner said early private offers were welcome.

"Can you stop it?" I asked.

"I can ask the district court for an order. I need sworn facts, including what you saw today. The gift papers are strong evidence. We still have to show the court what's happening."

For an hour, I answered questions.

I described the empty rack, jar 041's missing tile, and the tag on Grandma's cup. Vera left out the cup. She kept the missing tile.

Fenella gave her own statement. She brought out a pocket notebook with dates of every visit she had made since Grandma died.

"You wrote down when he changed the archive lock?" I asked.

"I wrote down when he said the old one stuck. It didn't."

Vera called a local civil lawyer, Mara Bell, to handle the disputed property case. She said she would be a witness to the gift and wanted another lawyer arguing it.

Mara came over with a legal pad and a half-eaten sandwich.

"We file today," she said. "We'll request a temporary stop on moving or selling the archive and an inventory under supervision."

I paid a $2,000 retainer from my van repair fund.

Then my phone rang.

Ansel didn't say hello.

"You dragged Fenella to a lawyer?"

"I took my documents to one."

"You'll cost this family money, Wesley."

"Whose jars did you ship?"

He was quiet long enough for me to hear a turn signal clicking.

"The rest leave at six tomorrow morning," he said. "Bring whatever folder makes you feel important."