A Crossed Out Address Led Me Back to the Loading Door

The black line covered a street number, but not the small print below it.

Harborlight Mail Rooms. Box H-17.

I enlarged the photograph until the letters broke into squares. Imani had found it attached to Roland's account of his efforts to reach the trustee.

"He filed this to show she couldn't be found," she said.

"Then why cover her new address?"

"That's a question we'll ask under oath."

It was Wednesday morning. The truck was due in less than twenty-four hours.

Imani was preparing an emergency court request to protect the organ. I could help most by finding Nelle.

The mail room stood near a bus stop south of downtown. Its windows held faded notices for rooms, boat parts, and a missing orange cat.

The woman at the counter examined my photograph.

"I can't give you a customer's address."

"Could you pass her a message?"

"That I can do."

I wrote my name, Imani's number, and the theater address. Then I added one sentence: Someone is selling instrument 614 as estate property.

The woman read it.

"Not a piano, then?"

"No. A whole room full of trouble."

She put my note in an envelope and took it into the back office.

Through the window, I watched rain collect on the bus shelter. Vera used to bring me downtown on Saturdays, with two dollars folded inside her glove for the ride home.

I wished I'd asked her about the people in her address book. I had asked so many questions about pipes and so few about who would protect them.

While I waited, Roland called.

"You're frightening a good buyer."

"Show my lawyer the trust papers."

"Nelle gave up that job. I stepped in."

"When?"

"Months ago."

"Then you have her signed resignation."

For a moment I heard only traffic on his end.

"Come to lunch. We can work something out."

"Email the resignation."

"Your grandmother hated lawyers."

"She hired one to write a trust."

He ended the call.

The clerk came back without news. She had left a message through the contact Nelle had provided for urgent mail. I thanked her and bought a stamped envelope so the favor had at least cost me something.

Outside, my phone showed a message from Martin.

His purchase agreement had one sentence that made my stomach drop: Seller represents that he acts both for the estate and as successor trustee.

"He told me those were the same job," Martin said when I called.

"They aren't."

"My lawyer says that too. We demanded the deposit back."

"Has he sent it?"

"No."

Martin gave Imani permission to use his agreement and payment receipt. He also sent the shipping company's name and its dispatch number.

I called dispatch. The woman there confirmed they had a removal job. She would send our written notice to the crew supervisor, but said cancellation had to come from their customer or a court.

"Who is your customer?"

"Mr. Fenn."

I sent the papers while sitting in my parked van.

There were ten people I could have called to complain. Instead, I called the one who could file something.

"We've requested an emergency hearing this afternoon," Imani said. "I need your statement about damage from rushed removal. Plain facts."

I dictated what I knew.

The pipes were soft metal. Some stood taller than a person. Each needed a fitted support. The wind lines had to be marked before they were cut. The console's cable had old cloth insulation that would split if dragged.

"What would it cost to put it back?" she asked.

"If it's done properly, at least forty thousand dollars. If they crush the big bass pipes, money may not get the same sound back."

She read my statement aloud before sending it for my signature.

At noon, Sabine called with another piece.

She had reached Denise Cole, the second supposed witness. Denise had worked in Vera's old dentist's office. She remembered my grandmother but denied signing any will.

"She's agreed to speak with your lawyer," Sabine said. "She sounded angry enough to bring her own chair."

"What about Earl Benton?"

"Your lawyer's checking. I found a death notice, but a notice isn't the record she needs."

I looked down at the blue chalk still caught beside my thumbnail.

A loose valve wasted air all day. You could keep feeding the blower, or find the gap and mend it.

I drove back to the Bellweather to finish the condition inventory. Martin had arranged for me to join his inspection, and his written permission was in my bag.

I expected his small car.

Instead, a long truck blocked the alley. Its rear doors were open. A lift gate rested on the pavement.

Roland stood beside a stack of empty wooden crates.

He checked his watch as I stopped.

"The schedule changed again," he said.