Malcolm Read The Attachments And Found An Address Behind My Royalties

Malcolm met me the next morning at a quiet table near the depot.

He was forty-five, Chinese American, and careful enough to smooth each receipt before reading it. He wore a gray coat with one loose cuff button.

“You don't need to reassure me,” he said. “You need to show me page six.”

I passed him the first license.

Outside, a train horn rolled between the brick buildings. Malcolm read through it without looking up.

“There,” he said.

He placed his finger beneath my name.

Julian Avery, sole owner of the scheduled character designs.

Lantern Span could collect royalties for me. Its fee was ten percent. It could not sell my rights or send my share to someone else without my written approval.

“Cressida told those people the library belonged to the company.”

“Did she show them this attachment?”

“She showed them a slide.”

“A slide isn't an assignment.”

I let out a breath that seemed to have been waiting all night.

Malcolm did not smile yet.

“These papers help. They don't answer every question about your marriage or the money. We need someone who handles those questions.”

He called Ruth Mercer, a local lawyer who had reviewed a venue lease for us. She agreed to see me that afternoon. Her first bill would be $1,500.

I had $7,800 in personal savings. I paid the retainer.

“Show me everything you signed,” Ruth said.

That included the boring pages. The company agreement. Our wedding date. The old artists' assignments. My handwritten list of checks received before Cressida took over the books.

“I liked making the faces,” I admitted. “She liked handling the accounts.”

“Who liked it isn't the issue,” Ruth said. “What each of you agreed to do is.”

I slid over a handwritten page of passwords I had used before the lockout.

“Do you need these?”

“No. We need the records from the people who hold them. Don't try to get around the change.”

I crossed out the page and put it away. For years, a problem had meant finding another way backstage. This one needed a front door with my name on the request.

She copied the originals and returned them to my case.

“Keep these dry. Keep them together. Don't write on them.”

The last four quarterly reports showed $186,400 in royalties paid to Lantern Span. Its ten percent fee came to $18,640. My share should have been $167,760.

Only $42,960 had reached my personal account.

That left $124,800.

I checked the subtraction three times.

“I thought business was slow,” I said.

Cressida had told me that while buying bright coats for investor dinners. I had patched the knees of my work pants with curtain scraps.

Malcolm opened the payment attachments he had received from the theaters. Each report carried a matching invoice from Hearthwake.

Four invoices. Each for $31,200.

“Production support,” he read. “No dates. No staff list. No work described.”

“We have a crew,” I said. “Nobody there works for Hearthwake.”

Ruth held up a hand.

“That's something we can prove. Let's collect names and payroll records.”

She sent a demand to preserve records and asked for an accounting. Malcolm checked which clients had already paid and which contracts were still open.

“No one pays twice,” he told me. “Theaters that followed their contracts shouldn't carry this loss.”

I had been afraid he would tell me to shut everything down.

Instead, he called our next venue in Lexington. Their contract allowed me, as the owner, to name a replacement operator if Lantern Span could not perform. There were notice steps. There were dates.

There was a way to keep the show alive.

Tessa called while Malcolm reviewed those steps.

“We have $9,600 in crew wages due,” she said. “Cressida told me to stop asking.”

“Send Ruth your time sheets. Tell everyone to save theirs.”

“Are you hiring a lawyer to get divorced?”

“Yes. And to find your checks.”

Ruth warned me not to promise the money yet. I called Tessa back and said exactly that.

By late afternoon, a copy of Hearthwake's public business filing sat on Ruth's desk. Malcolm had searched the state records using the full name from the invoices.

The business address was a rented studio on the edge of Staunton.

The listed manager was Ellis Vale.

I knew Ellis. He had come to two previews in polished shoes and told me how lucky I was to have Cressida.

“He said he arranged financing,” I told Ruth.

“Then don't go accuse him of anything. We can request his records.”

I drove past the studio on my way back to the shop. I wanted to see the building, nothing more. Its front window faced the street.

A sign inside read HEARTHWAKE. Below it, a smaller card read ELLIS VALE AND CRESSIDA AVERY, PRODUCERS.

I stopped on the public sidewalk.

Before I could turn away, the door opened.

Ellis stood there holding two takeout cups.

“Julian,” he said. “She told me you'd come to sign.”