Wednesday morning I sat across from Detective Havamp with a manila folder. “In 1988, I rehoused all 6,412 objects by hand,” I told her. “Painted numbers get scraped, so I gave every object a second number in red ink, somewhere no one would look. Only me and the file know where. A registrar plans for the day someone she trusts turns out wrong.”
The inventory happened Monday the twenty-first. “Nineteen,” Elwood said. Nineteen objects missing — three from drawer fourteen counting the pistol, sixteen more from other drawers. Not one signed out. Every one small enough for a coat pocket, every one from drawers nine through sixteen.
Tuesday morning I asked Elwood who rehoused those drawers. Long silence. “Christa,” he said. “Only Christa.” Since April 2025, Twila’s back porch had sold eleven of our objects — $14,860. I matched all eleven by the red ink.
Booth Forty-One
Twila had kept booth forty-one at the County Fall Antique Show for twenty years. Saturday the twenty-sixth, I parked behind the Merchants Building in my navy blazer. The detective had a warrant.
At 8:52, Twila came in with a cash bag, Christa behind her, Garrick last. Detective Havamp showed the warrant. “This is harassment!” Twila shouted. “She is the thief!” Forty people gathered.
The detective nodded. I crossed the aisle, put on my white gloves, and the crowd went quiet. At the near end of the table sat a powder horn, price tag $680, its painted number scraped off. “Inside the brass collar,” I said loudly, “on the inner rim facing the plug. A red six, a dot, and an eight.” I stepped back. The deputy shone his flashlight into the collar. “Six point eight,” he said. “In red.”
I went down the table and never touched a thing. Seven objects, seven second numbers, seven price tags: $3,240.
Then Twila pushed one more brooch across the velvet. “And this one? Is this yours too?” I looked at it a long time. “No,” I said. “That one is not ours.” A liar claims everything on the table. I only wanted the truth back in its drawers.