"Hey," Herb said from behind the video camera. "You're not supposed to be getting rid of anything until the court decides who owns it."
Craig started down the steps, obviously intent on a confrontation, but I grabbed his arm to stop him. "It's okay," I told Craig. "We're not doing anything wrong, and I don't care if Herb wastes his time recording us."
I let go of Craig, and we both continued down the steps and toward the truck, picking up the cash-filled batting bags on the way.
"We're not disposing of anything," I told Herb. "We're just putting the quilts and supplies into storage where they'll be safe from burglars. Then the court can decide who it all belongs to."
Herb peered out from behind the camera. "How do I know that's what you're doing?"
"Because she said so," Craig snapped, "and Ms. Fairchild's a lawyer. She doesn't lie."
Craig had a higher opinion of lawyers than most people did, but apparently either his confidence or his muscular build was convincing.
Herb lowered the camera and turned it off, although he didn't unbend enough to stash it in the camera bag that was hanging off his shoulder. "How do I know that's what's in the boxes?"
"Come join us at the tailgate, and you can peek inside as Craig loads everything up."
I detoured to the front of the truck to toss the two batts I was carrying through the passenger side window of the cab.
"What was that?" Herb asked suspiciously.
"Packages of batting." Fortunately, the cash was hidden in the folds of batting and the bags were transparent, showing what appeared to be nothing particularly valuable inside. I doubted Herb would ask to inspect the contents, so it should be simple to avoid any mention of the cash. "It's what goes in between the top and bottom layers of a quilt."
"What's it worth?"
At a guess, I'd say the cash amounted to about a hundred grand. Not that I was going to volunteer that information when it was simple enough to avoid the issue. "The batting for a single quilt retails for anywhere from about ten bucks to more than fifty."
Herb lost interest, as I'd hoped, and continued to the tailgate, where Craig had already tossed the first two packed boxes. "What's in them?"
"More batting and fabric," I said as Craig returned to the porch to pick up not just one, but two three-foot-square boxes stacked on top of each other. They had been among the first ones he'd packed, both filled with bolts of fabric. I would have struggled to carry just one, and he seemed totally unfazed by two. "You'll have to ask your attorney to contact Aaron Pohoke later for the value on those supplies. I haven't calculated it yet."
Herb shook his head. "No point. If Miriam's business was anything like my job, the supplies can't be worth much. Only a small fraction of the price a restaurant pays is for the ingredients. Most of the cost is in the labor."
"In theory, it should be the same with quilts." I doubted Herb would believe me, but I felt obliged to try one more time to convince him that he had unrealistic expectations about the assets he was going to court over. "In reality, though, the mark-up for hand-made items is pretty small, considering the time investment."
"You're just saying that so I'll drop my lawsuit."
I didn't need the stress of banging my head against the wall that was Herb's refusal to accept reality. Aaron Pohoke could deal with him.
I watched Craig toss the two fabric-filled boxes to the far end of the truck bed as if they held nothing more than the light polyester batts—without the cash—that I'd carried. I tried to stay fit, preferring not to add any other health issues to my syncope, but even if I spent ten hours a day at a gym, I would never have the upper body strength that Craig did. He really had been a big help with this project, completely earning his promised recommendation letter from me.
Herb peered into the box nearest the tailgate. "Where are all the quilts? That's where the real money is."
Not even close, I thought. "The quilts are already in storage."
"What about the framed one?" Herb asked. "The one on the wall?"
"That's in storage already too."
"I hope you handled that more carefully than these supplies," Herb said, pointing at the last two boxes that were tilting at somewhat haphazard angles in the truck's bed. "It's an antique, and that means it's valuable. It belonged to our grandmother. She loved it to pieces. That's what Miriam said, anyway. It was used every day, so most of it was falling apart by the time Grandma died. The framed bit was the only part that could be saved."
"I'll make a note of that for the provenance," I said.
Over on the porch, only one box remained to be carried to the truck, and Craig was closing the front door.
"There's nothing more to see here," I told Herb. "Craig's getting the last box now, and as soon as it's in the truck, we're going straight to Aaron Pohoke's office. You can follow us if you want to watch us unload it there."
Herb pulled the camera bag around from where it hung down his back and stuffed the video camera inside. "Nah. I need to talk to my lawyer. She's going to want to talk to your lawyer about what you did today."
He obviously intended his words to sound threatening, but they rang hollow. A groundless legal threat simply didn't compare to the bigger dangers I'd encountered at Miriam's house.