THE FINE PRINT

WICKED GRIM STORIES · EPISODE SEVEN

The Piano With Eleven Owners
By Esi Noire

The City of Briar Glen was preparing to auction a piano that had already been sold eleven times.

Every sale was documented.

Every buyer had signed a receipt.

Every receipt listed the purchase price as one dollar.

And every person who had supposedly owned the instrument was dead.

The piano itself remained stubbornly alive, although several of its keys had developed opinions about whether they intended to work.

It stood in the auditorium of the former Carver Community Center, beneath a ceiling stained by decades of roof leaks.

The city wanted three hundred dollars for it.

Nobody wanted to pay three hundred dollars.

Then someone found the eleven receipts.

And suddenly, half the neighborhood claimed the piano belonged to them.

The other half claimed it belonged to nobody.

A third group, consisting mainly of people who had never played an instrument, insisted it was historically significant and should be placed in a museum.

The piano had survived sixty-two years of Ohio winters.

It was about to discover that municipal government could be considerably harder on an instrument than the weather.

---

Simone Fletcher first saw the piano on a Tuesday morning in October.

She was fifty-six, recently retired from the county library system, and had accepted a temporary position helping Briar Glen catalog equipment before the Carver Community Center closed permanently.

The building had opened in 1964.

Its auditorium had hosted wedding receptions, school performances, political debates, neighborhood meetings, and one memorable Thanksgiving dinner during which two sisters stopped speaking over the proper ingredients for dressing.

The disagreement lasted fourteen years.

Both women eventually reconciled.

Neither changed her recipe.

Simone remembered attending Saturday dances at Carver when she was a teenager.

She also remembered being told that girls who wore their hair too short looked like boys.

She had worn hers shorter the following week.

Now the building was nearly empty.

Folding chairs leaned against the walls.

The basketball court needed refinishing.

The kitchen contained a commercial refrigerator that hummed loudly enough to suggest it was preparing for departure.

And against the auditorium’s back wall stood a walnut upright piano.

Its finish was scratched.

One brass foot pedal was missing.

A faded strip of masking tape across the music desk read:

DO NOT MOVE WITHOUT CALLING MRS. DORSEY.

Someone had crossed out the telephone number.

Below it, in different handwriting, were the words:

SHE’S DEAD.

Simone examined the note.

“Well,” she said, “that certainly complicates the moving arrangements.”

---

The piano appeared on the city’s auction inventory as:

UPRIGHT PIANO — WALNUT — FAIR CONDITION.

Estimated value: $300.

Simone was supposed to photograph it, record its serial number, and attach an inventory label.

She opened the hinged panel beneath the keyboard.

Inside were dust, two paper clips, a peppermint wrapper, and a small envelope secured to the wood with yellowed tape.

Across the envelope someone had written:

OWNERSHIP PAPERS. KEEP WITH PIANO.

Simone removed it carefully.

Inside were eleven receipts.

The oldest was dated March 14, 1968.

Received from Mrs. Alma Whitfield: $1.00 for one upright piano.

The next was dated September 3, 1971.

Received from Mrs. Beatrice Lane: $1.00 for one upright piano.

The receipts continued through 1994.

Eleven women.

Eleven signatures.

Eleven dollars.

Every document identified the same instrument by serial number.

Simone checked the number stamped inside the piano.

It matched.

She sat down on a folding chair.

There were several possibilities.

The piano might have been sold repeatedly because nobody wanted it.

It might have been used to settle debts.

Or someone had devised an unusually elaborate method of avoiding responsibility for a heavy object.

Simone had helped her brother move a piano once.

She considered the third explanation entirely reasonable.

---

The city’s facilities manager, Arthur Phelps, examined the receipts the following morning.

Arthur was a practical man who preferred equipment with wheels.

He had spent thirty-one years supervising public buildings and considered anything weighing more than two hundred pounds a potential grievance.

“Eleven owners?” he said.

“Apparently.”

“All deceased?”

“According to the dates I’ve checked.”

“Then the city owns it.”

“How?”

“It’s been in our building for years.”

“That’s not necessarily how ownership works.”

Arthur looked at her.

“Simone, we have seventeen days to empty this place.”

“I understand.”

“We’ve already sold the basketball equipment.”

“I understand that too.”

“The city isn’t going to conduct a genealogical investigation into a piano.”

“Then perhaps we shouldn’t auction it until we know whether it’s ours.”

Arthur sighed.

“You’re enjoying retirement, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

He returned the receipts.

“Find out what you can. But I need an answer by Friday.”

---

Simone began with the names.

The women had lived in different parts of Briar Glen.

Some owned houses.

Others rented.

One had worked as a school cafeteria manager.

Another was a nurse’s aide.

Two had been sisters.

Three had lived on streets that no longer existed.

The final receipt, dated June 1994, transferred the piano to a woman named Violet Dorsey.

Simone recognized the name.

Mrs. Dorsey had taught music at Carver for nearly thirty years.

She was famous for three things.

Her enormous collection of hats.

Her refusal to tolerate chewing gum during lessons.

And her ability to hear a wrong note from the opposite end of the building.

Simone had never taken lessons from her.

She had, however, once been ordered out of the auditorium for eating potato chips during a rehearsal.

Mrs. Dorsey had said that music required discipline.

Simone had replied that so did hunger.

Neither woman had been impressed with the other.

Violet Dorsey died in 2012.

Her daughter, Bernadette, still lived in Briar Glen.

Simone telephoned her.

“Do you remember your mother’s piano?”

Bernadette laughed.

“Which one?”

“How many did she own?”

“None.”

Simone looked at the receipts.

“That’s interesting.”

“My mother taught on everybody else’s instruments. She said owning a piano was like owning a horse that couldn’t walk.”

“Then why did she buy one in 1994?”

“She didn’t.”

“I have a signed receipt.”

Bernadette stopped laughing.

“Well, now you’ve got my attention.”

---

Bernadette Dorsey was sixty-nine and lived in a small brick house surrounded by flowering shrubs.

Her mother had planted most of them.

Bernadette had spent the past decade trying to keep them alive.

She examined the final receipt.

“That’s Mama’s signature.”

“Then she bought the piano.”

“For a dollar?”

“Apparently.”

Bernadette turned the paper over.

“She never mentioned buying it.”

“Did she teach at Carver in 1994?”

“Every Thursday and Saturday.”

“Was the piano there?”

“Of course.”

“Then perhaps she bought it for the center.”

Bernadette considered.

“Maybe. But Mama didn’t believe in giving the city anything without getting something in writing.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d worked with the city.”

Simone smiled.

Bernadette brought out a cardboard box containing her mother’s teaching materials.

There were recital programs, attendance books, photographs, and a collection of handwritten exercises.

One notebook contained a list of students who had taken lessons between 1978 and 1999.

Beside several names were small symbols.

A circle.

A square.

A triangle.

Simone pointed to them.

“What do these mean?”

Bernadette shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Could they be grades?”

“Mama didn’t give grades. She gave opinions.”

“What kind?”

Bernadette opened another notebook.

Across one page, Violet had written:

Eddie Thompson — talented, lazy, and unfortunately aware of both.

Below it:

Marsha Ellis — practices diligently. Needs to stop apologizing before playing.

Simone laughed.

“That sounds like her.”

Bernadette turned another page.

Kevin Price — excellent rhythm. Cannot count to four without assistance.

“Kevin became an accountant,” Bernadette said.

“Did he?”

“Yes. Mama never let him forget this.”

---

The first owner listed on the receipts was Alma Whitfield.

She had died in 1970.

Her granddaughter, Pauline, lived in Columbus and remembered the piano clearly.

“Grandma kept it in her front room,” Pauline said.

“Did she play?”

“Not a note.”

“Then why did she have it?”

“For the children.”

“Her grandchildren?”

“Everybody’s children.”

Pauline explained that Alma had belonged to a neighborhood women’s organization called the Briar Glen Improvement Circle.

The group raised money for practical community needs.

School shoes.

Winter coats.

Emergency groceries.

Occasionally, funeral expenses.

In 1964, several members decided the neighborhood needed a piano.

The public school had reduced its music program.

Private lessons were expensive.

The women collected donations, held dinners, and purchased a used upright instrument from a music store in Dayton.

It cost $185.

“Why was it sold for a dollar four years later?” Simone asked.

“Because Grandma moved.”

“Where?”

“Into an apartment.”

“Couldn’t she take the piano?”

“The apartment was upstairs.”

Pauline laughed.

“Grandma said she was too old to carry a piano up two flights of stairs and too sensible to pay somebody else to do it.”

“So she sold it.”

“To Beatrice Lane.”

“For a dollar.”

“That’s right.”

“Why not give it away?”

Pauline hesitated.

“Because of the agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“The women had rules.”

---

The Briar Glen Improvement Circle had been organized in 1958.

Its original purpose was to help families manage emergencies without relying entirely on churches or public assistance.

Members paid small monthly dues.

They kept records.

They elected officers.

And they argued about nearly everything.

According to Pauline, the piano was purchased with money raised by the group, but the women did not want it stored in a building that might close.

They wanted it where children could use it.

So they established a system.

One household would keep the instrument.

That family would provide a suitable room and allow scheduled practice.

When the family could no longer manage the arrangement, another member could take responsibility.

The dollar was not intended to represent the piano’s value.

It was a formal transfer between custodians.

“Why didn’t they simply write down who had it?” Simone asked.

“They did.”

“Then why the sales receipts?”

“Because people argued about who was responsible when something broke.”

That sounded reasonable.

Pianos were expensive to maintain.

The Improvement Circle wanted each custodian to understand that accepting the instrument meant accepting certain responsibilities.

Heating the room.

Keeping the instrument dry.

Allowing access.

Arranging repairs.

And, when necessary, passing it along.

The piano had not been purchased eleven times because eleven women wanted to own it.

It had been passed from household to household because they wanted it to remain available.

Simone examined the receipts again.

The signatures represented something different from what she had first imagined.

Not a series of sales.

A series of promises.

---

There was one problem.

The arrangement had not always worked.

Simone discovered that when she visited an elderly woman named Dorothy Gaines.

Dorothy was eighty-seven and had lived in Briar Glen her entire life.

Her mother had been the piano’s fourth custodian.

“Those women weren’t angels,” Dorothy said.

“I didn’t assume they were.”

“Good. People get old and suddenly everybody starts telling stories about how wonderful they were.”

Dorothy offered Simone coffee.

Then she described what happened in 1976.

The piano had been moved into the Gaines household.

Dorothy’s mother agreed to let neighborhood children practice in the front room.

At first, the arrangement worked.

Then her father became ill.

The household grew crowded.

Money became tight.

And the children continued arriving.

“Every afternoon,” Dorothy said. “Some of them practiced. Some just wanted somewhere warm to sit.”

“Did your mother mind?”

“Eventually.”

“What happened?”

“She started charging.”

“For lessons?”

“For using the piano.”

Simone looked up.

“Wasn’t that against the agreement?”

“Yes.”

“Did the Improvement Circle object?”

“Very loudly.”

Dorothy smiled.

“My mother told them that if they wanted a free piano, they could come pay her heating bill.”

“Was she wrong?”

“Not entirely.”

The women argued for weeks.

Some believed Dorothy’s mother had broken her promise.

Others believed the group had placed too much responsibility on one household.

Eventually, the piano moved again.

The Circle revised its rules.

Future custodians could request help with heating, repairs, and transportation.

“Did your mother apologize?” Simone asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“Did the other women?”

“Not that I remember.”

Dorothy leaned back.

“But they changed the rules. Sometimes that’s the closest people get.”

---

By Thursday afternoon, Simone had identified nine of the eleven custodians.

The piano had traveled through Briar Glen for twenty-six years.

It had been kept in living rooms, dining rooms, and once in a converted garage.

One family had moved it because their youngest son developed asthma and the room’s dampness was making him ill.

Another moved it when an elderly parent required the downstairs bedroom.

A third family kept it for seven years, until the husband lost his job and they relocated.

The piano survived because someone always agreed to take it next.

But the final transfer remained unexplained.

Violet Dorsey had signed the receipt in 1994.

The instrument was already at Carver.

And Violet had not considered herself its owner.

Simone returned to Bernadette.

They searched the remaining notebooks.

At the bottom of the cardboard box, beneath several recital programs, they found a folded sheet of paper.

It was dated June 18, 1994.

Across the top were the words:

BRIAR GLEN IMPROVEMENT CIRCLE — FINAL TRANSFER AGREEMENT

The document explained that the surviving members had voted to place the piano permanently at Carver Community Center.

Violet Dorsey would accept responsibility for supervising its use.

The instrument would remain available for lessons and community performances.

Then came a paragraph that made Simone sit upright.

If the center ceases providing public music instruction, the piano shall first be offered to another neighborhood educational or community organization. It shall not be sold for private profit without consultation with the surviving members or their designated representatives.

Beneath the paragraph were four signatures.

Violet Dorsey.

Dorothy Gaines.

Pauline Whitfield’s mother.

And a woman named Margaret Bell.

There was also a small rectangular stamp.

R.E.C. — COPY RECEIVED

Simone examined the initials.

“Do you know what this means?”

Bernadette shook her head.

“No. Mama kept copies of everything. She said paper was cheaper than an argument.”

Simone photographed the document.

She had encountered old municipal stamps before, but this one was unfamiliar.

It did not identify a city department.

Nor did the agreement establish whether the Improvement Circle’s conditions were legally enforceable.

That would require someone who understood property law.

Fortunately, Briar Glen employed several such people.

Unfortunately, they were not known for giving quick answers.

---

Arthur Phelps was not pleased.

“You’re telling me the piano doesn’t belong to the city?”

“I’m telling you the original donors placed conditions on its use.”

“Conditions from thirty-two years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Most of the signers are dead.”

“Two representatives are still alive.”

Arthur examined the agreement.

“Is this legally binding?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because legal ownership and doing the right thing aren’t always identical.”

Arthur rubbed his forehead.

“Simone, we cannot preserve every object because somebody once cared about it.”

“I agree.”

“We have buildings to maintain. Programs to fund. A budget that gets smaller every year.”

“I know.”

“And the community center is closing because the roof needs more money than the city can justify spending.”

“I understand.”

Arthur looked at the piano.

“Do you know what it costs to move one of these things?”

“Yes.”

“To tune it?”

“Yes.”

“To repair it?”

“Probably more than either of us wants to discuss.”

“Then what exactly are you proposing?”

Simone considered.

“I think we should ask whether anyone still needs it.”

---

The answer arrived sooner than expected.

A woman named Rochelle Price operated a small after-school program at the New Hope Neighborhood Center.

The center offered tutoring, art classes, and supervised recreation.

It had three classrooms, a kitchen, and a multipurpose room.

It did not have a piano.

Rochelle had been trying to start a music program for two years.

She had several volunteer instructors.

She had interested students.

She had even received a donation of sheet music.

What she lacked was an instrument.

Simone telephoned her.

“I may have found a piano.”

Rochelle was quiet.

“How much?”

“That’s complicated.”

“Is it free?”

“Possibly.”

“Then why is it complicated?”

“Because it’s a piano.”

Rochelle laughed.

“Fair enough.”

She visited Carver the following afternoon with a retired music teacher named Gerald Moss.

Gerald examined the instrument carefully.

He pressed several keys.

A few responded with dull thuds.

Others produced notes that sounded as though they had spent several years disagreeing with their neighbors.

Gerald opened the top.

He examined the hammers, strings, and soundboard.

“Needs work,” he said.

“How much?” Rochelle asked.

“Depends what we find.”

“Is it worth saving?”

Gerald looked at the piano.

“That depends on what you mean by worth.”

“Can children learn on it?”

“After repairs, probably.”

“Will it sound beautiful?”

“Not immediately.”

“Will it sound terrible?”

“Not forever.”

Rochelle smiled.

“That’s encouraging.”

Gerald closed the lid.

“I’d want a technician to inspect it before anybody spends money moving it.”

Simone nodded.

For the first time since finding the receipts, she felt that the investigation might lead somewhere other than another filing cabinet.

---

The city agreed to postpone the auction.

Its legal department reviewed the 1994 agreement.

The attorneys concluded that the paperwork did not clearly settle every question of ownership, but the city could choose to honor the documented wishes of the Improvement Circle.

Arthur presented the matter to the city administrator.

The piano would not be sold.

Instead, the city would offer it to New Hope, provided the organization accepted responsibility for transportation, repairs, and future maintenance.

Rochelle agreed.

Then came the practical difficulties.

The piano weighed several hundred pounds.

The neighborhood center’s entrance had two steps.

The instrument needed a professional mover.

The repairs would cost more than its auction estimate.

And the room intended for lessons had a radiator positioned directly against the wall where Rochelle planned to place it.

Gerald explained that excessive heat and changes in humidity could damage the instrument.

Rochelle moved the proposed location.

A local piano technician offered a reduced inspection fee.

The center’s board approved a small maintenance budget.

Several former Carver students contributed toward the moving expenses.

It took six weeks to make the arrangements.

Simone found the delay strangely comforting.

For once, nobody was pretending that preserving history required nothing more than a speech and a ribbon.

---

The piano arrived at New Hope in December.

It was placed against an interior wall in the multipurpose room.

A technician replaced worn felt, repaired several sticking keys, and adjusted the action.

The instrument still had cosmetic damage.

Its walnut finish remained scratched.

The missing pedal was replaced.

The piano was tuned.

Then tuned again after it had settled.

Gerald sat down to test it.

He played a simple scale.

One note sounded slightly uneven.

He played it again.

“Well,” he said.

Rochelle waited.

Gerald pressed the key a third time.

“She’s got some age on her.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Probably.”

“Should we?”

“Eventually.”

Rochelle looked at Simone.

Simone smiled.

“Mrs. Dorsey would have demanded perfection.”

Gerald shook his head.

“No. Violet Dorsey demanded practice. She knew the difference.”

---

The first lesson took place on a Saturday morning.

Seven children attended.

The youngest was eight.

The oldest was fourteen.

A boy named Andre arrived wearing headphones and announced that he already knew how to make music on his computer.

Gerald asked whether he could read notes.

“No.”

“Can you find middle C?”

“No.”

“Then we’ve got somewhere to start.”

Andre considered this.

“Can I make beats on it?”

“Eventually.”

“Good.”

The children gathered around the instrument.

Gerald demonstrated the keyboard.

He explained that a piano produced sound when small hammers struck strings.

He opened the top so they could see the mechanism.

One child asked why the keys were black and white.

Another wanted to know whether the piano could play by itself.

A third asked whether it was haunted.

Gerald looked at Simone.

“Who told you that?”

“My cousin.”

“Your cousin needs a hobby.”

The children laughed.

Then the lesson began.

---

Simone attended the center’s first small recital in February.

There were no elaborate decorations.

The folding chairs did not match.

Someone had brought cookies.

A volunteer had forgotten napkins.

The children performed short pieces, some confidently and others with the cautious determination of people crossing an unfamiliar bridge.

Andre played a melody he had composed himself.

It lasted forty-three seconds.

He made three mistakes.

Then he announced that the mistakes were intentional.

Gerald raised an eyebrow.

“Of course they were.”

Andre grinned.

The audience applauded.

Bernadette Dorsey sat in the front row.

She had brought one of her mother’s hats.

It rested on the empty chair beside her.

Simone noticed it immediately.

“Your mother would’ve enjoyed this,” she whispered.

Bernadette nodded.

“She would’ve complained about the timing.”

“Naturally.”

“And the posture.”

“Without question.”

Bernadette looked toward the piano.

“But she’d have stayed until the last child finished.”

---

After the recital, Rochelle unveiled a small plaque beside the instrument.

It listed the eleven women who had cared for the piano between 1968 and 1994.

Below their names was a brief explanation of the Briar Glen Improvement Circle and its efforts to make music instruction available to neighborhood children.

The plaque did not call the women saints.

It did not suggest that they had always agreed.

It did not claim the piano had changed the world.

It simply described what they had done.

They had bought an instrument together.

They had moved it when circumstances changed.

They had repaired it when they could.

They had argued about money.

They had adjusted their rules.

And they had continued making room for children to learn.

Simone stood beside Dorothy Gaines as the audience read the plaque.

Dorothy examined her mother’s name.

“Well,” she said.

“Is something wrong?” Simone asked.

“Nothing wrong.”

Dorothy looked at the piano.

“My mother charged those children for practice.”

“I know.”

“People were angry.”

“I know that too.”

Dorothy nodded toward the plaque.

“Doesn’t say anything about that.”

“No.”

“Maybe it should.”

Simone considered.

“Would you want it included?”

“Not on a plaque. Nobody wants to read a family argument while standing in a hallway.”

She smiled.

“But somebody ought to remember that keeping a thing going isn’t always pretty.”

Simone looked at the children gathered around the piano.

“I think they will.”

---

That evening, after everyone had gone home, Rochelle returned to the multipurpose room.

She checked the windows.

Turned off the lights.

Straightened the chairs.

Then she noticed a small envelope resting on the piano’s music desk.

It had not been there earlier.

Across the front someone had written:

FOR THE NEXT PERSON RESPONSIBLE.

Inside was a photocopy of the original Improvement Circle agreement.

A handwritten note had been added beneath the signatures.

Keep it somewhere warm. Let the children practice. If you cannot manage it anymore, find somebody who can.

There was no signature.

Rochelle examined the handwriting.

She could not tell whether the note had been written recently or copied from an older document.

Tucked behind the agreement was a second sheet.

It contained the same rectangular stamp Simone had found on the 1994 transfer.

R.E.C. — COPY RECEIVED

Beneath it was a date from 1979.

Rochelle frowned.

She did not know what the initials meant.

Nor did she know why someone had copied a document from the piano’s earlier history and left it for her.

She placed the papers in the center’s records cabinet.

Then she wrote a note for Simone.

Found more piano paperwork. Nothing urgent.

Rochelle locked the cabinet.

There were children coming on Monday.

The room needed sweeping.

The piano needed a cover.

And somebody had left half a cookie beneath the third folding chair.

History, she decided, could wait until after the cleaning.

---

Three weeks later, Simone visited New Hope to return a photograph borrowed from Bernadette.

She found Andre practicing alone.

He was working on the same melody he had played at the recital.

This time, it was longer.

The rhythm was steadier.

The difficult passage sounded better.

Simone stood quietly near the doorway.

When he finished, Andre looked up.

“Did you hear that?”

“I did.”

“I changed the ending.”

“I noticed.”

“It’s better.”

“I think so.”

Andre looked at the piano.

“How old is this thing?”

“More than sixty years.”

“That’s old.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

He grinned.

“Did a lot of people play it?”

“Quite a few.”

“Were they good?”

“Some were.”

“Some weren’t?”

“Certainly.”

Andre thought about that.

Then he asked, “Did they keep playing anyway?”

Simone looked at the scratches along the piano’s side.

At the worn edges of the keys.

At the small repaired places that would never look quite new again.

“Yes,” she said.

“They did.”

Andre turned back toward the keyboard.

“Good.”

He began the melody again.

Simone remained in the doorway for a moment.

The piano had belonged to eleven women, according to the receipts.

According to the Improvement Circle, it had belonged to the neighborhood.

According to the city, its ownership had become a complicated question of donated property and old agreements.

Everyone had possessed a document.

Everyone had possessed an argument.

But the instrument had survived because, whenever one person could no longer care for it, another had accepted responsibility.

Perhaps that was the part no receipt could fully describe.

Simone listened as Andre reached the difficult passage.

He missed a note.

Stopped.

Started again.

And this time, he got it right.