Story code: ST-001256
Part 2: The Registry
Clara knelt beside the chest, preparing to cut the plastic wrap, but stopped when she noticed the lid. “That’s strange,” she said, her fingers touching the front latch. “The alignment pin is showing. It only does that when the internal latch is released, but this lock has been jammed shut for years.” Roy didn’t move from his spot against the wall. “Probably just slipped when the wrap hit it. Like I told you, those old boxes are unstable. You should probably just drag it back inside your place until we’re done painting.” “It weighs eighty pounds, Roy,” Clara said. “And the paint prep notice said all hallway items must be cleared or wrapped by noon today, or we face a hundred-dollar fine.” She sat back on her heels and pulled her phone from her pocket. For a few minutes, the only sound in the hallway was the tap of her screen. I continued rolling paint onto the drywall patch, keeping my eyes on my work but listening closely. Clara looked up from her phone, her gaze locking onto Roy. “I was searching for how to safely release the side joints so I could disassemble the frame and move it myself. But while looking, I found the Chicago Historical Restoration registry.” Roy’s hands, which had been resting loosely in his pockets, suddenly went still. “There was a custom cabinet shop on the West Side that closed down about ten years ago,” Clara continued, her voice level. “They specialized in this exact Swedish dovetail style. The registry lists the master craftsman who ran it. His name was Roy Vance.” Roy cleared his throat. The lazy, slow tone of his voice didn’t change, but his posture stiffened. “Lots of Roys in Chicago, Clara. I’ve been doing basic apartment maintenance here for a long time. I don’t know anything about fancy cabinets.” Clara stood up, holding her phone. “Well, whoever designed this chest built a safety lockout pin into the side. If it’s jammed like this, the lid won’t close properly, and I can’t wrap it without damaging the seal. Since it’s blocking the fire exit and your painting schedule depends on this hallway being clear by tomorrow morning, I guess I’ll have to call a professional conservator to come unlock it.” Roy stared at the chest. “It’ll take at least three days to get a certified specialist out here,” Clara added, looking directly at him. “Which means the painting project will have to stop, and I’ll have to explain to management that we’re waiting on a woodwork expert to clear the fire hazard.” I looked down from my ladder. Roy’s face remained expressionless, but his eyes darted from Clara to the chest, then to the wet paint on my roller. The building manager was known for writing up maintenance staff for any project delays, especially those involving outside contractors like me. If my contract got pushed back three days, the cost would go straight to the building’s budget. Roy took his hands out of his pockets, his fingers twitching slightly. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he said, though his voice lacked its earlier dismissive ease. “Just pull the plastic over it.” “I’m not risking my grandfather’s chest getting ruined,” Clara replied quietly. She crossed her arms, holding her phone against her sleeve. “If a professional needs to handle it, we wait.” The silence in the hallway grew heavy. Roy took a half-step toward the chest, his boots squeaking on the fresh linoleum, before stopping himself.