Chapter 6: The Woman Who Knew Too Much
The next morning, Eleanor called me at 7:15.
I was sitting on the floor of my studio, surrounded by photographs of my father's documents.
I hadn't painted anything since the competition.
Every time I looked at a brush, I remembered Vanessa taking my original canvas.
But that morning, I felt something different.
I wanted to paint.
Not because I needed to win.
Not because I needed to prove anything.
I wanted to paint because my father had believed I should never stop.
I answered the phone.
"Good morning.""
"Have you got a moment?""
"Yes.""
"I've found something in your father's final records.""
I sat upright.
"What?""
"A payment made three weeks before he died. It was transferred from the foundation's operating account to a private consulting company.""
"Who owned the company?""
"That's what concerns me. The company was registered under your mother's name.""
I closed my eyes.
"How much?""
"Twenty-two thousand dollars.""
I stared at the wall.
"Did Dad authorize it?""
"The transfer has his signature, but the supporting invoice is incomplete.""
"Could someone have forged it?""
"Possibly. I don't want to make accusations without evidence.""
I rubbed my forehead.
"Where do we go from here?""
"I've arranged a meeting with the former foundation accountant. Her name is Margaret Lewis. She worked with your father for almost ten years.""
"When?""
"Today, at eleven.""
I looked at the clock.
"I'll be there.""
At eleven, I entered a small café near the courthouse.
Margaret was waiting at a table by the window.
She was in her sixties, with silver-framed glasses and a neat gray cardigan.
When she saw Eleanor, she stood.
"Thank you for coming.""
Eleanor introduced me.
"This is Maya Carter.""
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
Then she smiled sadly.
"You look so much like your father.""
I sat down.
"Did you know him well?""
"Very well. He was one of the kindest men I ever worked for.""
I opened my notebook.
"Did he know someone was taking money from the foundation?""
Margaret looked toward the café entrance.
Then she lowered her voice.
"Yes.""
My heart began beating faster.
"When?""
"About six months before he died. He noticed discrepancies in the scholarship accounts.""
"Who was responsible?""
She hesitated.
"Your mother handled the administrative side. Your sister had access to several accounts because she was receiving scholarship support.""
I swallowed.
"Did you ever see Vanessa take money?""
"No. But I did see documents being altered.""
Eleanor leaned forward.
"What kind of documents?""
"Scholarship renewal forms. Expense reports. Artist payment records.""
Margaret opened her handbag and removed a small folder.
"I kept copies because I was concerned.""
She slid the folder across the table.
Inside were printed emails and financial statements.
One email was dated three months before my father's death.
The sender was my mother.
The recipient was Vanessa.
The subject line read:
*Maya's Allocation.*
I read the message.
Your father has asked about the remaining scholarship funds again. We need to make sure the paperwork is complete before he reviews the account.
Vanessa had replied:
I'll sign whatever you need. Just make sure he doesn't see the transfer.
My hands went cold.
I read the message again.
Then I looked at Margaret.
"Did Dad see this?""
"Yes.""
"When?""
"Two days before he became seriously ill.""
I stared at her.
"What happened?""
Margaret took a breath.
"He called me into his office. He was very upset. He said he had discovered that your mother and sister had been using the foundation's resources for personal expenses.""
I looked at the documents.
"Did he confront them?""
"According to him, yes.""
"What did they say?""
Margaret's expression changed.
"Your mother claimed it was a misunderstanding. Vanessa said she had permission to use the money.""
I shook my head.
"Permission from whom?""
"Your father denied giving it.""
Eleanor studied the emails.
"Did he take any formal action?""
"He instructed me to freeze the remaining scholarship accounts. He also told me to prepare a report for the independent trustee.""
I looked up.
"Was the report completed?""
Margaret nodded.
"Yes. But it was never submitted.""
"Why?""
She lowered her eyes.
"Your father died before the meeting could take place.""
I sat back.
The café suddenly felt too warm.
My mother had known.
Vanessa had known.
And Dad had discovered everything just before he died.
I looked at Margaret.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?""
She swallowed.
"Your mother contacted me after the funeral. She said your father had been under tremendous stress and that the financial issues had already been resolved.""
"Did you believe her?""
"No.""
"Then why stay quiet?""
Margaret's eyes filled.
"Because she told me that if I caused trouble, she would make sure the foundation lost its funding. Several families depended on that money. I was afraid.""
I understood fear.
I had lived with it for years.
But I couldn't understand how people could allow it to become an excuse for letting someone else suffer.
I closed the folder.
"Thank you for keeping these.""
Margaret reached across the table.
"Your father wanted you to have a chance, Maya. He spoke about you constantly.""
I looked down.
"What did he say?""
She smiled.
"He said you were the only person he knew who could turn an ordinary mistake into something beautiful.""
My throat tightened.
I thanked her.
Then Eleanor and I left.
Outside, the wind was cold.
We walked several steps before I spoke.
"Does this prove Mom and Vanessa stole the money?""
"It provides evidence of possible unauthorized transfers. We'll need the bank records and original documents.""
"And the twenty-two thousand dollars?""
"We'll investigate that separately.""
I stopped beside Eleanor's car.
"There's something else.""
"What?""
"Vanessa said people would find out what Dad really did before he died.""
Eleanor looked at me.
"Yes.""
"What does she mean?""
Eleanor hesitated.
"Your father had begun preparing a formal audit of the foundation. He also made changes to the trust shortly before his death.""
"Changes?""
"Yes. He appointed Richard Hale as an independent trustee and instructed him to investigate any future financial irregularities.""
I stared at her.
"Why would he do that if everything was fine?""
"He clearly believed it wasn't.""
I thought about the photograph of my mother and Vanessa.
The envelope.
The hidden letter.
The altered scholarship forms.
Everything pointed in one direction.
But I still didn't know why Vanessa was so desperate to stop me.
That afternoon, I went to the Mercer Street workshop alone.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
Dust floated through the sunlight.
I placed my bag on the desk and opened the black portfolio.
There were still several folders I hadn't examined.
I began sorting them.
One contained exhibition contracts.
Another held old receipts.
Then I found a folder marked:
*FINAL PROJECT — PRIVATE.*
Inside was a collection of photographs.
The first showed my father standing beside a large canvas.
The second showed Vanessa holding a paintbrush.
The third showed my mother signing a document.
I looked closer.
The document was dated six days before Dad died.
Its title read:
*ARTWORK OWNERSHIP AND BENEFICIARY DECLARATION.*
I read the first paragraph.
My father had transferred ownership of several original artworks to a protected family trust.
The list included the painting Vanessa had stolen.
It also included several paintings I had created as a teenager.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
All works created by Maya Carter remain her intellectual property and may not be sold, reproduced, or transferred without her written consent.
I smiled faintly.
Dad had protected my work.
Even when he wasn't there to defend it.
But the next page was different.
It contained a separate declaration.
The document stated that the foundation's financial records had been placed under independent review due to suspected unauthorized transfers.
And there was a signature.
My mother's.
I stared at it.
She had signed the document.
She had acknowledged the investigation.
Which meant she couldn't claim she had known nothing.
I reached for my phone.
Before I could call Eleanor, a notification appeared.
An email from the Sterling International Art Competition.
*Subject: Final Decision — Authorship Review.*
I opened it.
The first paragraph explained that the judges had completed their preliminary investigation.
The original painting had been confirmed as my work based on the creation photographs, technical analysis, and original registration records.
Vanessa's presentation score had been invalidated.
My live-performance entry had been awarded the highest artistic score of the event.
But there was another announcement.
The competition had decided to award me the Sterling Emerging Artist Prize.
I read the amount.
Fifty thousand dollars.
And a yearlong studio residency in New York.
I sat down.
My eyes filled.
I had won.
Not because Vanessa had failed.
Not because the judges felt sorry for me.
Because I had created something they believed deserved to win.
I covered my mouth and cried.
Then my phone rang.
Richard Hale.
I answered.
"Hello?""
"Maya, congratulations.""
I laughed through my tears.
"Thank you.""
"You earned it.""
I looked at the glowing photograph of my painting on the desk.
"Does this mean the ownership investigation is finished?""
"The competition's investigation is complete. The foundation matter is separate.""
"I understand.""
Richard paused.
"There's something I'd like you to know. Your father was one of the people who helped establish the Sterling competition's original scholarship partnership.""
I sat straighter.
"He was?""
"Yes. He believed talented young artists should be judged by the quality of their work, not their family connections.""
My throat tightened.
"That sounds like him.""
Richard continued.
"I also reviewed your father's trust documents this morning. Eleanor has provided me with the relevant records.""
"Did you find anything?""
"Yes. And I think you should come to my office tomorrow.""
"Why?""
"Because your father left instructions concerning the foundation's remaining assets.""
I gripped the phone.
"What instructions?""
Richard lowered his voice.
"He wanted the workshop to become an independent art center, managed by you once you reached twenty-two.""
I looked around the dusty room.
My hands began trembling.
"Managed by me?""
"Yes. But there's a condition.""
"What condition?""
"The center must remain independent of your family's financial control.""
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Dad had known.
He had known that one day someone might try to use the foundation to control my future.
Richard continued.
"There's also a provision that may surprise you.""
"What is it?""
"Your father named Vanessa as a potential beneficiary of the center's educational program, but only if she met a specific requirement.""
I frowned.
"What requirement?""
Richard was silent for a moment.
"She had to submit an original body of work created entirely by herself, with independently verified authorship.""
I stared at the desk.
"She never did that.""
"According to the records, she submitted a portfolio.""
My stomach tightened.
"Was it hers?""
Richard didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
"No, Maya. It wasn't.""
I felt the air leave my lungs.
"Whose was it?""
Richard took a breath.
"Yours.""
I looked at the folder in front of me.
Then I noticed a final sheet tucked beneath the declaration.
It was a list of artwork submitted by Vanessa to the foundation over the previous eight years.
Every title was familiar.
Every photograph showed something I had painted.
Some were childhood drawings.
Others were sketches I had created during school.
One was the painting from the competition.
At the bottom was a handwritten note from my father.
If Vanessa ever submits Maya's work as her own, the foundation must investigate before releasing any further funds.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I noticed the date.
It had been written only four days before Dad died.
My phone vibrated again.
A message from Vanessa appeared.
*VANESSA: You won the competition. Congratulations. But don't celebrate yet. Mom is going to tell you what really happened the night Dad died.*
I stared at the message.
A second notification appeared.
This one was from my mother.
*MOM: Come home. We need to talk about your father. There are things you were too young to understand.*
I looked at the photograph of Dad standing in the workshop.
For eight years, I had believed he had died peacefully after a sudden illness.
May you like
Now I was beginning to wonder whether the people closest to him had been hiding something far more serious.
And the next morning, I was going to find out why.
