Chapter 7: The Name Hidden in My Mother's Sketchbook
The name on the document was Eleanor Whitmore.
I had never heard it before.
I read it again, then enlarged the photograph until the letters blurred across my phone screen.
Eleanor Whitmore.
Beneath the name was my mother's signature, followed by a date from twenty years earlier and a paragraph acknowledging the transfer of certain design rights to a private estate.
I looked at Maya.
"Who is Eleanor Whitmore?""
Maya pulled a chair toward my desk and sat down.
"I don't know. But if your mother signed something transferring ownership of those designs, we need to find out what it actually says.""
I opened the attachment Adrian had sent.
The document was old, its edges yellowed, and several lines had been obscured by what looked like water damage. However, the signature at the bottom was clear.
My mother's.
I knew her handwriting as intimately as I knew my own face. I had spent years tracing her letters in the margins of her sketchbooks, studying the way she labeled fabrics and annotated her patterns.
That signature was genuine.
But I couldn't understand why my mother would have transferred her designs to a woman I had never heard of.
"Maybe Eleanor was a business partner," Maya suggested.
"Then why didn't Mom ever mention her?""
"Maybe she did, and you were too young to remember.""
I shook my head.
"My mother told me everything about her work. She kept every receipt, every sketch, every letter from the people she collaborated with. If Eleanor had owned her designs, I would have known.""
I zoomed in on the document again.
There was a line beneath the signature that I hadn't noticed before.
The designs listed in Appendix A shall remain subject to the terms of the original trust agreement.
I stared at the words.
"Appendix A.""
Maya leaned closer.
"What?""
"The document refers to another agreement. We need the original.""
My phone rang.
Adrian Cole.
I answered immediately.
"Nia, have you seen the document I sent?""
"Yes. Who is Eleanor Whitmore?""
There was a pause.
"That is what we're trying to establish. Our legal department found the document in the materials submitted by Hale Heritage Designs. The proposal claims that your mother transferred the collection to your stepmother's company.""
"That's impossible. My mother died years before Vanessa started that company.""
"Which is why we need to understand the chain of ownership.""
I looked toward the empty space beneath my bed.
"Vanessa took my mother's sketchbooks. She left a note demanding that I withdraw my claim.""
Adrian's tone changed.
"She threatened you?""
"She said I had until tomorrow morning to stop the university investigation if I wanted the sketchbooks returned.""
"Have you preserved the note?""
"Yes.""
"Please send a photograph to Rebecca Shaw and the university's legal office. Don't confront your stepmother alone, and don't agree to anything she asks you to sign.""
"I won't.""
He paused.
"Nia, there is something else. Our records show that Eleanor Whitmore established a private design trust decades ago. The trust was involved in several early fashion collections, but the ownership records are incomplete.""
"Can you send me the information?""
"I'll ask our legal team to share what they can.""
When the call ended, Maya was already photographing Vanessa's note.
"Your stepmother has officially graduated from cruel to criminal mastermind," she muttered.
I managed a tired smile.
Then I returned to the email.
The document included a reference number and the name of a law firm that had handled the original transfer.
Whitmore, Bell and Associates.
I typed the name into the search bar.
Several results appeared, including an archived notice announcing the closure of the firm's original offices after the death of its senior partner.
The article mentioned Eleanor Whitmore as a philanthropist who had funded young artists and designers throughout the 1990s.
There was a photograph of an older woman standing beside a collection of fashion sketches.
Behind her, a younger woman wore a familiar blue dress.
My mother.
I clicked the photograph.
The caption read:
Eleanor Whitmore with emerging designer Claire Carter at the opening of the Whitmore Foundation's first textile exhibition.
I stopped breathing.
Claire Carter.
My mother.
Maya read the caption over my shoulder.
"Your mother knew her.""
"Not just knew her. She worked with her.""
I scrolled through the article.
According to the report, Eleanor Whitmore had funded a group of young designers through a charitable foundation. The designers retained creative control over their original work, while the foundation provided materials, studio space, and opportunities to exhibit their collections.
One paragraph mentioned a dispute that had never been fully resolved.
Several sketches from a planned collection had disappeared after Eleanor's death.
The foundation had subsequently closed, and its remaining records had been transferred to a private archive.
I read the paragraph twice.
"Someone took the designs.""
Maya pointed toward the photograph of my mother.
"Or someone claimed them.""
I thought of Vanessa's note.
If you want your mother's original designs back, stop the university investigation.
If Vanessa had legitimate ownership rights, why would she need to threaten me?
I opened the photograph Adrian had sent and examined the bottom of the document again.
A faint handwritten notation appeared beside the signature.
See Schedule B for beneficiary designation.
I leaned back.
"There's another document.""
Maya nodded.
"Then that's what we need to find.""
My phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
I answered cautiously.
"Hello?""
A woman's voice responded.
"Is this Nia Carter?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Margaret Bell. I was the archivist for the Whitmore Foundation before it closed. I received a message from Adrian Cole about your mother's designs.""
I sat upright.
"You knew my mother?""
"I did. Claire was one of the most talented young designers Eleanor ever supported.""
My throat tightened.
"Do you know who owns her collection?""
Margaret was silent for a moment.
"I believe I do. But I would prefer to speak with you in person.""
"Why?""
"Because the original records are complicated, and I don't want to give you an incomplete explanation over the phone.""
I glanced at Maya.
"When can we meet?""
"Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. I'll send you the address.""
I swallowed.
"Can you tell me one thing?""
"Of course.""
"Why did my mother warn that the designs must never be transferred to Vanessa Hale?""
Margaret's silence lasted so long that I wondered whether the call had disconnected.
Then she spoke.
"Because Vanessa had already tried to obtain them once before.""
My fingers went cold.
"What?""
"Your mother came to me shortly before she died. She was frightened, Nia. She believed someone was attempting to take control of her work.""
"Who?""
"I can explain everything when we meet. But you must bring whatever documents you have, especially the page with Eleanor's signature.""
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Maya slowly stood.
"Your mother knew Vanessa was dangerous before Vanessa married your father.""
"Yes.""
"Then why did your father marry her?""
I had no answer.
For years, I had believed Vanessa entered our lives after my mother's death by coincidence. My father had said they met through mutual friends, and that she had been kind to him during his grief.
Now I wondered how much of that story had been true.
I packed the documents into a folder and placed it in my bag.
"We're going to Margaret's office tomorrow.""
Maya nodded.
"And tonight?""
I looked at Vanessa's note.
"Tonight, I'm going to find out where she took my mother's sketchbooks.""
We drove to my father's house shortly before sunset.
I had not wanted to return, but I needed answers. More importantly, I needed to know whether Vanessa had taken anything else.
My father opened the door before we knocked.
He looked exhausted.
"Nia.""
"Where is the wooden box?""
He stepped aside.
"Come in.""
"I don't want to come in. I want my mother's belongings.""
"I know.""
"Then tell me where they are.""
He rubbed his face.
"Vanessa took them to her office.""
"Where is that?""
"At the company warehouse.""
Maya folded her arms.
"You let her take a dead woman's personal belongings to a commercial warehouse?""
My father looked at her.
"This isn't your family.""
Maya stepped forward.
"You're right. I'm not the one who helped steal a dead woman's designs.""
"Nia," my father said sharply, "control your friend.""
I stared at him.
"No. You don't get to do that anymore.""
He looked stunned.
I continued.
"You don't get to tell me to be quiet when someone hurts me. You don't get to decide that my belongings are family property. And you don't get to protect Vanessa from the consequences of what she's done.""
He lowered his eyes.
"I deserve that.""
"Yes," I replied.
"You do.""
For a moment, we stood in silence.
Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a key.
"This opens the office at the warehouse. Vanessa gave it to me months ago, when she asked me to help organize the company's paperwork.""
I took it.
"Why didn't you tell me about the sketchbooks?""
"Because I was ashamed.""
I stared at him.
"Of what?""
He swallowed.
"Of how much I knew.""
The words chilled me.
"What does that mean?""
He sat down on the edge of the sofa.
"Vanessa told me about the Whitmore Foundation years ago. She said your mother had left behind a collection that could be worth a great deal of money. She told me Eleanor had promised to transfer the designs to the family.""
"Did you believe her?""
"At first.""
"And later?""
He looked at me.
"Later, I saw the documents. I realized your mother hadn't signed the agreement Vanessa claimed she had.""
My heart hammered.
"You knew the papers were false?""
"I knew there were inconsistencies.""
"And you still signed the commercial proposal.""
He covered his face.
"I thought Vanessa had another agreement. I thought there was something I hadn't seen.""
"Did you ever ask to see it?""
"No.""
I stared at him, unable to comprehend the cowardice of it.
"You knew enough to be suspicious, but not enough to stop her.""
He nodded slowly.
"I was afraid of losing everything.""
I looked around the living room.
The expensive furniture. The framed family photographs. The polished surfaces Vanessa had always insisted we keep spotless.
"You're losing everything anyway," I said.
He flinched.
Then I turned toward the door.
"Nia," he called.
I stopped but didn't look back.
"I am sorry.""
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had waited to hear those words.
Now they sounded painfully small.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," I said.
"I understand.""
"No. You don't. But maybe one day you will.""
I walked out.
Maya followed me to the car.
As I turned the key in the ignition, my phone vibrated.
An email from Margaret Bell.
The subject line read:
*Claire Carter — Original Trust Records.*
I opened the message.
There was a scanned document attached.
The first page listed the beneficiaries of the Whitmore Foundation's design trust.
I read the names slowly.
Then I reached the final line.
*Primary beneficiary: Nia Claire Carter.*
I stared at the screen.
My mother hadn't simply left me her sketchbooks.
She had left me something far more significant.
A legal interest in the original collection.
And if Margaret was right, Vanessa had spent years trying to take it from me.
But the email contained one more sentence.
Please do not sign or acknowledge any transfer document until we have met. The original trust includes a provision that may change everything.
I looked at Maya.
"What provision?""
She shook her head.
"I don't know.""
I read the sentence again.
Then I looked toward the road leading out of the neighborhood.
May you like
Tomorrow morning, I would finally learn what my mother had been trying to protect.
And I had a terrible feeling that the truth would destroy whatever remained of my family.
