CHAPTER FOUR – THE WOMAN IN THE CHARCOAL COAT

I went to the gallery the following morning instead of waiting for Saturday.
Bright Harbor occupied the renovated ground floor of an old insurance office downtown.
A receptionist in a cream sweater greeted me beneath a wall of framed donor photographs.
I said I was interested in the collection and wanted to understand the terms under which pieces were accepted.
She led me to a smaller room where rows of labeled plinths waited beneath white sheets.
Celia Brant appeared moments later carrying two paper cups of tea.
“Tess Morgan,” she said warmly.
“I’m delighted you came.”
Her confidence told me she had expected me.
I asked how the organization obtained permission to auction individual works.
Celia explained that participating artists signed a standard agreement authorizing the organization to manage sales proceeds.


I asked whether the residents understood that their pieces would be sold.
“We have staff who explain everything,” she answered.
“A signature doesn’t necessarily mean someone understood the transaction,” I said.
Her smile diminished.
“Do you have a specific concern?”
I showed her a photograph of Mabel’s clay bird.
“This belonged to a woman who says she lent it for display.”
Celia inspected the image without touching my phone.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was thrown into my yard.”
“That’s very unfortunate.”
“It still has her name on the bottom.”
“Then someone in transport may have mishandled it.”
“A transport worker wouldn’t normally throw it across my fence.”
Celia studied me more carefully.
“You should bring it here, and we can assess the damage.”
“I think Mrs. Ortiz should decide where it goes.

”
For the first time, Celia’s voice sharpened.
“Our staff have worked for months on this program, and it would be irresponsible to create unnecessary alarm.”
I told her that a family member had already been frightened by the flying objects.
She expressed sympathy and offered a gift card for a local cafe.
I left the card on the table.
As I reached the lobby, I recognized the woman in the charcoal coat from Bernice’s hallway.
She stood by the reception desk with a white carton tucked beneath her arm.
Celia called her by name.
“Nina, put that in storage and come speak with me.”
Nina glanced toward me.
She had a narrow face and the exhausted concentration of someone holding several explanations in her head at once.
I stepped toward her.
“Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“I saw you at Bernice Vale’s house.”
Her eyes moved toward Celia.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Then she walked rapidly through a door marked STAFF ONLY.
Celia watched her leave.
“Nina handles collection transport,” she said.
“She’s under a great deal of pressure this week.”
I asked whether Nina had brought damaged pieces to Bernice’s home.
Celia replied that she did not discuss staff assignments with visitors.
I left with fewer answers and more reasons to distrust the smiles.
Outside, a man in a gray delivery jacket stood beside a van bearing the Bright Harbor logo.
He was loading empty wooden crates.
One crate had a large red flower painted across its side.
I took a photograph from the public sidewalk.
He noticed me and stopped working.
“You looking for somebody?” he asked.
“I’m trying to find out why artwork is ending up in my backyard.”
He glanced at the building entrance.
“Ask the director.”
“I did.”
“Then you heard what she wanted you to hear.”
He slammed the van doors and climbed inside.
Before driving away, he lowered his window.
“Don’t bring that little clay bird back here,” he said.
“They’ll call it damaged inventory and make it disappear.”
He drove off before I could ask his name.
When I returned home, Bernice was waiting at the fence.
Her hands gripped the top rail so tightly that her knuckles had turned pale.
“You went to the gallery,” she said.
“I did.”
“You should stay away from those people.”
“Then tell me why my niece nearly got hit by a piece of wood.”
Bernice looked toward the house.
“If you knew what was happening, you wouldn’t be asking that question.”
“Then explain it.”
She swallowed.
“I can’t.”
“You can, but you won’t.”
Bernice opened her mouth.
The sound of a car approaching made her turn.
A white sedan slowed outside her driveway.
Nina sat behind the wheel.
Bernice immediately stepped away from my fence and hurried indoors.
Nina stayed in the car until the front door closed.
Then she drove on.