CHAPTER SIX – BERNICE’S FIRST CONFESSION
Bernice’s living room smelled of furniture polish and burned toast.
Photographs of people I did not recognize covered a narrow mantel.
A row of red volunteer vests hung behind the kitchen door.
She asked me to sit, but remained standing beside the window.
“I used to run the pickup schedule,” she began.
“We collected the work, took it to exhibitions, and returned everything ourselves.”
She said Bright Harbor had been small when the artists first joined.
The organization relied on volunteers, donated materials, and a modest budget from local foundations.
Bernice believed strongly in the program because her late friend Lydia had found confidence through ceramics after losing much of her vision.
She started recruiting residents, arranging transport, and persuading reluctant artists that their work deserved to be seen.
Celia arrived during a funding crisis with the promise of professional management.
She brought donors, new exhibition space, and a plan to expand the program.
Bernice welcomed her until the new agreements appeared.
“They told us the revised forms only covered insurance,” Bernice said.
“I repeated that explanation to everybody.”
The forms also authorized Bright Harbor to sell work under terms many participants had not understood.
Bernice discovered that some artists were being charged substantial handling fees even when their pieces sold.
Others had never received notice that their objects were offered for sale at all.
I asked why she had not warned them.
She stared at her hands.
“Because I signed a paper saying I had personally explained every agreement.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Her answer came out as a whisper.
She explained that Celia had made a stack of attendance sheets available and instructed volunteers to initial the forms after each transport run.
Bernice signed them without checking which versions of the agreements the artists had seen.
By the time she understood the change, her initials appeared beside dozens of questionable transactions.
“Celia told me the donors would withdraw if we delayed the gala,” Bernice said.
“She said the whole program would collapse, and everyone would blame me.”
I asked how any of that explained the objects in my yard.
Bernice crossed to a cabinet and took out a photograph of a storage room full of crates.
“Nina started bringing damaged pieces here after hours,” she said.
“We were told to remove anything that showed old display labels or could confuse the new catalogue.”
“And you threw them over my fence.”
She nodded.
“Why not put them in your trash?”
“Celia sent people to check our bins before collection.”
“Then why my yard?”
Bernice swallowed.
“Because I knew you kept everything people left on your property.”
I stared at her.
“You wanted me to save evidence for you?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
She admitted that she hoped I would complain publicly and force authorities to examine the objects without connecting them to her.
She chose my yard because I had challenged the neighborhood association over discarded construction materials two years earlier.
She believed I would not quietly dispose of suspicious items.
“Then I panicked when the complaints started,” she said.
“I wrote that note about your supposed dumping.”
“You accused me of doing what you were doing.”
“I know.”
“You nearly hurt June.”
Bernice began to cry.
I did not comfort her.
She had chosen my home as a hiding place without asking, and the explanation did not excuse that choice.
I asked how many objects she had destroyed.
“More than you’ve found,” she said.
“Some pieces went into the municipal skip behind the gallery.”
I asked why she continued after the first complaint.
“Because Celia told me she could turn those signed forms over to investigators and say the entire scheme was mine.”
Bernice wiped her cheeks with a tissue.
“She also said she had footage of me throwing things into your yard.”
I considered that carefully.
“So she knew what you were doing.”
“Yes.”
“She let it continue.”
“She said it would prove I was unstable if I ever accused her.”
Bernice reached into her cardigan pocket and produced a folded catalogue page.
It showed Mabel’s clay bird as Lot 214.
The auction estimate was eight hundred dollars.
Beneath the photograph, the catalogue claimed that the artist had donated the proceeds without restriction.
I thought of Mabel asking whether her name could still be read underneath the broken wing.
“You need to tell the artists what you signed,” I said.
Bernice shook her head.
“Nobody will believe me now.”
“They believed you when it helped Celia,” I replied.
“The truth doesn’t become optional because it will hurt you.”
I stood to leave.
Bernice caught the edge of the table.
“Will you call the police?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“Then I need to tell them something else.”
