The Audit Put My Name Back On Work I Had Actually Done

The payment instruction told the fund to send my supposed fees to Bellamy Heritage Services.

“Was that ever your business?” the accountant asked.

“No. My invoices say Simone Bellamy, Mural Conservation. Curtis knew that.”

“Did you authorize him to collect money for you?”

“Never.”

I supplied three real invoices and matching deposits from church jobs. One was for $86. Another showed a $40 payment toward an old balance. My actual working life looked small beside the numbers he had made up.

It was still mine.

The accountant built a schedule with five columns: date, source, claimed work, money out, supporting record.

She did not write thief in a margin. She did not need to.

Three treatment claims totaled $38,340. The $9,800 invoice carried my name. Two others named Curtis's business as the treatment provider. All relied on reports bearing my copied sign-off.

Bank statements showed transfers from his business account to personal expenses, including a $21,000 loan payment. There were no matching purchases of conservation supplies and no payments to a conservator.

“Does that prove everything?” I asked.

“It proves where the money went,” she said. “Intent is another question. We preserve the records and let the right people ask it.”

The board sent the completed audit to the grant maker and law enforcement. Leah sent my statement and the original estimate email with it. I signed a complaint about the use of my name.

Then I waited.

Waiting had a price. The roof cover flapped loose in a hard rain. The roofer said he could hold his $3,850 quote for ten days. My insurance deposit was due Friday.

Curtis must have known I was short of cash.

He sent an offer through Arthur: $18,000 for the building, with a broad release of all claims against him.

“That's less than the opening bid he chose,” I said.

Leah let me read it twice.

“You can say no,” she said. “You can also sell the building to somebody else someday. Winning title doesn't mean serving a life sentence.”

I appreciated that more than any speech about saving our history.

I asked her to decline.

But I needed a plan that fit the building I had, not the one a photograph might promise.

A structural engineer charged $650 to inspect the upper loading floor and work bay. The main walls were sound. The back stair needed repair. The cold room could hold stored panels if we kept checking the air. No public events should happen until more work was done.

I put those limits in writing.

At the front door, I hung a simple notice with my phone number and hours. I bought a $24 visitor log and a second fire extinguisher. The engineer's report went in a binder by the entrance. If a church wanted to see where its picture would stand, I could show the actual room, its limits, and the route out.

Then I called the churches whose panels we had identified.

“I can provide secure storage and treatment here,” I said. “Only if you want it. You'll get a written scope, your own keys by appointment, and a monthly condition sheet.”

Vera laughed once, without much joy.

“A condition sheet would be a pleasant change.”

Three churches signed short storage agreements at $75 a month. Two approved small treatment jobs totaling $2,700, with half paid up front. Every agreement said the artwork remained theirs.

That gave me work and some breathing room. It did not pay for everything.

I sold a spare scaffold for $900. Nadine lent me $1,200 on a plain note with six monthly payments and no interest. I kept the tax bill current through a payment arrangement and paid the first installment on time.

The roof got patched. The stair got a locked barrier while I saved for repairs.

One afternoon, Lorna asked me to attend the fund's special meeting.

Curtis came with Arthur. Six folding chairs faced a table. There were no buyers, no lamps chosen to make old brick look rich.

The board accepted the audit, removed Curtis as chair under its bylaws, and revoked his authority to speak or spend for the fund. Lorna read each motion and counted each vote.

“You're ruining the fund's reputation,” Curtis said.

“We approved summaries we should have questioned,” she answered. “That goes in the minutes too.”

He looked toward me.

I had brought photographs, invoices, and a list of the panels still awaiting owners. I put them on the table.

“My name belongs on work I did,” I said. “Start by correcting the grant reports.”

The board voted to send corrections to every recipient of those reports, including the churches.

Two days later, a detective called.

“Mr. Bellamy has agreed to an interview,” she said. “I need you to identify the signature on one more document.”