Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,141

painters of the era such as that of her contemporary, Jesse Jameson Williams. Shipley found her own acclaim in the late fifties to the late eighties, and many of her vibrant paintings from that period are displayed in museums and galleries around the world. Her work can be a puzzle for the curious viewer, as she always hides an iris somewhere in her paintings in honor of her late mother, Iris.

Daisy Chain was a gift from the artist to Jesse Jameson Williams in 1988.

Private life: In 1952, Shipley married her agent Max Enterhoff (1921–1999). They had one daughter, Debra, who died in 2014. Shipley lives in New York City, where she and her granddaughter maintain an atelier, training new artists.

Chapter 64

“First of all,” Lisa said from her seat at Oliver’s folding table. “No one utters a word about this possible link between the two artists outside this room until we have more information from the … authenticator guy from the museum. We don’t want to look like idiots.”

“Right,” I said. I sat on the floor in front of the mural, facing her and Oliver, who stood, arms folded, by the end of the table. We’d called Lisa to come back to the gallery as soon as she could, and while she was intrigued by the similarities between the paintings, she remained unconvinced. Oliver had been able to reach the authenticator from the Greenville museum, but he couldn’t come to Edenton until late next week. We’d have to keep the secret of the mural to ourselves for now.

“Look,” Lisa added. “I met Judith Shipley on numerous occasions. Like so many other artists, she floated in and out of our house over the years. She—”

“What was she like?” I interrupted.

Lisa shrugged. “You must know by now that art was my father’s world, not mine. He always had his fellow artists around. I paid no attention. I just know she stayed with us a few times. I couldn’t even describe what she looked like.”

I pictured the short black bob, but remembered Anna had let her hair grow long before leaving Edenton. And all of that had been so long ago.

“What did she—Judith Shipley—say about the invitation to the gallery opening?” Oliver asked. “Is it certain she’s not coming?”

“She sent back the response card with ‘not attending’ circled, which I have to say, is more than many people bothered to do,” Lisa said. “Why people aren’t considerate enough to return those stamped response cards is beyond me.”

I wrinkled my nose at the thought of the response card with “not attending” circled. But what had I expected? A long letter from Judith, describing her secret past, her long-ago friendship with Jesse?

“Can I call her?” I asked. “Do you have her number?”

“What would you say?” Oliver asked.

“You can’t come right out and ask her if she’s Anna Dale,” Lisa said, a warning in her voice. “If she is, she’s kept that secret for a long, long time and I certainly don’t want to put her on the spot.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I just want to … could I mention that we have an old post office mural here? Maybe I could learn something from her reaction.”

They were both quiet, looking off into space as though thinking about my proposal.

“I don’t see why that would hurt,” Oliver said finally.

“I have no idea if the number I have for her from my father’s records is still good,” Lisa said. “She’s probably in a nursing home by now.”

“Though her biography says she still has a studio,” I said. “An atelier.”

Lisa got to her feet. “All right,” she said. “I think Oliver should call her, though. You need to keep painting. And Oliver, remember you’re a representative of this gallery.”

“Got it,” Oliver said, but he was looking at me where I sat with my paintbrush in hand, distressed that I’d just had the opportunity to speak with … Anna? Judith?… snatched away from me.

“You’re going to fix that corner of the mural, Morgan, aren’t you?” Lisa asked from behind me, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You know Andrea Fuller will be here when we open in the morning to make sure my father’s conditions have been—”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be finished by tomorrow morning, no problem.” How I was going to make that happen, I didn’t know.

Five minutes after Lisa left, I was sitting at Oliver’s table as he read a New York phone number aloud to me and I punched the