“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 numbers on my cell phone. “You should be the one to make the call, not me,” he’d told me once Lisa was gone. “She’s your artist.”

The number rang for a very long time, and I pictured Judith Shipley hobbling into her kitchen to pick up the receiver of an old-fashioned wall phone. Or maybe she used a wheelchair. Or maybe she was in a nursing home and no one was going to answer this call at all.

Finally, though, I heard a click, and a moment later a curt female voice—decidedly not elderly—said, “Shipley residence.”

“Hello!” I said, quickly putting my phone on speaker so Oliver could hear. “My name is Morgan Christopher. May I speak to Ms. Shipley?”