Chapter 9
Therese eased herself onto a stool at the end of the bar.
Pinkie’s was nearly empty this time of day; just a couple of wizened old-timers yakking away at a table near the front door, and a trio of thirty-something guys sitting a few stools down, arguing about whether the Georgia Bulldogs had a decent shot at an undefeated football season this year.
“Well, lookie what the cat dragged in.” Thad stood on the other side of the bar, a damp towel slung over his shoulder. He leaned forward on the bar. “How ya doin’? How was your mama’s funeral?”
“I’m okay. The funeral was about what you’d expect, if you knew Mary Helen Dunagin. Quite a production. Glad I made it, glad it’s over.”
“I always liked your mama. Whenever I’d go into the drugstore to pick up my grandma’s medicine, she’d slip me a Tootsie Pop or a Fireball. Nice lady. Whatcha drinking today, Therese?”
“You got any Blanton’s?”
He raised an eyebrow, but turned to the bar back to fetch the bottle. He poured a couple of fingers into a tumbler and gave her a questioning look. “Fancy, huh?”
“Make it a double. Throw in a couple rocks, too,” she told him.
Thad added the ice and pushed the glass across to her. “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah. Are you on speaking terms with Wyllona this week?”
He shrugged. “I think she’s seeing some guy up there in New York.”
“And you aren’t seeing anybody down here?”
He grinned. “Not officially.”
“I need a favor, Thad.”
Therese extracted her phone from her purse and pulled up the camera roll. She paused on the series of photos she’d taken of Lady Geraldine’s portrait and slid the phone across the bar.
“Who’s the fancy lady?”
“This portrait has hung in our living room my whole life. I need to find out if it’s the real deal or not.”
“And that’s why you’re asking about Wyllona?”
“Well, yeah. I was wondering if maybe you’d call her and ask her to take a look.”
“No way. She’s pretty pissed at me right now.”
“What’d you do?”
“It’s more what I didn’t do. She came into town over the weekend, and figured I’d drop everything to make a big fuss over her. But hey, I got my pride.”
“She’s here, right now? In Savannah?”
“At her dad’s place out on Wilmington Island. It was his sixtieth birthday.”
“Call her up, okay?” Therese said. “I need to see if she’ll take a look at my painting.”
“You call her,” Thad said. “She ain’t talking to me.”
“Gimme her number,” Therese grumbled. “And another hit of that Blanton’s.”
“Who did you say this is?” Wyllona asked, when she finally answered her phone.
“Therese. Dunagin. I was a couple years ahead of you at St. Mary’s. My sister Maeve was probably a year ahead of you.”
“Yeah, I remember Maeve. Senior class vice president, right?”
“I guess. Listen, Wyllona, your boyfriend Thad gave me your number, and I have a big favor I want to ask you.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Wyllona shot back. “Where are you calling from? Pinkie’s?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Is he standing right there?”
“Uh, sort of.”
“Are you the one he’s been running around with?”
“What? No! I haven’t lived here in years. I just came into town over the weekend for my mom’s funeral.”
“Hmmph. Well, you can tell Thaddeus I said to delete my number from his phone. And you can also tell him I don’t appreciate his sharing my personal information with any chick who happens to walk into Pinkie Masters.”
“Wait!” Therese said. “Please don’t hang up. It’s not Thad’s fault. I kinda begged him to give me your number, because I’m desperate for information about an old family portrait my sister and I just inherited.”
“I don’t do appraisals.” Wyllona’s tone was icy. “Especially over the phone, with strangers.”
“I’m not really looking for an appraisal,” Therese said, the words coming out in a rush.
“This portrait has been in my family for over a hundred years. It’s signed, and I looked up the artist, and from what I can tell, his work is pretty valuable.
I saw a piece in The New York Times that a portrait that’s just like mine sold at auction for over a million dollars recently.
The artist’s name is Valerian DeJongh. He studied at the Royal Academy of Art—”
“I know where he studied,” Wyllona cut her short. “And there’s no way you could actually have a real DeJongh. His work is exhibited in major galleries around the world, and every portrait he ever painted has been catalogued and well-documented. Who is the portrait supposedly of?”
“Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh,” Therese said. “She was my great-great-grandmother. From Ireland.”
“You’re right about one thing,” Wyllona said, after a long pause. “That portrait did just sell at Sotheby’s. So yours must be a copy. Or a forgery. Doesn’t matter which.”
“That can’t be,” Therese said, not bothering to hide the desperation she was feeling.
“My mother’s grandmother brought this portrait with her when she came to New York from Ireland.
Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you please just take a look at it?
Please? As one St. Mary’s girl to another? Please?”
“I get it,” Wyllona said. “You want to believe your family story, but this happens all the time. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is zero chance your painting is real.”
“Just take a look at it, please?” Therese pleaded.
“Maybe you remember my mom? Mary Helen Dunagin, from Dunagin’s Pharmacy?
Back in the day, all the girls from school stopped in and had Cokes at the soda fountain.
She ran the store for my uncle Keith. If you came in wearing a St. Mary’s uniform, she usually gave you an extra scoop of ice cream or double sprinkles, because she and my aunts were St. Mary’s girls too.
She just died last week, after a long illness. ”
“I do remember your mom.” Wyllona’s tone softened. “I’m sorry for your loss. She was always very sweet to me and my friends.”
“I’ve got the painting in my car. Please? It wouldn’t take but a minute, and it would mean so much to me and my sister Maeve.”
“What the hell,” Wyllona said finally. “My brother’s kids are driving me up the wall, and I wouldn’t mind getting out of this house for an hour or so. Tell you what. I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Target. On Victory Drive. Can you make it there in thirty minutes?”
“Definitely,” Therese said. “Whatever you say. I’m driving my mom’s car, and you can’t miss it. It’s a big ol’ maroon 1988 Chrysler LeBaron.”
“See you then,” Wyllona said.
She spotted Wyllona pacing back and forth in front of the Target. She was dressed in white jeans and a black scoop-necked tank top, and she looked New York chic. Therese tooted the Beast’s horn and waved, and the other woman followed her to a parking spot a few yards away from the store entrance.
“Hey,” Therese said, hopping out from the driver’s side of the car.
Wyllona looked her up and down as though she were appraising a work of art, and Therese instantly saw herself through the other woman’s eyes. Not a pretty picture.
She was still wearing the clothes she’d slept in the night before. Her hair was a mess and what was left of her makeup was smudged.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Therese said, hurrying around to the trunk of the car where she’d stashed Lady Geraldine. She popped the trunk open and pointed. “There she is.”
Wyllona propped the painting against the spare tire and leaned in to get a better look.
“Not the original frame,” she mused. She ran a fingertip over the surface of the portrait. “Condition is fair. Craquelure is about what you’d expect for a painting this age.”
“Huh?”
“The surface paint is crackled from age.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily. It can be a sign of authenticity.”
Wyllona picked the painting up and held it at arm’s length, tilting the portrait back and forth in the harsh afternoon sunlight, studying it from every angle.
She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out what looked like a small jeweler’s loupe and examined the signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the portrait.
Therese realized she was holding her breath, waiting for the woman to comment, to tell her the painting was crap. A forgery. Worthless.
Instead, Wyllona turned the painting over and examined the back of the canvas. After a moment she handed Lady Geraldine back.
“Here. For God’s sake, at least put her inside the car. What if someone had rear-ended you on your way over here?”
Obediently, Therese opened the passenger-side door of the car and gingerly set the painting down on the seat.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”
Wyllona tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s just barely possible you might actually have something here.”
“I knew it,” Therese squealed. “I knew this was the real deal.”
“Not necessarily,” Wyllona cautioned. “DeJongh’s work has been copied frequently.
He was known to take on assistants who became adept at copying his style, as a quick way to make a buck.
In order to begin authenticating the painting, it would need to be analyzed in a lab, to make sure the canvas and paint are the right age. ”
“Can that be done here in Savannah? Like, maybe at SCAD?”
Wyllona pursed her lips. “Doubtful. Anyway, the real issue with this painting is the fact that another Lady Geraldine has just sold at auction. At Sotheby’s. Their experts would have authenticated it. How do you explain your painting?”
“I don’t know,” Therese said. “All I know is it’s been in my family all these years. Isn’t it possible this DeJongh painted two portraits?”
“Possible, but not likely. The only way you’ll ever be able to prove your painting has real value is to absolutely nail down the provenance.”
“Huh?”
“Provenance means the chain of ownership of this painting. Like its pedigree. You’ll have to be able to trace your Lady Geraldine all the way back to the beginning. Who commissioned the portrait? Where was it painted? Experts would want assurance the painting isn’t stolen.”
Therese bristled. “Stolen? Why would anyone think that?”
Wyllona gestured at the portrait. “This is supposedly a member of the British aristocracy. So how in the hell did she end up spending the last what, seventy years, hanging in someone’s living room in Savannah, Georgia?”
“She’s not stolen,” Therese insisted.
Wyllona wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. “Jesus! I forgot how hot it is down here in the summer. I gotta get out of this heat.”
“So that’s it?” Therese asked. “Can you give me any idea of what the painting is worth?”
“I told you before, I don’t do appraisals. Any number I’d give you would be suspect, unless and until you come up with a foolproof chain of ownership for Lady Geraldine here.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Not my problem,” Wyllona said. “But do me a favor. When you go back to Pinkie’s, tell your buddy Thaddeus to lose my phone number.”