She asked Judith, “Do you live back here?”
“We’re in the big house. I packed up Syd and moved us back home last year.”
Andrea knew that Franklin Vaughn had retired a year ago. Maybe he really had quit to spend time with his family.
“Needless to say, Guinevere was not happy with the move.” Judith chuckled to herself. “She calls it House Slytherin, which is so unfair. That’s our generation, isn’t it?”
Andrea felt a lump in her throat. They could be half-sisters. In another world, they would’ve been thrown together after their parents remarried and hated each other.
“Through here.” Judith gestured toward the shed. “This is my workshop. I sleep out here sometimes, but not when it’s this warm. I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
Andrea felt her lips part as she walked into a very familiar space. Wooden shelves lined the walls. Stainless steel pots, strainers and funnels. Measuring cups. Nitrile gloves. Face masks. Tongs. Wooden spoons. PH test strips. Squirt bottles and droppers. A five-gallon bucket of sulfuric acid. Several large, clear plastic bags of white powder.
Judith said, “Don’t worry, that’s not coke, it’s—”
“Mordant,” Andrea provided. “What do you dye?”
“Silks, mostly,” Judith said. “But I’m impressed. Most cops take one look at this set-up and think I’m running a drug lab.”
“The judge’s scarves.” Andrea realized she’d missed an entire row of drying racks. Scarves of various colors were laid over the dowels. One was so deeply blue that the color looked like it had been refracted through a prism. “You really caught this indigo. Did you use the Gullah Geechee process?”
“Now I’m beyond impressed,” Judith said. “How on earth does a US Marshal know about an ancient dyeing process brought over by slaves from Africa?”
“I grew up near the Low Country.” Andrea worried she was giving too much away. “Did you go to school for this or are you self-taught?”
“Little of both.” She shrugged. “I dropped out of RISD.”
The Rhode Island School of Design was one of the top art schools in the country.
Judith said, “I always delight in inviting my former professors to my shows, but that’s for my collage work. The scarves were something I started doing for my grandmother a few years ago. She had a tumor removed from her vocal cords. Thank God they caught the cancer in time, but she’s very self-conscious about the scar.”
Andrea felt sucker punched, but not about the cancer. She turned her back to Judith, pretending to look at the scarves as she fought a sudden rush of tears. She had always loved art, but it had never occurred to her that the love might have come from Clayton Morrow rather than Laura.
What else had he passed on?
Judith said, “The collages are in the studio. You might be interested in one of them.”
Andrea sniffed as she turned back around. She was forced to wipe her eyes.
“Sorry, I’ve worked with acids so long that my eyes barely register the burn anymore.” Judith motioned for Andrea to follow her into the next room. “There’s a cross-breeze in the studio.”
They walked through a door and into a large, welcoming space. Windows and fixed glass panes were everywhere, even in the ceiling. Easels showcased various stages of creativity. Judith wasn’t a hobbyist or a crafter. She was an artist whose work brought to mind Kurt Schwitters and Man Ray. Paint spattered the floor. Pots of glue and scissors and cutting boards and spools of thread and blades and varnishes and spray fixatives were splayed on the tables besides magazines, photographs, and found pieces that would be refashioned into a new statement.
It was the most perfect studio Andrea had ever been inside.
“The sun can be brutal during the dog days of summer, but it’s worth it.” Judith had stopped in front of an easel that held what was clearly her latest work. “This is what I thought you’d want to see.”
Andrea didn’t let her eyes take in the details. First, she felt the piece, which gave her the sensation of standing on the deck of a tiny boat that was shifting against the waves of an oncoming storm. Judith had used solarization to create a sense of uncertainty. Bits of torn letters and photographs kaleidoscoped together to create a darkly ominous collage.
“This is one of my heavier pieces,” Judith said, almost apologetic. “My work is usually called masculine or muscular, but—”
“They don’t understand a woman’s anger,” Andrea finished. She had experienced a similar dismissiveness from some of her male professors. “Hannah Höch got the same bullshit when she exhibited with the Dada group, but she had her own exhibition at MoMa less than twenty years after her death.”
Judith shook her head. “You’re really the most fascinating Marshal I’ve ever met.”
Andrea didn’t tell her she’d only been a Marshal for a day and a half. She carefully studied the piece, reading the words that had been excised from letters, some handwritten on notebook paper, some clearly typed, some computer-generated.
Kill you fucking bitch die Jew slut temptress cunt jewess devil murderer ice queen motherfucker cocksucker pedophile blood-drinking ball-buster Soros-backed whore …