Lisa suddenly walked into the room from the hall. “What are you two doing, just standing here shooting the breeze?” She gestured toward the mural. She sounded more tired than angry. “C’mon, Morgan,” she said. “Start slapping some paint on those bare spots.”

“We were just discussing the wall text,” Oliver said smoothly.

“Crazy white woman painted ridiculous mural,” Lisa said. “What more do you need?”

Oliver laughed, but I could tell something was going on with Lisa. Her eyes were red, the way they’d been the day I caught her crying in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She sighed. Folded her arms across her chest, tightly, as if she were hugging herself. “Mama Nelle died during the night,” she said.

“Oh, no!” I filled with sudden guilt, wondering if bringing Mama Nelle to the gallery, taxing her and her fading memory with my questions … I wondered if it had all been too much for the old woman.

“I’m sorry, Lisa,” Oliver said.

“Me, too,” I said. “I really liked her. And she seemed to know Anna well. She was probably the last person who did.” I looked at the mural without really seeing it. “I felt like we really connected,” I said.

Lisa studied me curiously. Lowered her arms from across her chest. “The funeral’s Monday,” she said, turning toward the hallway again. “Make some good progress here and you can go with me to pay your respects.”

Chapter 50. Anna

Chapter 50

ANNA

March 28–29, 1940

That morning’s Chowan Herald reported that Martin Drapple had gone missing, although there’d been plenty of gossip of his disappearance for nearly a week now. The rumors were that he had marital troubles and money troubles and was deeply depressed over not winning the mural contest. A woman—a friend of his wife’s, perhaps—had come to the warehouse to tell Anna that his depression was her fault.

“Martin’s a local artist who knows this town like the back of his hand, dear,” the woman said, in that kindly Southern voice that could mask daggers. “As soon as you learned that he’d also entered the contest, perhaps you should have gracefully withdrawn and turned the painting of the mural over to him.”

Anna wished she had done exactly that. She wished she’d never set foot in Edenton.

Maybe Martin killed himself, people speculated. Or maybe he ran off with another woman. Most likely, the majority seemed to think, he was simply taking some time alone to nurse his emotional wounds. Sometimes, Anna thought that, too. Oh, Martin Drapple is simply away on a trip, she fantasized. She frightened herself when she imagined such things. Was she losing her mind? She’d see the red stain on the floor of the warehouse and think, Oh, I remember the day I dropped the can of paint. How clumsy of me!