Mr. Fiering spoke up. “What about that old abandoned warehouse out by the Carters’ place? Hasn’t been used in ten years, at least.” He looked at Anna. “It’s outside of town a ways, but not too far,” he said. “You’d have your peace and quiet for workin’.”

“Don’t have heat,” Mr. Arndt said.

“We’d have to cart in a couple of space heaters,” the mayor said, then turned to her. “How ’bout we take a look at it tomorrow? Me and you? If it looks like it might work for you, and Miss Myrtle says she’d love to have you, which I can guarantee that’s what she’ll say, you’ll stick around?”

“All right,” she said, rather impulsively. “I will.” And she smiled. She had the feeling she’d won these gentlemen over after all.

Chapter 7. Morgan

Chapter 7

MORGAN

June 13, 2018

I stared down at the mural where it lay on the tiled floor of the gallery foyer. I saw the tremendous damage—the grime and scratches and huge sections of abraded paint that nearly masked the images on the canvas. And I saw what had stunned all of us. What left us shaking our heads in confusion and sent a weird shiver up my spine.

In the center of the mural, in fairly extreme close-up, three women dressed in eighteenth-century garb sat around a small table. One of them held the shards of something—a white teapot?—in her outstretched hands.

“This is supposed to represent the Edenton Tea Party, no doubt,” Lisa said. “But”—she pointed toward the skirts of the women in the painting—“this makes absolutely no sense.”

Piercing the small circle of women was the front end of a motorcycle. It protruded from between their filthy skirts, its rider not visible behind the women’s torsos.

“It’s an Indian,” Adam said. “That is so awesome.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his khaki workpants, then looked at Lisa. “I assume they didn’t have motorcycles in the seventeen hundreds?”

“The artist must’ve been smokin’ somethin’,” Wyatt said. “Who the hell painted this thing?”

“The artist’s name was Anna Dale,” Oliver said. He stood above the mural, arms crossed in front of his chest, a frankly delighted expression on his face. “This is fascinating, don’t you think?” he asked, his gaze on me, and I nodded. “I Googled Anna Dale and read that she won the competition to paint this mural,” Oliver continued, “but that was the only information I could find on her. I haven’t been able to track down any other work by her, either. This style”—he motioned toward the mural—“this representational style was typical of the murals painted for government buildings back then.” He chuckled. “But it looks like Anna Dale added her own unique interpretation of her subject.”