“I am.” I smiled, a frisson of anxiety in my chest.

“You do want the interlocking joints, right?” he asked.

For a terrible moment, I wondered if it was a trick question. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what interlocking joints were. Maybe he was making them up to see if I knew the first thing about restoration.

“That’ll be great,” I said, and I was relieved when he seemed satisfied with my answer.

The stretcher was a work of art all on its own. It was huge, made of long two-by-fours with wooden braces forming a grid between them. It was an enormous, beautifully crafted thing. Oliver was right about these guys. They were fast and they knew what they were doing. If only I could say the same about myself.

“Want to take another look at the mural?” Oliver asked, and I nodded, following him inside.

The delicious woody scent of the gallery greeted me again and I could hear the buzz of saws from somewhere in the interior of the building.

I stood next to Oliver in the middle of the foyer, looking down at the mural, which was still attached to the two-by-four on the floor. “I’m trying to find material on Anna Dale,” Oliver said, “and I did find something I’ll show you in a bit. But for the most part, it’s like she simply disappeared after she painted the mural.”

“What did you find?” “So strange,” I said, but my gaze on the many areas of the mural that were nearly bare of paint beneath the layer of grime or mildew coating the enormous canvas.

“Doesn’t look any better today than it did the other day, does it?” He laughed.

“Uh-uh,” I agreed.

“Where did you work before coming here?” he asked. A casual question or was he suspicious?

I hesitated, my gaze on the women and their broken teapot. Even if I wanted to make up an answer, I didn’t know what it should be. I glanced at Oliver. With his tall, slender build and dark-framed glasses, he struck me as bookish and kind, a bit nerdy despite handsome features, probably gay, and I opted for the truth. “I wasn’t,” I said.

He tilted his head. “You were between jobs?”

I drew in a breath. “I’m not actually an art restorer.” I looked squarely at him. “I was a fine arts major at UNC in Chapel Hill and had to drop out in my third year.”

I thought his cheeks actually blanched. “You’re kidding,” he said. Was there worry in his voice or was I projecting? Suddenly, though, he let out a laugh. “So, you’re the one,” he said.

“What do you mean?”