Rebecca raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “That’s nice to hear,” she said.
“I didn’t think I was going to be able to finish the mural in time for the gallery opening and then I’d end up back in prison, but now I think maybe I can.”
Rebecca cocked her head to one side. “Why would you end up back in prison?”
“Because I didn’t finish on time.”
Rebecca took off her black-framed glasses. “Morgan, you are out,” she said. “Out on parole. You were released on parole with the understanding that you’ll work and pay restitution, but that has nothing to do with some arbitrary deadline.”
“No.” I frowned at her. “I have to finish the mural by the time the gallery opens or I go back to—”
“No.” Rebecca spoke firmly. “Who told you that?”
“Lisa and the lawyer, Andrea Fuller.” Had they ever actually said those words? I couldn’t remember. “Though maybe … maybe I just assumed from what they were saying…” My voice trailed off as I tried to piece together the long-ago conversation I’d had with the two women.
“I’m sorry you’ve misunderstood all this time,” Rebecca said. “You can relax. You know my requirements for you and none of them has to do with when you finish restoring that mural.”
I should have felt angry. I’d had the threat of prison hanging over my head all this time. Yet a strange indifference came over me. A strange peace. I was going to finish that mural on time, not because I had to but because I wanted to. I’d finish it for Lisa and her house. I’d finish it because that’s what Jesse’d wanted. I’d finish it for Anna.
Most of all, I thought, I’d finish it for myself.
Chapter 56
ANNA
April 8, 1940
“The police found Martin’s motorcycle in the woods over by the Mill Village,” Miss Myrtle said over breakfast Monday morning.
“Oh?” Anna aimed for boredom in her voice as if the news were of no consequence. As if it had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
“Pauline said that Karl was actually the one who found it,” Miss Myrtle continued. “He was on a call over there about something or other and spotted the red fender tucked in some shrubbery.”
Anna tried to lift her coffee cup to her lips, but it shivered so violently in her hand that she quickly returned it to its saucer.
“I think you should know, dear,” Miss Myrtle said, “that Mrs. Drapple told Karl she thinks Jesse Williams killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Anna said. “Jesse wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Well, Mrs. Drapple thinks Martin might have been going to the warehouse to see you the night they suspect he got killed, and that Jesse was there and murdered him.”
Anna focused on cutting a piece of the sausage patty she wasn’t interested in eating, but she felt Miss Myrtle’s eyes boring into her face.
“I hope you don’t believe that for an instant,” she said, before slipping the sausage into her mouth. She couldn’t seem to make eye contact with her landlady. She moved the sausage around with her tongue, unsure she’d be able to get it down.
“I don’t know Jesse Williams well,” Miss Myrtle said, her eyes gazing into space as though deep in thought. “I know he comes from a good, hardworking colored family, though. I just don’t like people thinking that way about you. You never should have gotten into the habit of staying after dark in that place. It gave people the wrong idea.”
Anna nodded, still moving the sausage from one side of her mouth to the other. She wished she hadn’t gotten into that habit herself. She thought of how the warehouse lights kept blinking out. Martin, working his evil magic from the grave.
“They don’t think Mrs. Drapple killed him, at any rate,” Miss Myrtle said. “That was my hunch, but I guess they’ve been able to rule her out for some reason.”
Anna finally swallowed the sausage, then looked across the table at Miss Myrtle’s kind face with its plump pale cheeks. She had the strongest urge to confess: It was me, she wanted to say. Me, me, me!
But before she could open her mouth, Freda walked into the room carrying the silver coffeepot. She held it in the air in the gesture that meant Who’d like more?, and Miss Myrtle held up her cup, while Anna covered hers with her hand.
Later that morning, Jesse and Anna were in the warehouse when they heard a car driving up the dirt road. They looked at one another. Anna was sitting on the chair by Jesse’s easel; he was on the crate in front of the mural, adding some fine detailing to a clothesline in the yard of one of the Mill Village houses. Anna figured they both knew who it was. She raced to the window and peered out to see Karl and another policeman getting out of the big black Ford V8.
“The police,” she said.
In an instant, Jesse opened the can of blue paint and used a wide brush to slap some of it over the tire and red fender of the motorcycle that—thanks to Anna—kept emerging no matter how many times he scraped it off or painted over it. His hands shook as he set down the paint can, resting the brush across the top of it.
Anna opened the door and drew in a tremulous breath. She needed to keep her wits about her. Not say anything crazy. Although the truth was, she no longer trusted herself to know crazy from sane.
“Hi, Karl!” she called as the two men neared the doorway. Karl wore his uniform and had one of those blackjacks attached to his belt. The sight of it made Anna’s heart pound. She imagined him using it on Jesse.
“Hey, Anna.” Karl and the other man, a rotund little fellow in a too-tight uniform, stepped inside the warehouse. “This is Officer Charles,” Karl said.
Anna nodded to the young officer. He looked about her age. “And you remember Jesse Williams, Karl,” she said, nodding toward Jesse. Her voice seemed to boomerang in her ears. She sent it out and it tore right around and back into her head again. Did she sound strange to Karl, too?
Jesse walked toward them, wiping his hands on his dungarees. He didn’t reach out to shake the men’s hands, though, and they didn’t reach out to shake his.
“We’d just like to ask the two of you a few questions, given as you knew Martin Drapple,” Karl said.
“Not very well,” Anna said, then added, “Hey! I haven’t seen Pauline in ages. How is she?” She remembered how her mother used to say, Hay is for horses!, and the thought made her chuckle out loud. Even she could hear the anxiety in the sound, so inappropriate to the conversation. All three of them stared at her. She only wanted to remind Karl that they were friends. Him. Pauline. Her. “How is she doing?” Anna had the feeling Pauline had cut her from her social life after the day she’d jumped to conclusions about her and Jesse. That terrible day. Anna couldn’t let herself remember it right now or she would fall apart. How much had Pauline told Karl about that morning? The blood on the ruined cot? Pauline would have had to tell him they weren’t getting their cot back. What else had she said?
“She’s fine,” Karl said finally, his voice businesslike. “Now, when is the last time you two saw Mr. Drapple?
Oh God. She wasn’t ready for questions about Martin. She should have thought about what she might be asked and rehearsed her answers. She looked at Jesse. “When was it, Jess?” she asked him, but she could tell by the look of stark terror on Jesse’s usually calm face that he was going to be no help. She’d grown accustomed to him taking the lead these days. Accustomed to him saving her, really. Right now, he was paralyzed with fear. She was a white woman; he was a colored man. Even though she’d been the one to kill Martin Drapple, Jesse was undoubtedly in far more danger than she was.