Just Before Sunrise (18 page)

"I know how he feels."

She turned to him, zipping up a black fleece jacket that reminded him of her Maine roots. She wore a short, close-fitting dress in a dark burgundy, and her hair was held back, more or less, with a brightly colored scarf that trailed down her back. Garvin felt a tug of emotion, an empathy for her that he couldn't seem to resist. Annie Payne was trying so damned hard to build a new life for herself, and she'd stumbled into one hell of a mess. But he knew it wouldn't be any less of a mess if he'd just stayed away from her. She'd still have Vic Denardo on her case, thinking she could lead him to Sarah Linwood.

Knowing it.

"I was going to call you when I got home," she said in that blithe, nondefensive way of hers.

"Were you?"

She kicked off her black suede shoes and pulled on exercise socks right over her burgundy tights, then slipped on sneakers. He had on his boatyard clothes, khakis, polo shirt, denim jacket. She ignored his dubious tone. "Yes, I was."

He exhaled sharply, annoyed with himself for not just giving her a chance. Maybe she was trying to make up for lost ground and had decided to be straight with him, even to trust him. "It's quite a walk up to your place."

"Otto and I both could use the exercise."

She threw out a foot and stepped on her dog's leash, stopping him midstride. It was a sign of obedience on his part. If he'd wanted to, he could have dropped her on her behind. She swooped up the leash.

Her smile crept back. "It's a beautiful day but a little on the cool side. I saw the weather report for Maine. I'd be eating soup by the woodstove tonight."

Garvin noticed the wistfulness in her tone. "Homesick?"

"My home no longer exists."

No self-pity, just a crack in her voice that she covered with a quick tug on Otto's leash. She sailed up the walk without so much as a backward glance. Garvin sighed through clenched teeth, even as he felt a surge of warmth for her. Annie Payne wasn't a woman who liked seeing her own vulnerabilities or liked other people seeing them. It made her frustrating to be around, to try to understand, but also intriguing.

He shot forward, catching up with her as she hit Union Street.

"Cynthia Linwood stopped in again today," she said conversationally. No crack to her voice, no discomfort. "She brought an old map of San Francisco for me to frame and invited me to lunch next week."

Garvin smiled. "Cynthia as one of the ladies who lunch. It's an interesting transformation."

"Have you known her a long time?"

"We met just before Haley and I were married. She helped us find our house. After Haley's death, Cynthia stepped in and handled selling the house when I wanted out. She did everything right, so far as I was concerned. She was discreet, knew what to ask, what not to ask."

"But she wasn't seeing John Linwood then," Annie said.

Garvin shook his head. They were moving in the general direction of his car. Maybe her zest for walking would peter out by the time they reached it. "I don't really know when they started seeing each other. I haven't kept up with either of them."

Otto jerked forward to sniff a mailbox. Annie paused, obviously trying to give her dog a little freedom to maneuver. Passersby gave him wide berth.

"She and John seem happy," Garvin went on. "I think people are too willing to dismiss her as a trophy wife. That's not what Cynthia's about."

"A trophy wife? What's that?"

Annie seemed truly mystified. Garvin explained. "Older, wealthy, successful man marries younger, attractive, often but not necessarily successful woman. Usually a first wife is dumped along the way, but that's not the case with John. His first wife—Haley's mother—died about ten years ago. I never knew her. If he and Cynthia can find happiness together, I figure it's none of my business."

"It must be tough to have people dismiss you as a trophy for some man without knowing anything about your relationship." Annie made a face, shuddering. "I guess it happens, though. I'd hate that myself. I'd rather just not get married." She grinned suddenly, casting a smart-assed look up at him. "Not that I'm trophy material."

Oh, Annie. Garvin had all he could manage just to keep himself focused on not tripping over his own damned feet. And not carting her off somewhere private, quiet, free of distractions like rottweilers and Linwoods and too many memories. If there were such a place.

Otto started forward again, Annie after him.

Garvin fell in beside them. "You didn't leave some man heartbroken back in Maine?"

She cut a grin at him, showing the dimple in her cheek. "I might have, but if I did, I don't know about him."

But he couldn't match her light mood, and as they came to his car, he touched her arm, remembering his conversation at the marina with Ethan Conninger. "Annie—about Cynthia Linwood. She has the same questions about you that everyone else does."

Annie cocked her head back, alert, curious. "That you do, you mean."

"I'd just hate for you to think she was trying to take you under her wing, help you get established here in San Francisco, and all along she had another agenda."

Her look turned sharp. "You know something."

He sighed, dug in his pockets for his car keys. "Nothing that should surprise you. Ethan Conninger stopped by the marina on Monday. He said Cynthia was curious about you and had decided to look into why you bought the painting of Haley. He's keeping his eyes open, too."

"I see," Annie said, tight-lipped.

"It doesn't mean she thinks any less of your gallery. Or you."

Annie wrapped Otto's leash around her wrist and drew it taut as a couple with two pugs walked by. "I prefer to take people at face value. They say what they mean, mean what they say. I like
being
that way myself." She threw her head back, exhaled at the sky. "Lord, what a week."

"Annie—"

She faced him, her eyes clear, determined. "If you'll give me a ride, I'll take you to see Sarah Linwood."

Garvin held his breath, said nothing.

"Otto will fit in your backseat. He won't—at least I think he won't tear up the leather." She attempted a grin. "He's not used to leather, so I can't say for sure."

"Annie." His voice was strangled, just a hint of the tension that had him in its grip. "He can tear up the whole damned car for all I care."

"You hear that, Otto? Permission to commit mayhem."

But her humor rang hollow, undermined by the loss of color in her cheeks. Garvin got the doors to his car open, tried not to wince when Otto galumphed into his backseat. Annie settled in front, her knees together, her feet tucked in, hands folded on her lap. Not nervous, just uneasy.

When he climbed in beside her, she smoothed the skirt of her dress and said, "Head toward Twin Peaks."

Her tone was steady, difficult to read. Her eyes were pinned straight ahead. Garvin hesitated. "Annie, if you're not sure—"

"Sarah's sure. That's what counts."

He eased out into rush-hour Union Street traffic. He had a dozen questions he resisted asking. Where had Sarah been living the past five years? What had she been doing? Why was she back in San Francisco? Had she been there all along? And Vic Denardo—

But they were questions that had to wait.

Annie gave him general directions as he headed out Market, traffic heavy but moving. Her tone was crisp, matter-of-fact. She had her own troubles. A business to establish, a new life, her own memories to hold at bay.

"Look, Annie, you can just give me her address. If you don't want to put yourself through this—"

"No. I told her I'd come with you." She glanced sideways at him. "When I bought that painting on Saturday on Sarah's behalf, I had no idea I was thrusting myself into the middle of two unsolved murders. Maybe I should have been more careful, but I wasn't."

"Sarah didn't tell you?"

"And I didn't ask."

"Why—"

"The rest is for her to tell you, Garvin. I will tell you this one thing. She thinks you believe she had Vic Denardo kill her father."

"Jesus," Garvin breathed, keeping his eyes on the road.

"She doesn't think you believe she had your wife killed. They were too fond of each other. She thinks you believe Denardo did that on his own when he realized that Haley—that your wife knew what had happened. That finished any romance he and Sarah had left, and they both took off in separate directions."

"That's the scenario Sarah thinks I've worked out?"

Annie nodded, not looking at him.

"Does she deny it?"

"Yes."

"And you believe her," Garvin said.

Annie turned to him, her expression difficult to read in the shifting shadows of dusk. "You'll see why in a few minutes."

Chapter Eight

Street by street, Garvin followed Annie's snaking directions up to an isolated cul-de-sac of small, tidy houses. His head pounded, his blood pumping hard and fast.

Annie gestured out her window. "She lives in the pink house."

Garvin shifted his gaze to Annie. His chest felt compressed, his breathing labored. "You can wait here, if you like. This isn't your problem. Maybe the less you know the better."

"That might have been true two weeks ago, but not anymore."

She pushed out to the paved circle and waited for him to come around the front of his car. Her scarf had fallen off, and she'd just draped it around her neck. He could see she was tense, ambivalent. Even in the twilight her eyes shone, giving his gut a painful twist. He touched her shoulder. "Annie, I know you're in a hell of a position here."

"It's my own doing. I don't blame you or Sarah. I acted without sufficient information. You'll understand why in a minute."

As she swung away from him, Garvin caught her by the elbow and pulled her back around to him. He didn't release her. In the fading light he could see the strain of the past days taking their toll. Dark smudges under her eyes, pale cheeks, a resolute set to her jaw. He wanted to erase them, see her smile, hear her laugh. She was trying to build a new life in San Francisco and chase a dream. Instead, she had stumbled into the nightmare of two five-year-old unsolved murders.

He curved his arm around her small middle, drawing her close, and he kissed her softly, gently. "Forget Sarah, Annie. I'll take you home."

Her fingers dug into his upper arms, her gaze intent as she shook her head. "No, it's okay. You're here now. Sarah's expecting you."

She slipped away from him and swept across the pavement toward the small pink bungalow.

Garvin stiffened. "Sarah can call me and tell me to come herself. You don't need to be her fo-between."

He started back to the driver's side of his car, leaving Annie to make up her own mind about what she wanted to do.

She heaved a sigh behind him. "I'm not doing this just for Sarah's sake. I'm doing it for my own, too."

Garvin kept walking, vaguely wondering what he'd do about Otto. Take him home with him? Could be interesting. He was one big dog. If he decided he was being kidnapped, it could be a rough trip across the Golden Gate.

"Garvin."

Of course, Annie
could
realize he was serious and get back in the car with him and her dog. Whatever her motives were now, however she rationalized her involvement, she had no place in anything that might bring Vic Denardo back onto her doorstep.