Just Before Sunrise (19 page)

She hissed quietly, impatiently, behind him. "God, you're a stubborn man. Sarah doesn't have a phone."

"She can use a pay phone."

"It's not that easy. She's—" Garvin could feel her grinding her teeth. "Damn it, Garvin, Sarah's practically an invalid."

He came to an abrupt halt. Blood pulsated in his ears. He steadied himself.
An invalid.
Sarah Linwood? He turned. Annie was silhouetted against the darkening sky, all of San Francisco glittering at her feet. He could feel how torn she was, how determined to do the right thing, how conflicted about what that was.

"I think she has rheumatoid arthritis. She gets around, but with difficulty. She—" Annie breathed in, added softly, "I wasn't going to tell you anything and let you see for yourself. But she's probably a lot different from the woman you remember."

"Annie—"

"Come see for yourself."

She didn't wait for him to respond and continued on toward the house. Garvin could hear her footsteps echoing. His throat ached with tension. His fists were clenched at his side, every muscle in his body knotted.

He lurched after her, knowing now he had no choice.

The little house was bright against the darkening sky, every light apparently on. Annie knocked and gave a quick, furtive glance back at Garvin. He tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. His fingers were stiff, cold. "This isn't easy for you either, is it?"

She gave a small, tight shake of the head.

"I've run roughshod over you to get what I want. I know it's too late, but I'm sorry if I've hurt you in any way."

He could see her swallow. "I know."

A voice from within the house instructed them to come in, the door was unlocked.

Annie went in first, then Garvin, his breath held.

A plain, misshapen woman with graying strawberry hair was seated in her small living room.

Her striking blue eyes swept over him, and a sharp arrow of shock struck its mark as he stared back at her.

"Hello, Garvin." Her voice was clear, the words distinct.

"Sarah."

He almost choked on her name. If not for Annie's word, he wouldn't have believed the woman before him was Sarah Linwood. She wore a loud flowered top, baggy, cheap jeans, mismatched socks, cheap sneakers with holes in the toe. Her gnarled hands were unmanicured, her hair unstyled. This wasn't the prim, correct woman he had always known as Sarah Linwood. Even gambling, even in the midst of her affair with Vic Denardo, she had been refined, dignified.

But she regarded him with similar shock, as if she didn't recognize him as the man who'd married her niece.

Two murders, Garvin thought, had changed them both.

Slowly, he took in the canvases scattered about her small home. Still lifes, landscapes, the occasional portrait. His shock deepened as he absorbed the power and mesmerizing quality of her work. Her art was no longer a polite, innocuous, wealthy woman's hobby. No wonder Annie had decided to represent Sarah at Saturday's auction. If Annie's Gallery could introduce Sarah Linwood as a brilliant new artist, it would distinguish hers from all the other struggling new galleries in San Francisco and help it make its mark in the city's competitive art world.

She had drifted into the kitchen, removing herself from his confrontation with his wife's aunt. His throat caught suddenly at the sight of her. She seemed so damned alone.

But Sarah started speaking. "It's been a long time, Garvin. And yet sometimes—sometimes it seems like the blink of an eye when I last held Haley on my lap as a toddler. You're looking well. Different, of course, but well."

He pulled his gaze from Annie, turned to the swollen-jointed woman in the rattan chair. She had aged more than her five years away should have warranted. Yet she looked freer than she ever had before, somehow more whole. It wasn't just the cheap clothes, the simple surroundings. It seemed to radiate from inside her.

"You've changed too," he said.

"Oh, yes. I've been living in the Southwest for most of the past five years. I studied painting, moved around quite a lot. I kept a low profile and lived quietly. It didn't occur to me that I might ever come home."

"Why did you?"

"The house going on the market. It was just a fluke that I even found out. I read about it in a newspaper I was crumpling up for a fire. So, I came back. I found this place, then I found Annie." She seemed lo sense his censure and raised her eyes lo him. "There's nothing sinister in our arrangement, Garvin. I wanted my portrait of Haley. That's all."

"Why the secrecy?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "I couldn't bring myself to go to the auction."

"You could just have called John—"

"I couldn't do that, either."

"So you hired a woman who didn't know anything about you, anything about the murders." He spoke harshly, more so than he'd intended. "You sent her to that auction never anticipating that the price would go so high that people wouldn't believe she was the legitimate buyer."

"You mean you, Garvin," Sarah said in a steady voice. "You didn't believe her."

"Neither did Vic Denardo."

She inhaled sharply. "We don't know for sure—"

Garvin shook his head. "We know, Sarah."

"I had no idea—these last weeks—" She faltered, running a broad, shaking hand over her face. "I can't expect you to understand. I don't even ask that you do. It was so exciting, thinking about coming home, making my plans. But the reality of being here—" She shook her head. "I just wasn't ready to come forward."

"Sarah—"

"I told the police everything I knew about the murders, Garvin." She spoke in a strong, firm voice; she wasn't being defensive. "Everything. That was my father and my only niece murdered. Can you possibly think I would have held anything back? My God, Haley and I.. .we..."

"I don't doubt that you loved Haley very much," Garvin said softly.

But she shook off his interruption and breathed in deeply, holding back any emotion. "If I knew anything that could bring her murderer, my father's murderer, to justice, I'd have provided it to the authorities at the time. If I'd thought of anything in the past five years that would help, I'd have given it over to the police."

"She was investigating your finances—"

"Garvin, I would never have withheld a single, solitary bit of useful information or evidence. That's the truth. Believe me or not."

"Why did you run?"

"Because I didn't know what else to do. I blamed myself for putting Father and Haley in danger. I don't know for certain Vic killed Father and Haley. But my relationship with him, the lifestyle I led at the time—they caused pain and dissension in my family and likely led to the deaths. I couldn't stay. I believed my presence would only lead to more heartbreak and violence. At the time, leaving seemed the only proper option." She leaned back in her chair, exhaustion graying her face, bringing out the lines of age and pain. "And I left, Garvin. I didn't run."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annie pacing in the kitchen, arms folded on her chest, gait stiff. Garvin had no doubt she was listening to every word and blamed him for Sarah's being upset.

"The past can't be helped, Sarah," he said. "That's not why I'm here."

She leaned forward, ashen-faced. "You're after Vic."

"He seems to have a bone to pick with you. And he seems willing to intimidate Annie—possibly even hurt her—to get to you."

"But he hasn't been back—"

"He will be."

She slumped back in her chair. "I know." She inhaled, choking back a sob, and Garvin could see a hint of the Sarah Linwood of old, who would have hated the idea of crying in front of anyone. "Oh, God. I never intended any of this. How could he think I tried to blame the murders on him? I only want the truth—"

Garvin stood close to her. "Did you set him up, Sarah?"

Her head jerked up. "No."

"What could Haley have learned that would have gotten her killed? Nothing irregular was found in your records—nothing that wc didn't already know about your gambling—but I don't believe she wasn't killed for a reason. I think she found something."

"If she did, she never told me, and I don't know what there could be, beyond the evidence of my terrible addiction to gambling."

"Do you think Vic's guilty?"

"I don't know," she croaked, shutting her eyes, tightening her hands into gnarled, imperfect fists. She shook her head as if in great pain. "I don't want to believe it."

"Sarah," Garvin said, steady, "you need to tell me everything you know."

"I have."

Annie shot him a nasty look. By her standards, he would be badgering an infirm woman in her own home. He didn't want to be cruel, but Sarah Linwood's emotional comfort could stand some jostling if it got them all closer to the truth about what had happened five years ago.

"I wish I did know something." Her eyes were open now, leveled on him. Color was creeping back into her cheeks. She'd be fine, Garvin thought. Sarah Linwood could always hold her own. He wondered if she'd come to believe that herself, as her father never had. But Haley had. Haley had always sensed her aunt's strength and resourcefulness. "I wish I could snap my fingers and bring whoever murdered my father and Haley to justice, but I can't."

Annie swung around, clearly agitated. "Otto hasn't been out all afternoon. He needs a walk."

"Then go walk him," Garvin snapped back.

She dropped her hands to her sides in tight fists. "He's getting hungry. If I don't get him home soon, he'll eat out the back of your car."

"I don't care."

"I
want to go home now, Garvin."

Her back was ramrod straight and her cheeks as pale as chalk, and Garvin doubted she was going to give up anytime soon. She was another one whose strength and resourcefulness were not to be underestimated.

He growled under his breath and shifted back to Sarah. "You have the painting here?"

"It's in my bedroom."

"Cynthia Linwood's suspicious of Annie, possibly Ethan Conninger, as well, and obviously Vic is. I'm not sure John has a clue. If any of them asks Annie to produce the painting she bought for five grand and she can't—"

"As you did," Annie shot across to him.

He ignored her. "It'll only further fuel their suspicions."

"She can tell them she represented me at the auction. I'd asked to remain anonymous, and she complied with my wishes."

Garvin studied her a moment and saw her resolve, but that's all there was. That Linwood determination. He'd seen it in Haley a hundred times. Never mind if she was happy with what she'd made up her mind to do, if she thought it was right, necessary, good. Once resolved, a Linwood did what a Linwood had determined to do, as Haley must have the night she'd returned to the scene of her grandfather's murder.

"Your heart's not in it," he told Sarah.

She gave a short bark of a laugh. "Does that matter? I'm afraid, Garvin. I don't know if I'm ready to—to let my brother, his new wife, my friends see me again. That's the truth. But it makes no difference, and you know it."

"You're right."

Annie groaned, sweeping in from the kitchen. "If you two are donning your hairshirts to protect me and my reputation, you can forget it. I'm not telling anybody about anything. Now." She cast a cold look in Garvin's direction. "I need to see about Otto."

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but Garvin held up a hand. "Forget it, Sarah. Annie's not going to let up. She's worse than her damned rottweiler when it comes to protecting you." He turned to her, not a happy man. "All right, we can go."

She sniffed and spoke to Sarah as if he weren't there. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes. Thank you, dear, I'll be fine."

Dear,
Garvin thought. Hell.

"If you need anything," Annie said, "you have my number. Borrow a neighbor's phone. I'll come as soon as I can. You need time to think."

"Thank you."

"Just rest, Sarah, and don't worry about a thing. Vic Denardo hasn't been back, and Cynthia Linwood has been nothing but nice to me. I've met Ethan Conninger only once, but he was perfectly decent. They might be curious, but I don't think they're going to put a gun to my head and make me show them the painting. So, please don't worry about me."

Sarah smiled, settling back against her chintz cushions. "You're very sweet, Annie."

There was nothing sweet about her, Garvin thought, when she turned to him, tossed her head back, and led the way out.

He gave Sarah a parting glance. "For what it's worth, it's good to see you again."

She almost smiled. "And you."

"But I'll be back."

"I know."

Annie had to hustle to keep up with Garvin's long strides on their way back to his car, but she didn't let him get ahead of her. "You'll do anything to get what you want. Trod over anyone's sensitivities without any evidence, badger an old woman in her own home—"

"Sarah's not that old."

"Physically she is."

Garvin glanced at her, not slackening his pace. "You think I was too hard on her?"

"She's a tormented woman."

"You didn't know her five years ago."

"I know her now."

"Do you?" His voice was calm, deceptively so. "Annie, five years ago she was a compulsive gambler. She'd have sold her own soul for a good poker game. She didn't care about anyone or anything except her addiction."

"Maybe she's changed."

"Maybe she hasn't."

She clamped her mouth shut, standing back impatiently while he unlocked the passenger door. She could just walk home, she thought. It was a long way, but she and Otto needed the exercise.

Garvin pulled open the door, then swung back around at her. "Annie, look, I saw the woman you saw in there. I'm not heartless, but I need to keep an open mind."

"Sarah's not wanted by the police."

"That doesn't mean she told them everything she knows. They attribute her leaving to her family's ostracizing her because of her gambling and her relationship with Denardo, the tragedy she brought down on them. But I don't know. And I'm not sure it matters. If Vic's still out there, he's going to find her."