Just Before Sunrise (21 page)

"You must have a green thumb," a man said behind her.

Annie spun around, and the man who'd snuck into her gallery on Sunday—Vic Denardo—grinned at her. "Nice flowers," he said, gesturing to her impatiens. "Healthy looking."

"Thank you," she mumbled.

He had on black jeans and a white turtleneck again, and Annie could suddenly see how Sarah Linwood had fallen for him. He was fit, wiry, and exuded a raw sensuality that was impossible to ignore. Annie brushed off her hands, noticing her visitor sweeping his dark eyes over her. She wore taupe-colored gabardine pants and a pale blue sandwashed silk blouse, with a dab of some perfume Zoe had pressed upon her. It supposedly soothed and energized at the same time.

She cleared her throat, trying not to let her nervousness paralyze her. "Um—is there something I can do for you?"

"Same as before. Tell me where I can find Sarah Linwood."

His flat, dark eyes undermined his conversational tone. Annie pushed back her hair with one hand and told herself he could just be trying to persuade her to talk in the only way he knew how. But he wouldn't actually threaten her—physically or verbally—in such a public setting. Zoe would be arriving soon. Customers. Passersby. And Otto was just inside.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't help you."

He shook his head, disbelief compressing his lips. "Bullshit. She's here. She's gotta be. I've figured out that much. I've checked out all the neighborhoods she said she wanted to live in if she weren't a Linwood. No luck." He shrugged. "So here I am."

"I said I'm sorry." Ignoring her shaky knees, Annie started briskly across the courtyard toward her gallery. She glanced back at her visitor. He had to be Vic Denardo. He even had the look of a merchant marine about him. "But that's just not my problem. I really can't help you."

He followed her, no sign of irritation or impatience—or anything—in his dark eyes. "You mean you won't," he said calmly.

She felt a quick stab of fear, but Otto trotted into the gallery's open doorway, his ears back, his brow wrinkled. He gave a low, humming growl as he inspected their visitor. "Otto," Annie warned him, trying to hide her relief. "Be good." Not that there was a chance he'd do anything. She just wanted to pass him off as a rottweiler closer to stereotype.

The gray-haired man backed up a couple of steps. "Nice doggie. I'm not going to hurt the lady."

Otto ventured out to the courtyard and sniffed their visitor, who remained rock-still. Annie just let Otto do his thing. She took a small gulp of air, then blurted, "After the other day when you were here, I wondered—are you Vic Denardo?"

His eyes didn't change. "What if I am?"

"Then you're wanted by the police for questioning."

"You see any police around?"

She rearranged several pots of pansies just to provide an outlet for her nervous energy. Zoe would be there soon. This man, whoever he was, wouldn't accost her in the open, in broad daylight, with Otto "protecting" her. She straightened, aware of Vic Denardo's eyes still on her. Suddenly she wished Garvin MacCrae would burst down her walk.

"Look," she said, "I don't know why you think I know anything about Sarah Linwood. All I did was buy a portrait she happened to paint."

He smirked. "You do look innocent when you lie through your teeth. How come you've been hanging out with Garvin MacCrae? He want you to take him to Sarah too?"

Annie swallowed, not caring anymore if he saw that she was nervous. Her hands were shaking, even her knees as she considered the implication of his words. "How do you know I've been in contact with Garvin MacCrae? Have you been following me?"

"Nah, not following you. Otherwise I'd know where Sarah's got herself stashed. Just keeping an eye out here and there."

Annie called Otto over to her side, made him sit. She scratched his massive head. He looked like a big, goofy puppy to her, but Vic Denardo—if that was who he was—eased back another step. She returned her gaze to him. "I want you to leave. I have nothing to tell you. If I catch you following me, I'll call the police."

He grinned. "Tough little nugget, aren't you? Okay, kiddo. Have it your way. But you tell Sarah she's got to face me sometime. She knows what she did."

Annie bit down on her lower lip. He'd as much as admitted he was Vic Denardo, the chief suspect in two brutal murders. She would have to tell the police. There was no way around it. It was the only sane course of action. Tell them everything, and let them deal with the Linwoods and Vic Denardo.

And Garvin MacCrae.

"I didn't kill anybody," Vic Denardo said.

"I'm not the one you need to convince."

"You and me, kid, we stepped in the middle of one hell of a mess when we got mixed up with Sarah Linwood."

Annie licked her lips. "I never said I knew her."

He rocked back on his heels, his dark, flat eyes offering a slight glint of humor. "You're consistent, I'll give you that. Okay, sugar, if you didn't buy the painting for Sarah, where is it?"

"The painting's in a safe place. It's not in my gallery or my apartment." She took a breath, hating the position she was in. "Where is really none of your business."

He started to press her further, but Zoe glided into the sunlit courtyard in a whirl of black and ivory. "Morning, Annie. I can smell the coffee already. Youbrought muffins? What kind? No, don't tell me. Let me guess." She closed her eyes, breathed in deep. "Nope. I'll have to go inside. I can only smell flowers and coffee from out here."

Annie managed a faltering smile. She didn't want to drag Zoe Summer into an increasingly messy, even dangerous, situation. "They're cinnamon streusel. I put them up on the desk out of Otto's reach. I'll be there in a second."

Vic Denardo didn't even glance at Zoe, who'd bent down to examine a new hibiscus blossom. He kept his eyes pinned on Annie. "Tell Sarah I'll be seeing her."

Annie said nothing, afraid another stubborn denial—another lie —would make him snap. And if he didn't, she just might.

"Tell her."

Without any warning, he pivoted on his heels and marched up the narrow walk out to Union Street. He would look out of place among the expensive shops, the pretty Victorian and Edwardian buildings, but he didn't seem to give a damn.

He only wanted to find Sarah Linwood.

Zoe stopped in the doorway and glanced back, her brow furrowing in sudden concern. "What was that all about?"

Annie grimaced. "Nothing. Really."

"You sure? You're ashen, Annie. You should see yourself—"

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Zoe said softly.

Annie balled her shaking hands into tight fists, adrenaline setting her knees wobbling now that the immediate crisis of Vic Denardo's presence was over. For a brief moment she thought she might even faint.

Zoe touched her arm. "Annie..."

I can't fall apart, she told herself. I can't Bracing herself, she swung around at Zoe. "I need to run an errand. Help yourself to the coffee and muffins. I'll be back."

"When?"

"I don't know, maybe an hour."

"Look, I'm not into prying information out of my friends, but I have a feeling this is about that damned painting you bought at the auction. Annie, for God's sake—you're a wreck." But when Annie started to reassure her, Zoe cut her off with an adamant shake of her head, and with a rush of emotion, Annie realized she had her first real friend in San Francisco. "No, don't explain. Go on and do what you have to do. Take your time. I've got someone in today. I can look after the gallery for a couple of hours."

"Zoe, I wouldn't ask you—"

"I know you wouldn't. Now go on." She managed a grin despite the worry in her eyes. "I'm just trying to get your muffin off you."

Annie tried to smile back but knew she hadn't quite pulled it off. "You're welcome to it. Thanks, Zoe. I owe you. I'll leave Otto here, if it's all right with you, just in case that man comes back. If he does, just sic Otto on him—and call the police, okay?"

"Consider it done," Zoe said dryly, without enthusiasm, a thousand questions in her dark eyes.

Annie had to walk back up to her apartment for her car, but the exercise helped steady her. It was bright and clear and stunningly beautiful driving out over the Golden Gate Bridge, and she found herself fighting tears, wishing for a life that wasn't hers. Her tiny apartment, her struggling gallery, her tenuous hold on San Francisco. She'd tried so hard to make them enough. But now, with the sun glistening on the blue waters of the bay, with a man wanted for questioning in two five-year-old murders harassing her, she couldn't seem to stop herself from wanting more. A husband, children, a sense of belonging—things she'd dared not admit wanting.

"Damn," she mumbled under her breath, maneuvering through the picturesque streets of Marin. She sniffled, brushed tears off her cheeks with her fingertips. She
hated
feeling sorry for herself. It never got her anywhere but right back where she'd started. She was an optimist with a strong pragmatic streak. She didn't wallow, and she didn't whine.

But as she followed the pretty, sun-drenched road out of Sausalito, she couldn't remember ever feeling so alone.

She turned down the narrow, winding road to Garvin's marina, saw boats and men and a couple of women, two scroungy black dogs, a swarm of seagulls. But no Garvin. Annie swung through the parking lot, her hands tight on the steering wheel as she searched for his car. It wasn't there. She had no idea if he was at home or off sailing. She had no idea, really, she thought, how Garvin MacCrae spent his days.

She left the marina, not even sure if she wanted to see him, or why she'd come there instead of immediately calling the police after Vic Denardo had gone. She wasn't thinking straight, and that scared her. Taking deep, cleansing breaths, she headed up to Belvedere. She needed a clear head, and she needed a plan.

She made only one wrong turn before pulling alongside Garvin's front walk. She'd see if he was home. If he was, she'd tell him about her visit from Vic Denardo and her intention of calling the police. If he wasn't, she'd stop back at the marina, tell Michael Yuma, who could then tell Garvin, and head back to San Francisco and make the call.

There, she thought. A plan.

Feeling calmer, she climbed out of her car and started down the walk to Garvin's front door. The air smelled clean and pleasantly cool, cooler than the city. The squirrels were up to their antics in the trees and greenery. Everything was so quiet, so still.

"He's not here."

She spun around, shock nearly collapsing her to her knees.

Vic Denardo sauntered down the walkway. "No doggie with you this time, kiddo?"

She took in a shallow, ragged breath. "Did you follow me?"

"Nope. Beat you here."

"Your car—"

"Out of sight. Pretty smart, huh? If you'd spotted a strange car out front, you might not have stopped. Interesting you should run to Garvin MacCrae after our little talk." He scanned her from head to toe. "You two got a thing going?"

"Mr. Denardo—"

"Has he been on your case too? He thinks Sarah hired me to knock off her old man. Then when Haley figured it out, I knocked her off too, to keep her quiet. Old Thomas was a character, I'll say that. I wouldn't have wanted to be his kid. Haley had his number, though." He squinted at Annie. "You cold? You're shivering."

She tensed her jaw muscles to keep her teeth from chattering. It wasn't the cold, she knew. It was his presence, their isolation. "I'm fine."

"So, have you taken Garvin to Sarah?"

"I hate to keep repeating myself, but—"

"But you can't help me," he said matter-of-factly. "An attractive woman like you, new in town—I'd think you'd fall hook, line, and sinker for a guy like MacCrae. He was a driven bastard when I knew him. Never figured him to give up the money business and take to running a marina. I guess you never know what guilt can do to a person."

Annie narrowed her gaze on him. "Why should he feel guilty?"

Vic Denardo shrugged, and she again noticed that as casual as his demeanor was, his eyes remained flat, unemotional. "A natural reaction. His wife was murdered. He found her." He rocked back on his heels, apparently unconcerned that Annie might jump him or knock him over the head with a rock. "You ever wonder why he was there that night?"

"Where?"

"The Linwood house."

"The newspaper accounts indicated he was looking for his wife when she didn't come home."

"So you've read up on the murders, huh?"

She made herself shrug. "After the rock I unwittingly turned over by buying that painting at the auction, yes, I thought it wise to understand the basic facts of the case."

He nodded, thoughtful. "I wonder if he and Haley would have made it."

"That's certainly none of my business—"

"None of mine, either. Doesn't mean I can't wonder. Haven't you?"

"Look," she said, for lack of anything else to say. She bit her lower lip and glanced at her watch. "I need to get back to my gallery. If you want to hang out here waiting for Garvin, that's your affair."

Her breath held, she started past him. She tried to walk with an air of confidence, as if she had no reason to believe he'd try to stop her.

He didn't touch her, didn't say a word.

She got all the way to her car.

When she had her door open and was climbing behind the wheel, he said softly from the walk, "I didn't kill those two people."

Annie looked back at him. Her throat was so tight, she couldn't swallow. "Then give yourself up for questioning. If you're innocent, you have nothing to lose by talking."

"Sure." He smirked, moving toward her. "You can have a front-row seat at my execution."

She gave a small, curt nod. "I really have to go."

"Tell Sarah I'll be in touch."

"You don't give up, do you?"

His eyes held hers. "Never."

Garvin was waiting for her when Annie returned to her gallery. He wore a thick burgundy cotton sweater and heavy canvas pants, everything about him competent, masculine. An unruly mix of emotions washed over her as he walked out from behind her desk. Relief at having him here, uneasiness, desire, trepidation. She couldn't sort out what she felt, why, and if any of it made sense.