Just Before Sunrise (3 page)

In her excitement over her discovery of an amazing new artistic talent, Annie had perhaps acted in haste in agreeing to represent Sarah at today's auction. She hadn't pressed for any details of who Sarah was or why she wanted the painting or why she just didn't go buy it herself. All that, Annie had thought, could come later.

Now she had her first hint of why Sarah wanted this particular painting. It was her work, undoubtedly an early piece. The technique was awkward in places, unsure of itself, lacking the boldness and confidence of the canvases Annie had seen over tea. But the essential ingredients of what made the reclusive, eccentric woman in mismatched socks and tattered Keds such a compelling artist were there.

The subject was a red-haired girl of fifteen or sixteen with pale ivory skin and warm blue eyes. She wore just a denim shirt and jeans, her long hair pulled back, her casual manner in contrast to the formal, traditional sitting room background. Even in this early work, Annie could see Sarah's hand in the unabashed nostalgic mood of the painting, its subtle use of color, its determination to capture the spirit of its subject and get at who she was, what she wanted to become.

Sarah, Annie thought, could have dispatched her to buy the portrait in an effort to get any strays back under her control before going public with her art. It would be a smart move. But Annie tried not to get ahead of herself in case she was wrong, and this brilliant, unknown artist had no intention of letting Annie's Gallery represent her work.

The auctioneer announced he had a sealed bid for five hundred dollars. Did anyone want to bid higher? His tone suggested he expected no one would.

Jerked out of her stupor, Annie jumped forward in her seat. A sealed bid? From whom? Someone else was bidding on the painting? She whipped around, searching for the culprit. The serious buyers, she'd already figured out, stood at the edges of the ballroom and slipped to the back when something came up that interested them. But she hadn't expected any competition.

Did someone else know about Sarah? To Annie's eye, her talent was apparent in the portrait up on the easel, but it was only a spark, a hint of the explosive work the artist might eventually produce.

"Five hundred. Do I have a bid for five hundred and fifty?"

Annie thrust her hand high up into the air. She didn't care if that wasn't how the professional buyers did it. She wanted to make sure the auctioneer saw her.

"Five hundred and fifty," he said in acknowledgment of her bid. "Do I have six hundred?"

In a half second, he said he did. Annie still had no idea who in the crowd was bidding against her. She raised her hand for six fifty. Sarah had anticipated that Annie would be the only bidder and would get the painting for a few hundred dollars, but, unwilling to chance missing this opportunity, she'd insisted on making the ten thousand dollars available. Annie had dismissed the gesture as overly dramatic.

It was a long way from six hundred fifty to ten thousand, she thought, calming herself. She wouldn't run out of money. She wouldn't fail. "Bid the entire ten thousand if you must. I don't care," Sarah, the mysterious artist, had told her. Annie desperately wanted to succeed, more so than she would willingly admit. Sarah's work was so incredible—Annie knew it was—that it could be the catalyst she needed for her struggling new life.

The auctioneer looked at her. The bidding was up to eight hundred. Annie pulled her lower lip in between her teeth and nodded.

A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd. Even the bland auctioneer seemed to get his blood up. Annie followed his gaze to the back of the ballroom as he asked for nine hundred.

Before she could pick out who he was looking at, he said he had nine hundred and turned his attention back to her. He asked for a thousand. He was going up by hundreds now. Annie hadn't noticed any of the fifteen or twenty well-dressed men and women standing in back make a move. She could feel her stomach churning. Relax, it's not your money. They wouldn't go higher than ten thousand. That would be lunacy. The artist was an unknown, the girl was an unknown. There was no
point.
Later, when Sarah was introduced to the art world and acknowledged as a major new talent, maybe there would be. But not now.

Annie nodded at the auctioneer.

Her opponent immediately went up to eleven hundred.

She whipped around and glared, and her eyes made contact with a man in a dark suit. And she knew. This was her opponent. This was the man who wanted the painting of the red-haired girl.

Her mouth went dry. His eyes bored into her. Annie inhaled sharply, certain she wasn't sparring with a dealer. There was nothing sporting about his expression, nothing of the dealer who took competition and defeat in stride. He wanted the painting, and he had expected to get it for five hundred dollars.

He hadn't, it seemed, expected Annie Payne.

The auctioneer called for twelve hundred. With her gaze still pinned on her opponent, Annie nodded. She wasn't going to back down. She wasn't going to let him unnerve her. She didn't care who he was or why he wanted the painting.

His expression remained grim and determined, giving no indication he was having any fun at all. He had angular, riveting features and very dark hair, but for some reason she couldn't even imagine, Annie guessed his eyes were lighter: gray or green or even blue. She tried to picture him somewhere besides a tense auction room. Where might he smile? Where might he not look so humorless and intense? Roaming the Marin hills, perhaps. Rock climbing. Horseback riding across a meadow. Anywhere, possibly, but a Pacific Heights auction.

He wasn't here for the thrill of an auction, she thought with a sinking feeling.

He was here for the painting.

Annie turned back around and concentrated on her task. Would he let the bidding go over ten thousand?

In another two minutes, it was up to three thousand. Perspiration trickled down the small of her back. She had her shawl clutched tightly in her hands. She was shaking. She resisted the impulse to spin around in her seat and have another look at her opponent. She didn't want him thinking she was desperate, intimidated, terrified that he would outbid her. She couldn't afford to goad him.

She had to win.

An old woman three rows in front turned around and frowned at her. Let the man have the painting, girlie, her expression said. Who do you think you are?

But Annie bid thirty-one hundred. And her dark-haired, dark-suited opponent bid thirty-two, and she could hear the murmurs of sympathy for him even as she bid thirty-three.

Then he went to four. Annie didn't know how he did it. He hadn't uttered a sound. She whipped around.

His eyes were already on her. Steady, confident. Daring her.

Biting on one corner of her mouth, Annie noticed that everyone else's eyes were on her, too. The auctioneer waited for her response. She put up all five fingers, hoping he would understand her bid.

He did. "The bid is at five thousand."

She thought she heard somebody mutter, "Who is she? Why doesn't she let him have it? Doesn't she know who he is?"

No, she didn't. And what difference did it make who he was? She had as much right to that painting as anyone else in the room. More, perhaps, since she was representing the artist who'd painted it.

Her heart pounding, she waited for him to answer her bid. Five thousand was a ridiculous amount to pay for such a painting. People would think she was crazy—until they saw Sarah's subsequent work. Then they would know and understand.

If she had to use Sarah's entire ten thousand, Annie thought, she would.

But the man in the dark suit passed. Stunned, Annie glanced back at him. He gave her a mock salute with one finger and retreated through double doors into an adjoining room that she was quite sure was one of the ones blocked off to the public.

The painting was hers.

"Well," the old woman a few rows up snapped, "I hope she's happy."

She is, Annie thought, her relief making her feel limp and a little like crying. She's very happy.

Now that the thrill of the battle was over, she became acutely aware of a current of hostility directed at her. It wasn't just that people had sympathized with her opponent, they were
annoyed
with her for outbidding him. And it wasn't just a few people. No wonder Sarah hadn't wanted to come to the auction herself.

Nice, Annie thought. Maybe I can get out of here before anybody finds out who I am.

She pulled her tapestry bag onto her lap, prepared to make a run for it in case someone tried to drag her off to the lions. Why wasn't she garnering any sympathy? She wasn't some tall, rich guy standing in the back of the room. She hadn't tried to burn holes through him with her eyes. What happened to rooting for the underdog?

Mercifully, the runners brought out a magnificent set of rare Austrian china. The auction resumed. Annie got to her feet. She felt jittery and self-conscious, her hands and knees trembling. Excusing herself to each person whose feet she had to climb over, she stumbled back out to the aisle.

A portly middle-aged man on the end said, "You must have wanted that painting very much to go up against Garvin MacCrae."

"Who's Garvin MacCrae?"

"You don't know? I wondered. He's the husband of the girl in the painting."

"What?"

But he was trying to see around her, and someone in back hissed for her to move out of the way, and so she did, tightening her grip on her bag and shawl to keep her hands from shaking visibly. She burst out into the aisle.

Her opponent was the husband of the girl in the painting. Well, how was she supposed to have known? Probably he'd intended to buy it for an anniversary or a birthday present.
Here, honey. Remember that crazy woman who painted you when you were sixteen?
Was his wife a Linwood? How had she known lank-haired, odd Sarah? How had Sarah come to paint her as a teenager?

It doesn't matter, Annie told herself. You have the painting. It's yours to return to the woman who had painted it. Garvin MacCrae will just have to find something else to give his wife.

Garvin MacCrae unhitched the thick velvet rope that blocked off the drawing room and stepped into the center hall. Several people taking a break from the auction gave him pained, sympathetic looks. They would know who he was. It seemed everyone at the auction did. The experience had been far more of an ordeal than he'd expected.

He hadn't anticipated Number 112.

She had put up a determined battle, and she'd won, if only because Garvin had no interest in driving up the bidding even further, never mind that the money would go to the foundation he'd established in his wife's memory. He had expected to get the portrait of Haley for the five hundred he'd bid in advance and in secrecy. He had expected to remain anonymous, hidden amidst the professionals in the back of the packed ballroom.

He could have asked John or Cynthia Linwood simply to give him the painting, but he hadn't. He was part of the Linwood past not its future. Whoever had murdered his wife five years ago had seen to that.

He saw John Linwood coming up the hall and knew there was no way to avoid him. "Garvin—my heavens, I had no idea you would be here today. It's so good to see you."

In spite of his friendly words, John looked tense and awkward. Garvin understood. His former father-in-law had a smart, attractive new wife and was shedding himself of all reminders of his murdered daughter and father. Garvin was one of those reminders.

"It's good to see you, too, John." They shook hands, but Garvin couldn't bring himself to smile. It had been a difficult morning, more so than he'd expected. He wasn't in a light mood.

"I'm sorry about the painting—"

"It's all right. Forget it."

"I had no idea you'd want it. I can't—well, I can hardly bear to look at it."

Garvin nodded. He couldn't explain why he'd wanted it himself. There were so many tragic memories associated with it. It had hung in the Linwood library, where Haley and her grandfather were murdered five years ago on two separate nights. And it had been painted by Sarah Linwood, Haley's aunt, John's sister and the woman many believed had contributed to the murders of her own niece and father—or even actually pulled the trigger.

But something about Sarah's portrait of Haley at sixteen had captured her spirit, her soul, and gave Garvin solace that the woman he'd lost to the violent hand of another wasn't going through eternity with bitterness or regret. He couldn't explain what it was. Had Number 112 seen it too?

"I thought it had been destroyed," John went on. "I had it taken down, but I couldn't—well, I couldn't burn it myself. I guess no one else could, either."

"So you decided to sell it?"

"Actually, that was Cynthia's decision." John had lost his wife four years before the murders and had finally decided to remarry a year ago; Garvin hadn't attended his wedding. Cynthia was seventeen years her husband's junior and had operated in the upper echelons of Bay Area real estate, hovering in the background of the Linwood family for years. Now she was a part of it. "She arranged the entire auction. I didn't know until this morning. I might have done things differently had I known—which is probably why she didn't tell me." He attempted a smile, but gave up on it. "But I know she did what she thought was best for all of us. Perhaps it's just as well a stranger has the painting now."

"Perhaps," Garvin said, telling himself he believed it. What would he have done with the portrait anyway? Once he'd heard it was for sale, he'd only known he'd wanted it. The last gasp of his old life, he supposed.

John clapped his hands together, as if dismissing any insidious sense of melancholy. "We've a buyer for the house. Did you hear? A couple from Chicago. Cynthia found them." He glanced around the elegant entry of his longtime family home. "It'll be good to have people living here again."

Garvin swallowed, tried not to remember the terrible night he'd found his wife lying dead just down the hall. "Yes."

John seemed to sense what he was thinking. His face clouded, and he gave up on any semblance of normality. "I didn't expect today to be as difficult as it has been. The memories—well, I suppose this day is long overdue. I'll just be glad when it's over."