Just Before Sunrise (31 page)

The couple with the two small children departed, promising to return once they'd decided between two different fern prints.

"Please," Cynthia said, "tell Sarah we're concerned for her safety. We'll do everything we can—whatever she wants—" She winced, sighing. "This is so awkward. There's no getting around it. I wish I knew what possessed Garvin to spring this on us the way he did." She broke off with obvious effort, and smiled thinly. "I'm sorry. This hasn't been an easy twenty-four hours. I don't mean to offend anyone."

"It's all right," Annie said, "I understand."

John Linwood drew back his shoulders and took in an audible breath. He'd lost his father and his only child five years ago. He was a handsome man, Annie realized; much better looking than his younger sister, although he didn't have her air of freedom about him, of utter disinterest in who approved of her and who didn't. "I didn't get to spend as much time last night with Sarah as I would have wished," he said. "Please tell her that, Ms. Payne. She's a painter now, isn't she? She said so last night. Is she good?"

Annie nodded. "I think so. I think she's very good."

Her words seemed to please him. "I'm glad for her, then."

"Oh, I don't think she gives a fig if anyone else thinks she's any good, just that her work has meaning for her."

John Linwood's thick gray eyebrows went up, and suddenly he looked very much like his sister, knowing, insightful. "It matters to her, Ms. Payne. Trust me on that one. Sarah wants all the recognition and attention she can get." His words were matter-of-fact, without any apparent harshness or bitterness. He withdrew a business card and, borrowing a pen from her desk, jotted down two additional numbers. "You can dial any of these numbers, day or night, to reach either Cynthia or me. Please feel free to do so."

Annie tucked the card into her hand. "I will."

The Linwoods started to leave, but John hesitated, turning back before reaching the door. His eyes, not as vivid as Sarah's, focused on her with penetrating steadiness. "I want you to know, Ms. Payne, that we appreciate your befriending my sister. She's had a difficult few years. We all have. She's become an eccentric, I can see that. But I don't want her eccentricities or your knowing her to hurt you in any way." His ambivalence about his sister was almost palpable, but he gave Annie a courtly smile. "I hope your dog will be all right."

"Thank you."

Not long after the Linwoods had left, Zoe slipped in with a steaming mug of herbal tea. She was dressed all in black today. She scrutinized Annie. "You look terrible. I'm recommending essential oil of rosemary. Five drops in your tub, a dot on your head, and you'll perk right up."

Annie groaned. "I don't want to perk up, I want to go to bed and sleep for days. This has been the most bizarre week of my life."

"Including the week your cottage was swept out to sea?"

"That wasn't bizarre. That was the result of an act of nature."

"Well, rosemary's the trick. I've got about five minutes for you to tell me everything. My assistant's in, but she'll need my help. We've been incredibly busy—spillover from you and your scandalous goings-on, I take it. You've really been in touch with Sarah Linwood all this time?"

Annie nodded, sinking into her tall chair, numbed.

Zoe made a face, mock insulted. "Shame on you for not telling. Not that I didn't know you were holding back, because I did. I tell my kids I
always
know. So. Sarah Linwood's back in town, she hired you to buy the painting she did of her niece, Vic Denardo's looking for her, Garvin MacCrae's looking for Vic Denardo, and here we are."

"You're not in any danger," Annie told her.

"Did I ask?"

"No, but—"

"Never mind, then. What about the break-in?"

Annie gave her the details of what had happened last night. But not only Zoe Summer's nose was sensitive. She studied Annie, any breeziness gone out of her manner. "Garvin MacCrae," she said knowingly.

"What about him?"

"Don't demur, Annie. It doesn't suit you. Sparks flying between the two of you?"

Annie shifted in her chair. She felt like a squirming twelve-year-old under Zoc's steady scrutiny. "I guess you could say that."

Zoe frowned. "Is this a good thing or a bad thing?"

"To be honest, I don't know. Garvin'd do anything to get his hands on Vic Denardo. I'm not saying he's using me—"

"But he would if he had to."

Annie felt her eyes burn with fatigue. She remembered last night, his passion, his tenderness. But a part of him remained locked up, out of her reach, in some dark, forbidden place.

Zoe sighed, pushing off toward the door. She jabbed a finger at Annie. "Rosemary. It'll do the trick. It won't change Garvin MacCrae, but at least you'll be able to deal with him with a clear head, which you'll need, I'm afraid."

She scooted through the door before Annie could summon the energy to thank her. Essential oil of rosemary. She rummaged through the drawer where she'd tossed various vials Zoe had brought her in thanks for "borrowing" her nose. One was marked rosemary. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed. Smelled minty to her. Well, maybe it would do the trick. Just to be sure, she brewed herself a cup of coffee. Caffeine she trusted.

Thirty minutes later, Garvin called. "Everything's fine," he said. "I just wanted to let you know that Otto's settled in. He seems to be in a tolerable mood. I think he'd love it down at the marina. He and Yuma would get along." He hesitated, a rarity for Garvin MacCrae. "There's just one thing. I don't know if it's the blow he took to the head or just an Otto thing, but does he—has he ever slept in the bathtub?"

Annie grinned in delight. "I should have warned you. Otto loves sleeping in the tub. That was his favorite place back in Maine, especially when he was feeling hot. Gran used to go crazy. I don't have a tub in my apartment. He must be thrilled."

"Then this is a good sign?"

"Absolutely. Oh, and I can bring him his bowling ball. If he's feeling better, he'll want something to play with. It might ease his mind after such a trauma. But if he gets restless, you can give him a two-by-four or something."

"Whatever happened to dog biscuits?"

"They don't last long with Otto. He won't really chew on the two-by-four, just swing it around. And if he does get up and around, watch your refrigerator. He can open most models. He once cleaned mine out, mustard jars and all. Ate my leftover spinach lasagna, a half pound of roast turkey."

Silence.

Annie chewed on the corner of her mouth. "He might not have the energy to get into your fridge. Really, I wouldn't worry."

"A rottweiler swinging around a two-by-four and carrying off the contents of my refrigerator is not high on my list of worries. But you are, Annie. How are you doing?"

She told him straight off about her call from Vic Denardo; but he also wanted to know about her gallery and Zoe and her visit from the Linwoods and how she was managing without Otto there. She told him everything. Maybe even more than she should have.

"Then last night," he said, and was silent a moment. "You're all right after last night?"

"Yes." She realized she had a tight grip on the phone. "You?"

She could feel his smile. "Nope. I can't seem to stop thinking about tonight."

When he'd hung up, Annie was relieved to have the young couple with the two small children return, sooner than they'd expected, with a long, welcome list of questions for her. Yes, her gallery did framing. Yes, she'd be happy to help with the placement of artwork in their home. Yes, she was in touch with artists. And on they went, the perfect reminder, even as she thought about Garvin MacCrae, of why she'd come to San Francisco in the first place.

After a cathartic run and an hour in his weight room, Garvin took a shower in one of the downstairs bathrooms because Otto was still in possession of his upstairs bathroom. He peeked in on him when he went up to get dressed. The big, fierce-looking dog was out cold, sprawled in the tub. Garvin decided it was prudent to let him sleep and returned to his bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a thick cotton sweater. He'd actually picked up a two-by-four when he went down to the marina. Yuma, who'd been doing more than his fair share the past week, hadn't asked the questions he plainly had, and Garvin hadn't explained.

He'd also placed a chair in front of his refrigerator, just in case. A clever dog, Otto. Much like his master.

Exercised, dressed, and showered, Garvin felt more in control of himself. He checked around his house to make sure it was reasonably Otto-proof. There was only so much he could do. If the big dog woke up while Garvin was gone and was unsure of his surroundings, he could tear up the place.

"Hell," Garvin muttered, "if he wakes up while I'm here, he could tear up the place. Who's going to stop him?"

He would just have to take his chances. He headed outside.

John Linwood was climbing from his car, parked in the shade along the edge of the road. He was alone, no Cynthia. His hand extended, he walked toward Garvin. "I'm catching you at a bad time," he said as they shook hands.

"No problem. What's up? We can go inside—"

"That's all right, I'll only be a minute. I wanted to talk to you after last night. I—it was a shock to see Sarah. I'm sure you understand. The past five years..." He inhaled deeply, his eyes distant. "She's changed so much."

"So it would seem."

He gave Garvin a sharp look. "You think there's any doubt?"

"Outwardly, no. Sarah's very different. Five years ago she wouldn't have been caught dead in bright red corduroy. But inside —I don't know that she's not the same Sarah she always was, just without the Linwood trimmings and inhibitions." He could see John stiffening, resistant, and shrugged. "Not that I really knew her that well."

John relaxed slightly. "Perhaps none of us did. Look, I just wanted you to know that I—that Cynthia and I both—don't hold a grudge against you for springing Sarah on us last night. You were in an untenable position. I can see that. Now with Annie Payne's apartment getting broken into last night and talk of Vic Denardo —" He sighed, looking worn, older than he was. "She's truly an innocent caught up in this mess, isn't she?"

"She doesn't see it that way. She wants to represent Sarah's art."

"So I've gathered. And you think she's that good too?"

"Yes."

He took a breath, kept his composure. "I see."

"Annie was reluctant to ask Sarah too many questions. She didn't want to spook her. So she doesn't fault anyone for her getting involved."

"Well, she's being more magnanimous than I would have been."

Garvin smiled. "Me too."

John ran a shaking hand through his thinning gray hair, his composure fraying. "Dear God, I'd hoped we wouldn't have to open this chapter in our lives again. I'd hoped we could just move on."

"I know, John, but until Thomas and Haley's murderer is brought to justice—"

"Justice be damned!" He lunged in close, his vivid blue eyes intense, his fists clenched. "Garvin, I don't give a damn anymore about justice. My father and daughter are dead. Justice won't bring them back. Justice won't give me any solace, any closure, that I don't already have. I don't owe their memory justice."

"What about yourself?"

"I owe myself peace." The energy had seeped out of him, and he sagged. "That's all. Peace."

And a new life with Cynthia, Garvin thought. "You deserve it, John. God only knows."

Tears clouded his eyes. He turned away. "I don't want to stir up the past. I don't see the point. If I'd known putting that painting up for auction would lead to this, I'd have burned it myself."

"Sarah was already in town. The painting wasn't what brought her back. It's just what clued me in that she was in San Francisco. I just think Sarah believed it was time to come home."

Her older brother shook his head sadly. "She was wrong."

He covered his eyes with one hand and sank backward, almost as if he were reeling. He wasn't sobbing. But Garvin could feel his pain, an anguish so deep it came from the soul.

He went still, staring at his former father-in-law. Suddenly, his blood literally ran cold.

"John?"

"Dear God...I can't..."

Barely breathing, Garvin took a step toward him. "John."

"I can't!"

"Jesus," Garvin whispered. "You think Sarah committed the murders."

John dragged his hand down his face and let it drop to his side. His skin was gray. His eyes were sunken and tortured. His mouth quivered.

Garvin had his answer. It was one thing for him to entertain the possibility that Sarah Linwood had been involved in the murders of her father and niece, quite another for her brother.

"Good God, John. Do you think she actually pulled the trigger?"

"I hope I'm wrong." His voice was a croak, more that of an old man. "You can't know how much I hope I'm wrong."

He knew. He'd had similar suspicions himself. "Do you have any reason—"

He shook his head. "Nothing specific."

Garvin acknowledged John's words with a nod; there was nothing to agree on, nothing to understand. "Do you suppose that's what Vic Denardo believes? If he's innocent—"

"It's possible, I don't know." He cleared his throat, composing himself. "I don't know anything except that this family's suffered enough.
I've
suffered enough."

He'd lost his father and his only child, and, at least in his own mind, he'd lost his only sister: an affair with Vic Denardo, gambling, debts to loan sharks, a five-year disappearance, and now the homecoming of a woman he no longer recognized.

"Does Cynthia know this is what you believe?" Garvin asked quietly.

"No, I can't bring myself to tell her. But I think—I wonder if she hasn't had the same thought."

"What if you're wrong and it's not Sarah?"

"Drop it, Garvin, please. Either way, just tell Sarah to go back where she's been living these past five years. I won't stop her."

"John—"

His head jerked up. "Haley wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want to see either of us tortured this way."