Just Before Sunrise (32 page)

"John, this isn't about Haley. It's about the truth."

"God damn the truth!"

Linwood that he was, he quickly reined in his emotions, dropped the mask of dignity back into place, composed himself as if he hadn't just accused his sister of murder. He squared his shoulders and sniffed. When his gaze again met Garvin's, it was focused and steady. "I'm sorry. Do what you must do, Garvin. I won't stand in your way. You've your own principles and conscience to satisfy. But in this case, I don't know that justice hasn't already been rendered."

Garvin pictured Sarah Linwood hobbling into the private dining room last night in her red corduroy jacket, her face gaunt, her pain so obviously chronic and debilitating. He understood what John was saying, but still shook his head. "Justice isn't about punishment," he said.

John had started back to his car. He turned on the stone walk, his own face gaunt. "I can't handle any more truth, Garvin. I just can't."

A fine mist started to fall. Garvin waited until his father-in-law had left before heading out himself. He felt chilled and uneasy. John Linwood thought his own sister not only capable of murder but capable of murdering members of her own family. Not just hiring Vic Denardo to do it, doing it herself, then cleverly making sure the police believed the killer was her lover.

What a hellish state of affairs. Garvin knew he could do as John asked and probe no further, demand no further answers, ask no further questions. He could turn away from the truth, even run away from it.

John was right about one thing: the truth wouldn't bring Thomas Linwood or Haley Linwood MacCrae back.

In practical terms, Garvin thought, he had only to back off and leave Annie Payne, Sarah Linwood, and Vic Denardo to their own devices. Let them get on with their lives. Ease back into his work, the life he'd had before Saturday's auction.

But Otto was in his bathtub, and Annie Payne awaited him, and Garvin couldn't turn back now.

Late on a winter Saturday afternoon, Union Street was packed, forcing him to wander around for twenty minutes before finding a parking space. He had to walk three blocks to Annie's Gallery. Its fair-haired owner was briskly sweeping the brick courtyard. Even in the gray light, her hair shone, half pulled back, half blowing in her face. Garvin suppressed an image of her last night. He had to or he wouldn't be able to function.

"Almost done?" he asked.

She turned with her broom and smiled. "Almost. Zoe and I have had a ton of people come through here today."

"Maybe you won't have to sweep and tend pots much longer."

"I don't mind. My landlord gave me such a good deal. There are worse things than keeping flowers alive."

She'd already brought them in, he noted. Most of her sweepings seemed to be leaves, twigs, and dirt rather than cigarette butts and litter. She scooped up her pile into a dustpan and returned with it and her broom to her gallery, dispensing with them in the back room. Garvin could see empty spots on the display walls and shelves and assumed she'd had a profitable day.

He started to ask about it when Ethan Conninger burst into the gallery. "Garvin—Jesus, I just heard about the break-in last night." He was dressed casually in twills, a long-sleeved polo shirt, and loafers, but he looked shaken and agitated. "Annie's all right? I'd never have left her if I'd had any idea what she was walking into."

"She's fine," Garvin said.

She emerged from the back room, rubbing a white cream into her hands. "You couldn't have known."

Ethan shook off her words. "I feel awful about leaving you. How's your dog?"

"He's on the mend."

"Well, I hope he got a lick in before he went down. Look—I don't want to keep you two. I just wanted to make an appearance, make sure you were okay. Sarah got home all right last night?"

"She was tired," Garvin said, "but otherwise fine."

"What a weird evening. Jesus. Guess it's not really my problem, though." He raked a hand through his dark hair, pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Well. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was all right."

Annie smiled. "Thank you. The police didn't find any useful evidence—no fingerprints or eyewitnesses—but Otto's doing well, and right now, that's enough for me. Really, there was nothing you could have done. The damage was already done when we arrived."

"But if whoever broke in had been waiting for you—if we'd arrived any earlier—"

"Moot points," Annie said graciously.

"I suppose." Ethan shifted from Annie to Garvin and then back again. He was jumpy, Garvin thought. Last night hadn't been Ethan Conninger's idea of the good life. Working for the Linwoods was supposed to be low on stress and high on perks. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Do the police really think Vic Denardo's involved?"

"They're keeping their options open," Annie said.

"The bastard. Christ, I think about it and—" He broke off with a heavy sigh and turned to Garvin. "This must be hell for you. If you want to go out on the water sometime to get away, forget all this, give me a yell."

"I will, thanks."

He gave Annie an encouraging wink, and departed. Annie finished closing up. Garvin watched her practiced movements and felt her satisfaction. She was doing what she loved. She wanted her gallery to succeed because she loved running it, arranging the artwork, keeping track of the finances, introducing people to new artists. She would relish even the dusting, the watering of the pots of pansies and cyclamen, the sweeping, and the fertilizing. Seeing her reminded him of his years in school, then in the financial district, when he'd absorbed every detail and nuance he could, loved even the mundane and the arcane aspects of his profession. It wasn't just ego that drove him, but a passion for the work itself.

Annie popped next door to say good-bye to Zoe Summer, then was ready. She pulled out her barrette and let her hair hang loose as they walked out to Union Street, crowded and well-lit early on a dead-of-winter evening. The mist remained unchanged, not developing into a steady rain or even a proper drizzle.

"We can see Sarah first," Annie said, "then Otto."

"Makes sense to me."

Her concentrated expression suggested it didn't matter to her if it didn't. A week ago she'd bought a painting she'd hoped would lead to her presentation of a major new artist. Instead, it had led her into the murky depths of two unsolved murders and into bed with a man she wasn't sure wouldn't run right over her to solve those murders.

Had warned her he would. Had warned himself.

She ducked into a coffee shop for a cappuccino and biscotti to go, and five minutes later they were heading out toward Market Street.

"About last night," Annie said, biting into her biscotti.

"Annie, if you want to forget last night—"

She fixed her gaze on him. "Is that what you want me to do?"

He cast her a brief look. "It's not a question of what I want."

"It's not, is it? Well, I'll have you know I didn't go to bed with you last night out of a sense of charity or confusion. I knew exactly what I was doing. If you've any regrets, they're yours, not mine."

He smiled. He couldn't help himself. "I've no regrets." He did, actually. He should have stayed with her and made love to her through the night. "Do you?"

She gave a tight shake of the head.

"Annie, when that storm took your cottage, what did you do?"

She frowned. "What do you mean what did I do? Garvin, what's this got to do with anything?"

"Did you get hopping, spitting mad? Scream, throw a fit, heave big rocks into the ocean? What?"

"I carried on."

"Ah."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just not surprised. You're a survivor, Annie. A stiff-upper-lip Mainer. But nature had dealt you a hell of a blow. Weren't you pissed?"

"Of course I was."

"So how did you deal with it?"

She squirmed. Such talk, Garvin could see, made her uncomfortable. She was accustomed to keeping her pain to herself, sharing it with no one. "I tried my best not to take my emotions out on my friends, my insurance agent, or Otto. What happened to my cottage wasn't their fault. So when I felt overwhelmed and self-pitying and furious, I'd—" She stopped, glanced at him. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'd sit out on the rocks in front of the clearing where my cottage had been. I'd go out just before sunset, and I'd watch the sun go down, then the moon and the stars rise, and finally, the coming of dawn. There's nothing like watching a Maine sunrise. When the sun was finally full in the sky, I'd go back to town—was staying with friends—and shower and sleep a couple of hours, and then tackle whatever I had to tackle next. There was something about seeing the sun go down and then come up again that gave me the perspective I needed to carry on."

"Beats heaving rocks into the ocean," Garvin said.

"I don't know, I think it does the same thing. You hurl a rock into the ocean, you have to realize you've had no impact, you're at its mercy, and you might just as well accept it and get on with your business."

"No, Annie, it's not the same thing. Heaving a rock isn't a way of making me reconcile myself to the vagaries of nature, it's a way of getting rid of all that anger and frustration that's boiling around inside, expending that energy in some reasonably innocuous way. Today I lifted weights until I thought I'd explode.
That's
the same thing." He gave her a dry look. "Sunsets."

She smiled, unchagrined. "And sunrises."

Garvin looked over at her as she sipped her cappuccino and ate her biscotti, and he imagined her out on a rock on the coast of Maine, wrapped up in a blanket, unworried about night creatures on the prowl as she watched the night come and go, just so she could get a handle on her anger. Instead of coming away depressed with how insignificant she was, how at the mercy of the perils of nature, she'd come away renewed.

It was in that moment he knew that he had fallen in love with Annie Payne.

Chapter Fourteen

They found Sarah at her easel in the corner of windows overlooking San Francisco, with her palette and brushes, her walker beside her. She was working on a still life. Annie noticed the small, teetering table arranged with sprigs of bittersweet, acorn, and butternut squash, parsnips, purple-topped turnips, and yellow onions. Much to Garvin's irritation, Sarah had refused to answer her door. It turned out she'd left it unlocked, and he and Annie just walked in. Sarah didn't acknowledge their presence. Seeing she was deep into her work, Annie touched Garvin's hand to keep him from barking at her.

After two minutes, Garvin glared at her, his patience on its last shred. Annie sighed. She had no idea how long Sarah would ignore them—or even if she was aware they were there. "Sarah," she said quietly, "we need to talk to you."

She dabbed her brush into a vivid splash of purple, not even glancing up from her work.

Annie persisted. "The police have your address. Have they been by?"

"This morning." Her voice was deep and guttural, as if she hadn't said a word in days. "Go. Sit. I'll be done soon."

Impatience flashed in Garvin's eyes, but he kept quiet. "We'll take a walk," Annie said.