Just Before Sunrise (33 page)

Once outside, Garvin swung around at her. "Don't give me a line about temperamental artists. She's stonewalling us because she knows damned well she put you in danger. She does what she wants to do and worries about the consequences when it's too late. That was guilt in there, not temperament."

"Whatever it was, we're not going to get her cooperation by bullying her and not respecting her boundaries."

"Boundaries? The hell—"

"Regardless of her reasons, Sarah needs to work right now."

He cursed under his breath, unappeased, but at least kept walking, following Annie down the stone steps. It was dark, chilly, still musty. She hunched her tapestry bag onto her shoulder, and when they reached the street below, waited for Garvin to join her. She didn't mind the walk. As much as she wanted to talk to Sarah and see Otto, she appreciated the chance to get some air. Even impatient and annoyed, Garvin was a steady presence beside her as they headed up the street. By San Francisco standards, Sarah's was a pleasant, quirky neighborhood of families, professionals, and neighborhood shops.

"One of the things I like about San Francisco," Annie said, "is that so many of its people really love living here. They can get a little cocky about it at times, but basically I think it's a good quality to care about the place you live."

Garvin, she could see, was unwilling to be distracted by chitchat about San Francisco. "I suppose."

"What about you? Do you like San Francisco?"

"It's where I've always lived," he said.

"Your family—it must be nice to have them close."

He shrugged. "I don't see as much of them as I should."

"Why not?"

"They're good people." His tone softened, his mind sliding into the topic. "It hurts them to—well, they've seen me in better days."

When his wife was alive, Annie thought, suddenly struck by how alone he was. Having family nearby didn't in and of itself alleviate that sense of isolation, of removal. It was a choice, an attitude on his part. Although she had no real family left in Maine, Annie knew that her decision to leave had been a choice, the logical outcome of the attitude she'd had at the time. It had been an essential ingredient in redefining herself and moving on with her life. But a cottage swept out to sea and the death of a grandmother from old age and disease had a finality to them that an unsolved murder, by definition, didn't. She could move on. Garvin couldn't.

"Sometimes I find it easier not to inflict myself on the people I care about," he went on, not looking at her.

It wasn't a self-pitying statement, just a declaration of fact. "What about Michael Yuma?" Annie asked.

Garvin gave a short laugh. "Yuma'd make friends with a shark if it suited him. So would you."

"Me?"

"Look at Otto."

"Otto was a drenched, adorable little puppy when I found him."

"How little?"

"Fifteen weeks."

"That's not that little. And he was still a rottweiler. You take everybody—animals, people—as they come, without much of an agenda, without judging. You just dive in and find out who they are, what they're about." He went silent a moment as they headed back up the stone steps to Sarah's house. "That can be dangerous."

Annie shrugged. "I don't know how else to be."

"I know."

Something in his tone made her hesitate. He walked ahead of her, taking the stairs slowly, one at a time, his body stiff, his manner quickening her pulse and tightening her throat. She twisted her hands together, feeling sick at what she was thinking.

"Garvin," she said.

He glanced back at her.

And she knew what she was thinking was on target. "My God," she whispered. "You really think Sarah..." She couldn't go on, couldn't bring herself to articulate the terrible thought. "That's absurd. It's—it's
crazy."

He remained calm, but she could tell he knew what she was implying. "Maybe. And it's not what I think, Annie. I'm trying to keep an open mind. I don't want to miss an important fact because I was too blind to see it. This is something that's within the realm of possibility. I have to accept that."

"It's not possible." She spoke with certainty, her shoulders thrown back. The mist dampened her hair, brought out the smells of the lush greenery that encroached on the narrow steps. Garvin didn't move; he was two steps above her, a dark silhouette. She didn't back down. "I'd have seen it in her work. It would be there, Garvin. I know it would. She couldn't have killed her own father and niece and not have it be there."

"Denial's a powerful force."

"Do
you
believe she killed your wife?"

"I can't afford to believe or not believe anything just because I don't want it to be true." His voice was chillingly calm. "I didn't want Haley to be dead but she was. It was there, and I had to believe it."

Annie shivered, hugging herself to ward off the cold, her mind drifting back, far back—before the cottage, before Gran's death. Her mother. Dead. Not wanting to believe. Her father. Too long dead. Never having known him, coming to realize she never would. Trying to come to grips with the reality of him.

"Annie, I'm sorry."

His voice was soft, hoarse, pained. She shook her head. "No. It's all right. You're..." She gulped in the damp air. "You're right. I don't really know Sarah—any of you. I—maybe I need to keep an open mind too."

This time when they entered the house, Sarah was washing her hands in the sink, her brushes soaking in a coffee can, root vegetables covered with a tattered white sheet. She didn't acknowledge Annie or Garvin in any way.

"Vic Denardo called me today," Annie said. "He still wants to see you. You pick the time and the place, and he'll be there."

She turned from the sink, wiping her hands with a frayed dish towel, carefully getting in between her gnarled fingers. When she finished, she tossed the towel into the sink and reached for her walker. She moved slowly, painfully. Every fiber of her being seemed concentrated simply on getting to her chair at the kitchen table. She must have been painting for hours, Annie thought.

Finally, she sank into her chair, sighed with relief, and cast aside her walker. Annie noticed that both she and Garvin had remained on their feet. Sarah didn't invite them to sit. She pushed back her disheveled hair with both hands, more a gesture of self-composure, Annie thought, than an effort to improve her appearance.

"I called the paper this morning," she announced. "I used a pay phone at the market. They sent out a reporter. My whereabouts will be in the morning edition." She paused, fastening her vivid blue eyes on her two guests. "No more secrets."

Annie was shocked—and a little annoyed. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I just did."

"Before
you called. You could have—"

"Annie," she said patiently, "the purpose of last night was to let people—Vic Denardo included—know that I had returned to San Francisco and had put you up to buying the painting of Haley. That's all well and good, but Vic—as you saw for yourself today— isn't going to be satisfied until he knows where to find me. Now he will, and not through you."

Garvin, Annie noticed, was taking Sarah's news in stride, as if he'd expected nothing less of her than an interview in the Sunday paper. "What did you say?" Annie asked. "This reporter—"

"I gave him a complete interview." Sarah regarded Annie calmly, but her face was gray, fatigue making the lines more prominent. "He asked about the murders, about my life these past five years. I indicated I'd done some paintings. He assumed it was a hobby, a way of coping, and I let him. I'd covered up all my canvases."

"Why?"

"I didn't want the public to come to my work through a tawdry article in the Sunday papers. If and when my work is shown, it will be at your gallery, Annie. This is the proper forum for any discussion of my paintings." Her eyes clouded. "Unless you change your mind about wanting to represent me."

Only if you're a murderer,
Annie thought. She winced. How could she think such a thing? It was ghoulish and disloyal. Of course Sarah Linwood wasn't a murderer. That was just Garvin MacCrae being Garvin MacCrae, keeping his options open, no matter their insanity.

"I won't change my mind," Annie said, with a quick glance in his direction. His face was impassive.

"Talking to the press wasn't a rash decision," Sarah went on. "I've no regrets. If Vic or anyone else wants to find me, I'm here."

"You shouldn't be up here alone." Garvin's voice was even deeper than usual, but his expression was still unchanged.

Sarah shook her head. "That's the only way I will stay up here. Now, if you'll excuse me." She sank back against her chair. "I'd prefer to be alone."

Garvin opened his mouth to speak but apparently changed his mind and tore open the front door without a word. His movements were stiff and icily controlled. From the flash of anger in his eyes, Annie guessed he'd been about to tell Sarah to go to hell. Sarah acted as if she were oblivious to his irritation, but she was too perceptive for that. She wasn't upset, Annie saw, just not unaware.

"Are you sure you don't want us to stay?" Annie asked her.

Sarah smiled. "I'm sure."

"At least lock your doors."

She didn't answer.

Outside, the clouds and fog and mist had gathered around Sarah's hilltop, cutting off much of the view of the sprawling city and bay. Annie suddenly felt isolated and claustrophobic, unable to get a decent breath.

Neither she nor Garvin spoke on the way down the steep, narrow, twisting street to the bottom of Sarah's hill. Not until they reached Market did Annie feel calm enough to speak. She gave him a quick sideways glance. "You look as if you could pick up Sarah's house and heave it into San Francisco Bay."

"I just might," he said through clenched teeth.

"It wouldn't make you feel any better."

"Neither would sitting out on a rock waiting for the sunrise."

Annie settled back, unperturbed. "This is San Francisco. You'd probably be hauled off as a nuisance or a nutcase before dawn."

He didn't relax. He had a vise grip on the wheel. "Sarah's a self-pitying, self-absorbed old crank.
Damn
her for not consulting us. If we hadn't come up here tonight, we'd be reading her interview in the Sunday paper along with the rest of San Francisco."

"It's her way of protecting us."

"The hell it is. She loves the drama. She's always wanted to be the center of attention. Instead of gambling with money, now she's gambling with people's lives—her own life." He gave Annie a quick glance, his eyes dark slits. "She might be a brilliant artist, Annie, but she's a pain in the ass."

After Sarah's performance, Annie couldn't argue. "Do you think she's okay for now?"

He breathed out in a quiet hiss. "Your guess is as good as mine. Either way, there's not much we can do."

Annie nodded. They couldn't protect Sarah from herself. Even if Garvin had his own agenda, he was right about that much. "I suppose not." She stared out her window at the fog and rain. "I want to see Otto."

They stopped at Annie's apartment to pick up her car and Otto's bowling ball and to make sure Vic Denardo hadn't been back. The only change since the previous night was a note from her landlord that had been slipped under her door informing her he'd made arrangements to have her window fixed. It had a whiff of impending eviction about it. A rottweiler, a break-in, two unsolved murders—Garvin couldn't blame the guy.

Annie, plainly in one of her forge-ahead moods, paid no attention, just scowled at the note, tossed it in the trash, and vanished into her bedroom. She reappeared with another paper bag of clothes in case, she said, Otto was in no condition to drive back to the city with her. She made no mention of wanting to stay in Marin for non-Otto reasons. Garvin didn't push for any.

"I'll follow you," she said when they headed back outside.

He shook his head. "I'd rather follow you."

"I'm not sure I can get to your house in the dark. It's hard enough during the day—"

"I'll pull in front of you once we hit Belvedere. Until then, you can lead the way."

She sighed, not liking the arrangement. "Why? You don't think Vic Denardo would follow me and try to run me off the road or anything—"

"Indulge me, Annie."

"All right, I'll indulge you. But I'll warn you, I haven't got all these San Francisco hills down, and I drive a standard, so don't get too close."

He smiled. "I'd never get too close."

When they arrived back at his house, without incident, Annie immediately checked on her dog. He had stirred from the bathtub and was perkier but still not himself. He seemed happy to see his bowling ball. While dog and master visited, Garvin built a fire in the fireplace to take some of the damp chill out of the air, then retreated to the kitchen where he heated up a loaf of garlic bread and some minestrone soup he had in the freezer. He brought it out on a tray. Annie sat on the floor in front of the fire, with her toes practically in the flames. She'd kicked off her ankle boots and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, its berry color making her seem less pale. But he noticed the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the strain at the corners of her mouth. Otto had curled up —as well as a dog his size could—over in the corner. With his partially shaved head, he looked even fiercer than usual. A hell of a pair, Garvin thought.

The fire cracked and popped. Annie pointed her toes into it. "I've always loved fireplaces," she said. "My cottage had a wood-stove. I guess you can get away with fireplaces in California. Generally speaking, woodstoves are more efficient." She smiled. "But not as romantic."

She took her bowl of soup onto her lap, and Garvin placed the basket of bread between them and sat down next to her. It was a cozy arrangement. He didn't know why he felt so cold, didn't want to delve into the reasons. "San Francisco doesn't feel like home for you yet, does it?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure it ever will. That doesn't mean I can't be happy here."

"If you could work it, would you have a place in Maine?"