Just Before Sunrise (6 page)

"Why did you leave? If it made people suspicious—"

Her vivid eyes focused on Annie. "I left because I had to. I didn't think much about the consequences. I just knew I had to leave."

"But now you've come back."

"To San Francisco, yes."

But not to her family, Annie thought. The Linwoods—and her niece's husband—didn't know she was in town. "Did you come back because you'd heard your family home was being sold?"

"That's one reason. The catalyst, I suppose. I read about it in the papers, and I knew I had to come home. Again, it was impulsive, with the same certainty I felt when I knew I had to leave."

"Then why not go buy the painting yourself? It would have been a way to let your family know you're back."

She shook her head. "I couldn't. I—I'm not ready."

"But you were willing to go to all the trouble of finding me, hiring me—"

"That wasn't just because of the painting." She sat forward, just a little. "I want you to represent my work, Annie. When I'm ready." She looked toward the painting Annie had just delivered, the strawberry-haired girl smiling, innocent. "Soon."

Annie didn't feel the thrill she'd expected to feel; it would have seemed greedy, selfish, given the circumstances. She'd never met anyone as strange and as compelling as this plain, soft-spoken woman. "When you're ready, I'd be honored. The painting—did you want it so much because it's your work?"

"I'd thought my brother had destroyed it."

"What? How could he—"

"I'd painted it. It was of his only child whom he'd lost in such a horrible way. It had hung in the room where she and Father were killed. It was too painful to keep—but also apparently too painful for him to destroy." She inhaled through her nose, plainly holding back tears. "It's all I have of Haley. I wanted it for myself, Annie. There's no other reason."

Annie nodded thoughtfully. "I think I understand. You were able to capture something—"

"Not capture. When Haley sat for me, she gave me her spirit. She gave me everything she was. I suppose"—she bit her lower lip and sighed heavily—"I suppose I wanted some of her back."

"Sarah—"

She waved a hand, dismissing Annie's concern. "Now. About our deal. Can you keep my secret?"

"Does anyone else know you're in San Francisco?"

"No. Only you, at least for now."

Annie glanced at the recent canvases, at the framed portrait of the strawberry-haired girl. Could she have guessed, then, that her life would be a short one?

"I won't be committing a crime?"

Sarah smiled sadly and shook her head.

Annie glanced at the tattered furnishings in Sarah's tiny house, the decades-old appliances. A Linwood didn't have to live this way. "Yes," she said, "I can keep your secret."

Sarah, spent, had closed her eyes. "We'll speak again, Annie. Soon."

Seeing that the reclusive artist had nothing left in her, Annie quietly retreated. It wasn't until she was halfway down the stone steps, hanging onto the rickety handrail to keep from tripping on the ends of her skirt on the steep terrain, from going too fast, from utterly losing control, that she thought, once more, of Garvin MacCrae. As mortified as she was at her assumptions about his wife, he would have to know she hadn't deliberately bid against him knowing he'd merely wanted a profoundly moving painting of his murdered wife.

"Look before you leap next time," Annie muttered to herself as she stumbled to her car. She suspected her reputation in San Francisco would take a hit until people realized she hadn't known the background of the man bidding against her. But she was in no mood to cut herself any slack, never mind ask anyone else in town to. She should have done her research before she'd walked into that auction room.

Groaning, she climbed into her car and stuck the key in the ignition. The sun, she noticed, had given up and decided not to stay out. The skies were gloomy again, threatening rain. She glanced back up the steep hill, toward the little pink bungalow. It had been five years since the Linwood murders. Maybe, she thought, no one really cared whether or not Sarah Linwood was back in town.

Chapter Three

Annie had her gallery swept, dusted, and straightened by the time Zoe Summer arrived with the Sunday paper, two large gourmet coffees, and two fat, warm wild blueberry scones an hour before their noon opening. "Sorry, Otto," Zoe said, lifting the scones from their bag. "None for you."

"Don't let him fool you," Annie said. "He just had a treat. We went for a run on the beach first thing this morning."

"I'll bet no one bothered you with a rottweiler at your side."

"Not a soul."

Zoe laid out the scones on paper napkins on the chest-high half-moon desk in the far left corner of Annie's Gallery, then uncapped the coffees. She was in her late thirties—tall, angular, dark, thin— and had two children in junior high and a doctor husband who tolerated, if not endorsed, her passion for aromatherapy. Her inexhaustible wardrobe was in just two colors: black and ivory. Today she wore black knit pants and an ivory sweater and looked sleek and sophisticated. Annie, having had to rebuild her wardrobe from scratch, was enjoying the freedom of dressing for herself. She still tended to scope out the sales and stick to neutrals, preferring to keep her expenses down until she was better established in San Francisco. Given her morning of cleaning, she'd opted for a chamois-colored jacket over slim jeans, with her ankle boots, good watch, and silver earrings.

"I see you made the Sunday paper," Zoe said.

Annie sat on the edge of one of her two tall swivel chairs. "I did?"

"Yep. You hit the local gossip column. That'll teach you to buy a painting out from under Garvin MacCrae. What were you thinking, m'girl?" Zoe whipped out the paper and thrust a long, unpolished fingernail at the paragraph in question. "There. 'Annie Payne, owner of the new Annie's Gallery on Union Street, shocked the two hundred gathered for the Linwood auction on Saturday when she outbid Garvin MacCrae for an amateur painting of his murdered wife."

Blood draining from her face, Annie snatched the paper. "Let me see."

Going on in the same snide tone, the columnist related how MacCrae had "thrown in the towel" at five thousand dollars and Annie had "gleefully picked up her prize before the crowd could hiss her out of the elegant ballroom, just down the hall from where Haley Linwood MacCrae lost her life."

"Did they really hiss?" Zoe asked, biting into her scone.

Annie winced, remembering the hostility directed toward her after she'd bought the painting. "Pretty close to it. Oh. Did you see this? It says Garvin MacCrae looked 'fit to be tied' and had 'vengeance in his eyes when he stormed out of the Linwood house.' Actually, I saw him afterward. He didn't seem to have any hard feelings. He even tried to help me get the painting into my car. Otto was being a pain and—"

"Well, that explains it. I'd pretend I had no hard feelings with Otto around, too." Hearing his name, Otto stirred under the desk. Zoe, who loved dogs, scratched him with her toe. "You scared that mean old Garvin MacCrae, didn't you, buddy?" She sipped her cappuccino, eyeing Annie. "So. What
do
you want with that painting?"

Annie had anticipated Zoe's question and was therefore prepared. "I was asked to buy it for someone who wishes to remain anonymous."

"No kidding. You can't tell me?"

"That was the deal I made."

"Puts you in an awkward position, doesn't it? Well, I'm not going to ask you to break a confidence—not that you would."

"I can tell you this much—I had no idea the painting was of a murder victim, or even of a Linwood."

Zoe made a face. "Then you stumbled into this thing blind? Eeekk. Five grand's a lot to pay for a painting by an unknown artist. Your anonymous buyer must have wanted it badly." She eyed Annie hopefully. "Not going to budge, are you? Your integrity is to be admired. I hope you got a decent commission for putting up with the insult."

Annie frowned. "I hope this doesn't hurt my reputation that much. I really didn't know who Garvin MacCrae was—"

"Not to worry, Annie. The publicity'll bring in the window-shoppers, you wait." She slid off her chair. Naturally, Zoe being Zoe, she had a tiny vial of something she wanted Annie to sniff. She opened it up and stuck it under Annie's nose. "First reaction. That's all I want."

"I'm going to sneeze."

Zoe snatched the vial away and screwed the cap back on. "That's what you always say."

"All right, all right. I smelled coconut."

"Coconut?"

Obviously the wrong answer. Annie smiled. "Almonds?"

Zoe sighed. "Never mind. Tell me how you felt when you first smelled it." She gave her friend a warning look. "Besides wanting to sneeze."

"I felt...I don't know, it's a soothing smell, I guess. Nostalgic. Made me think of foggy nights in Maine, right before winter sets in. You know, when you're looking forward to eating pot roast and stew instead of grilled chicken and corn on the cob."

"Easterners," Zoe muttered.

"Wrong answer again?"

"There is no wrong answer, but only someone from New England would get nostalgic about eating pot roast." She headed for the front door. "Better get ready for the onslaught. Maybe some of it will spill over onto me. My kids are coming down to 'help.' Better busy than bored, I always say."

She whisked out into the small brick courtyard they shared behind a Victorian house on Union that had been converted into shops. Their building, a former stable, was accessed via a narrow brick walk that ran from the street back to the courtyard, in the shadow of the Victorian and the larger building next to it. In exchange for a break in her rent, Annie had talked her landlord into letting her plant a border of impatiens and ivy along the walk and tend the courtyard, keeping it swept and making it more enticing with pots of flowers. She'd already put out pansies, cyclamen, lobelia, impatiens, ivy, letting them soak in the afternoon sun.

Just as Zoe had predicted, within thirty minutes of opening its doors, Annie's Gallery had more browsers than in the entire past week. Her gallery, Annie knew, reflected her disinterest in snob appeal and her dislike of pretentiousness. She offered a range of artwork and services: high-quality prints, signed lithographs, original oil and watercolor paintings, original graphics, some pottery and glasswork, framing, and advice on displaying art. She'd relied on Maine artists, friends of hers not that well known on the West Coast, for much of the original work she offered. That would change, she thought, when she introduced and represented Sarah Linwood.

Two teenaged browsers grinned at the print of Spiderman adorning the wall just inside the open doorway of her workroom at the back of her gallery. "Where's Batman?" one asked.

"In my apartment," Annie said, straight-faced.

They laughed and bought a couple of comic-book prints for themselves.

Three different browsers during the course of the afternoon outright asked to see the painting she'd bought at the Linwood auction. Annie explained it wasn't on view. One man asked if it was for sale. She said no.
Keep it simple.
Part of her wanted to drive out to Marin County, find Garvin MacCrae, and apologize to him for her insensitivity, however unintentional. But what good would that do? She couldn't sell him the painting. It wasn't hers and never had been. And she couldn't explain. She'd given her word to Sarah.