Just Before Sunrise (7 page)

No, she had to put the humiliation of the column and the awkwardness of her encounter with Garvin MacCrae out of her mind.

When her last customer left just before five, Annie noticed a few drops of rain on her window and started bringing in the pots from the courtyard, taking in the heaviest ones first. While she worked, Otto crept out from behind the half-moon desk, where he'd been conked out most of the day. He stretched and yawned. She liked to give him jobs when she could think of something he wouldn't destroy—he was fond of picking up trash in the courtyard—but right now she couldn't think of anything. Not that he seemed that interested.

"San Francisco's spoiling you," she told him as she set down three little pots of yellow pansies just inside the door. "You need about a week in the wilds of downeast Maine to get you back into shape."

He gave a low growl way back in his throat.

Annie raised her brow, mock insulted. "The nerve. Who feeds you? Who brushes you? Who saved your life?"

But his ears went back, his brow wrinkled, and he actually barked.

Annie straightened. Otto seldom barked. "Otto?"

He barked again, growling. His attention was directed at the open door of her workroom. It was possible, Annie thought, that upon awakening from his nap, her not-always-brilliant dog had mistaken her poster of Spiderman for a stranger. His powerful, well-muscled body was tensed in anticipation of a challenge. It was an impressive sight. He wouldn't attack unless attacked, at which point she had no illusions that his rottweiler genes would kick into full gear.

"Otto, that's Spiderman. He's one of the good guys."

He barked three times in succession, possibly a record.

Just as she was realizing something might be up, a man walked in front of the Spiderman poster. He hadn't made a sound. Annie jumped back in surprise. Otto lunged toward him.

"Otto!"

"Hey, poochie," the man said nervously, taking a step back.

He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a stocky, muscular build, thick, wavy iron gray hair, and a prominent aquiline nose. He wore a white turtleneck that hugged his trim torso, close-fitting black jeans, and black running shoes. Annie hadn't noticed him in her gallery today.

His dark eyes stayed on Otto even as he addressed her. "He friendly?"

"Depends." Annie remained close to the front door, just in case her surprise visitor proved to be a threat. If necessary, she was fairly certain Otto would give her time to get out. Not intentionally, of course. Just by virtue of being a rottweiler. "Who are you?"

The dark eyes still didn't leave Otto. "The dog."

"He won't attack you unless you attack him."

A near smirk. "Why would I do that?"

"Yes. Why would you?"

He seemed to relax slightly but didn't move from the back room doorway. To do so would involve making peace with Otto, who was still agitated, if no closer to biting than he ever was. "You're Annie Payne, right?"

She nodded.

"Nice place you got here."

"Thank you."

If she didn't remember him from today's customers, did that mean he'd snuck in while she wasn't looking? She didn't think she'd been so busy she wouldn't have noticed him, but maybe it was possible. Could he have broken in through the back door in her workroom?

"I don't know much about art myself," he said conversationally, Otto pacing uneasily in front of him. "I kind of like Norman Rockwell, though."

"Many people do. His romantic view of American life has an undeniable appeal."

"It's a lot of bullshit, I know that. I mean, my life was never all that apple pie and stories by the fireside crap. I don't know anybody's whose was. You?"

"Not really." If she could keep him talking, respond to him normally, she thought, maybe she could buy herself some time to figure out what to do—and whether he was dangerous. "I've always thought that's why he's so popular. He appeals to the memories we wish we had, not to the ones we do have. He creates a nostalgia for a nonexistent past, speaks to our yearnings."

"Yeah, well. I like the one in the barbershop."

Annie licked her lips. Otto had settled down a bit, but his forehead was still wrinkled in suspicion. Ordinarily, by now he'd be licking a stranger's hand. "I have a print of it if you'd like to see it. I was just about to close up, but I don't mind—"

"I'm not here about Norman Rockwell."

She hadn't expected he was. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

The stranger's dark eyes leveled on her, almost as if Otto weren't there between them. "Sarah Linwood."

Annie looked down at the flowers spread out at her feet, their array of colors, and pushed a pot of yellow pansies with her toe. A nice, comfortable new life in San Francisco. Attractive surroundings, a successful gallery, a chance to prove to herself she could live away from her peninsula in Maine, to put a few of her dreams to the test. That was all she'd wanted. Now, it seemed, she'd gotten herself mixed up in the problems of a prominent, wealthy, troubled family.

She licked her lips, glanced back at her visitor. "Who?"

His gaze remained steady. "Sarah Linwood," he repeated. "She painted that portrait you bought yesterday. She gave you the five grand to buy it. She back in town?"

"I'm afraid you have me at a loss, Mr.—"

"Sarah's good at getting people to do her dirty work for her."

He spoke calmly, even matter-of-factly, but the undertone of bitterness was unmistakable. Whoever he was, he clearly had a bone to pick with Sarah Linwood. Annie just hoped it had nothing to do with the murders of Sarah's father and niece.

She took a breath, glad for every stereotype of the fierceness and unpredictability of rottweilers, and wondered if hers could sense her growing uneasiness. "My purchase of the painting yesterday is a private matter. I'm sure you understand. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish closing up. A friend's meeting me here in a few minutes." She made a show of glancing at her watch. "In fact, he should be here now."

The intruder grinned. "Is that a fact?"

"I have nothing to tell you. Please leave."

His grin faded. "If you made a deal with Sarah Linwood, kid, you're in way over your head."

"You're upsetting my dog," Annie said.

"Yeah, well, your dog's upsetting me."

But he sighed, plainly frustrated with his situation. He wanted answers about Sarah Linwood, but Annie wasn't cooperating and Otto wasn't going to let him pry them out of her. She tried to look as if she had nothing to hide.

"Okay, I'll leave," he said finally. "But you can tell Sarah that me and her still have unfinished business. I'm going to find her. One way or the other. I'm not giving up."

His voice was low, calm, virtually without emotion. Annie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp weather. She managed to speak, her jaw muscles aching with tension. "Who
are
you?"

Otto gave a deep, low growl, almost a purring sound. It surprised Annie as well as her intruder.

"I think he senses my tension," she said.

The man grunted. "I hate dogs."

She didn't think Otto would bite or rip off a leg or anything, but he could knock the man down and keep him down while she went for help. But she didn't know if the man was armed, if he'd shoot Otto or knife him if he felt threatened, if the police would end up arresting
her
and demanding her dog be put to sleep for attacking innocent people.

"It's okay, Otto," she said soothingly. She raised her eyes to the gray-haired man. "I really don't know anything about Sarah Linwood."

He smirked in disbelief. "Sure, kid."

But without another word, he withdrew into her workroom, pulling the door shut tight behind him.

Otto shot to the closed door and barked loudly, growling as if he had delusions of being a proper watchdog. Annie waited until she heard the back door, which led out to the alley behind her building, shut before she moved.

She put her ear to the workroom door, heard nothing, and finally pushed it open, motioning to Otto. "Go ahead, Otto. You go first."

Eager to do so, he bounded into her workroom and sniffed a trail to the outer door while Annie checked to see if anything had been disturbed. But the shelving unit where she kept her framing and office supplies was intact, the sawhorse table she used for framing, her tools, the two projects she had waiting for her. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. She peeked into her small half bath, smelled the goat's milk soap she'd bought from Zoe. All was well there, too.

The metal back door showed no sign of a break-in. She pushed the deadbolt back in and made a mental note to speak to her landlord about an alarm system, never mind that her peculiar visitor must just have slipped in back when she and Otto weren't paying attention.

"Well, Otto." She was trembling, teeth chattering now that the immediate crisis was over. "I suppose this is a case of all's well that ends well. We'll have to keep a closer eye on our customers." She exhaled, trying to calm herself. "Who
was
that guy?"

Not a customer, obviously. He'd deliberately hidden in her workroom and waited until everyone had left in order to interrogate her about Sarah Linwood.

Why?

Otto seemed to have forgotten him altogether. He pushed his head into the trash can to get at the remains of her and Zoe's wild blueberry scones.

Annie scowled at him. "Otto, get out of there."

He looked up at her, drool dripping off his massive chin.

She sighed. "You don't know what's wrong with me, do you, buddy? So what do I do now? Call the police? The guy didn't steal anything. He didn't even break in. If I call the cops, they're going to want to know if I have been in touch with Sarah, and things could get messy real quick."

Talking to herself. Not a good sign.

What she would do, she decided, was tell Sarah Linwood about the gray-haired man and see what she had to say.

"A pity there's no scone left for me, huh, Otto? I could use a bite to eat. Come on," she said, encouraging him to abandon the trash can, "we might as well finish closing up shop."

The afternoon sun had given way to a light, steady rain as Garvin made his way down the narrow brick walkway off Union Street, emerging into the small courtyard where Annie's Gallery was located. He noticed the simple sign, the half-opened door, a few pots of pansies out front. This was not one of Union Street's distinguished, expensive galleries. He pushed the door open and peeked inside, even a quick glance confirming his impression of eclecticism and unpretentiousness. More pots of flowers, he noted, were on the floor just inside the door. He must be catching Annie Payne closing up shop. But as he stepped inside, he saw no sign of her.

A dog growled, and the big rottweiler of yesterday padded out of a back room. Garvin took an involuntary, automatic step back. "Whoa, boy. It's Otto, right? Yeah. Nice dog."

He plopped down onto Garvin's feet, drool dripping from his massive jaw.

"Otto, it's okay," came his owner's voice. "You remember Garvin MacCrae from yesterday, right?"

Garvin glanced up from the dog, and immediately went still, his eyes narrowed on Annie Payne. She was pale and obviously shaken, not just surprised to see him but unnerved. He'd come straight from the marina he'd bought a couple of years after Haley's death. He hadn't bothered changing from his sweater and torn, stained jeans. He knew he looked very different from yesterday at the auction, but that didn't explain her reaction.

"Oh," she said, clearing her throat, "hello."

She was visibly trembling, with none of yesterday's easy manner and cheerfulness. He supposed she'd learned about Haley. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She gave him a quick, phony smile. "It's been a busy day."

"Because of that stupid piece in the paper this morning?"

"It did bring out the browsers. I—one of them—he just—" She inhaled, breaking off. "It's just been a weird day."

"Ms. Payne?"

Her slate eyes fastened on him abruptly, and she seemed steadier. "It's Annie. And I'm okay. I just had an unsettling experience with a man who hid in my workroom. He's gone now. He slipped out through the back—"

Garvin didn't wait for her to finish. With Otto on his heels, he ducked into the workroom. It was small and tidy, used for storage and a modest framing operation. He checked the back alley but saw no one. On his way back into the gallery, he noticed the print of Spiderman. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd have found at any of the galleries Haley had dragged him to during their brief time together.

Some color had returned to Annie's cheeks, but she was still clearly shaken. "Did this guy threaten you?" Garvin asked.

She shook her head. "Not really."

"What do you mean, not really'? What exactly did he say?"

She shut her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, and Garvin was again struck with the gut feeling that Annie Payne was hiding something. Otto yawned and flopped down between them.

"It was about the painting," she said finally. "The one I bought yesterday. I had no idea—" Her gaze, direct and pained, focused on him. "I didn't know about your wife."

"I know you didn't."

"I'm sorry."

He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her words.

She took a breath. "The man just now—he said the painting was done by your wife's aunt, Sarah Linwood. He thinks—he accused me of buying it on her behalf. He said they have unfinished business. I don't..." She paused, averting her eyes. "I don't have any idea who he is."

"Vic Denardo," Garvin said, his body rigid, his mind reeling.

Annie Payne frowned. "Who?"

She didn't know. She'd paid five thousand dollars for Sarah's painting of Haley and yet knew nothing about the murders, the scandal, that had shattered the Linwood family.

It didn't, Garvin thought, add up.

"This man," he said. "Describe him."

She licked her lips, no color left in her face. "He was probably in his mid-to-late fifties. Stocky, maybe five nine. Thick, wavy gray hair. Dark eyes."

Garvin clenched his hands into fists. "That's Vic."