Just Before Sunrise (8 page)

"Look, Mr. MacCrae, I don't—"

"Garvin." He forced himself to glance around the gallery, assess the situation. "You're closing up, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. I'll buy you coffee. There's a shop around the corner. Otto will be okay here for a bit?"

Annie Payne stared at him.

"We need to talk," he said softly.

He watched her swallow. "I don't have anything to tell you."

"Well, I have a few things to tell you."

"This man—Vic Denardo—who is he?"

Garvin didn't mince words. "Vic Denardo is the chief suspect in the murders of my wife and her grandfather five years ago."

She started to sway, her knees going out from under her, but Garvin grabbed her arm. She steadied herself. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her jacket. She gave him a feeble smile. "Maybe coffee would be a good idea."

Union Street was crowded even early on a drizzly Sunday winter evening, helping Annie to feel a little less uneasy about going for coffee with Garvin MacCrae. Possibly, she thought, she'd told him too much about her intruder. She was shaken by the idea he could be a suspect in two murders, not to mention on Sarah Linwood's trail, but maybe Garvin had gotten it wrong. Annie glanced at him. He seemed taller than yesterday, more powerfully built. It could just be his casual clothes or even her own sense of vulnerability after what he'd told her about the man who'd hidden in her workroom. Vic Denardo. The name meant nothing to her.

As they crossed Union, she could see the drizzle glistening on her companion's dark hair. His eyes were an unusually deep, earthy shade of green. She hadn't really noticed yesterday. He pulled open the door to the coffee shop, and she ducked in ahead of him, welcoming the warmth, the smell of coffee and sweets, the chatter and laughter of the crowd.

Garvin offered to get their order while she slid off toward the back of the shop to find a table. She settled into a wooden chair at a two-person round table amidst bookcases, brass lamps, wood-paneled walls with old photographs. The shop resembled a Victorian library, and it was packed with people of every age in every manner of dress. Annie watched Garvin MacCrae weave through people and tables with his tray. He was a good-looking man, at ease, it seemed, wherever he found himself. But she sensed that he was a man with a mission, and she doubted that an item in a local gossip column was sufficient reason for him to have tracked her down.

He set the tray on the small table and lifted off her frothy cappuccino and chocolate-dipped biscotti and sat down with a black coffee for himself. "You're new in town, aren't you?" he asked.

Annie nodded. "I'm from Maine. I came out here in November and opened my gallery just before Christmas."

He studied her with a disturbing, penetrating intensity. "Why San Francisco?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd visited twice before and liked it, and I had this fantasy of opening my own gallery. Then my cottage was swept out to sea in a storm. I'd lived there my whole life. My father died when I was a baby, and for a long time it was just my mother, grandmother, and me. Then my mother died when I was sixteen, and Gran died the summer before last." Annie used a tiny spoon to skim cinnamon-sprinkled foam off her cappuccino. "So when my cottage was lost, it seemed like an opportune moment to leave."

"Any regrets?"

"No, not really. I love Maine—it's home. But I'm enjoying San Francisco, and I love running a gallery. I thought about opening one in Maine, but I don't know if I could have brought myself to quit my job there. I was director of a small maritime museum. It's hard to give up that kind of security. But if I headed west"—she shrugged—"then I'd have no choice."

Garvin settled back in his chair, but Annie had no illusions that he wasn't watching, listening to everything. "How does the painting you bought yesterday fit in with your gallery?"

"I'm not sure," she said quickly, hoping she didn't look as if she'd been caught unaware.

"It just struck your fancy and you paid five thousand dollars for it?"

His tone was nonconfrontational, without even a hint of disbelief or sarcasm. Very slick, Annie thought. But she wasn't fooled. Garvin MacCrae no more believed she'd bought that painting for her gallery than the man in her workroom a half hour ago did. She tried her cappuccino. "Pretty much."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again and drank some of his coffee. Finally, he said, "When you're ready, I'd appreciate it if you would tell me exactly what this man who hid in your workroom said to you."

Annie dipped her biscotti into her cappuccino and bit off the end, welcoming the rush of sugar and chocolate. She could feel Garvin's eyes on her. In spite of his patient words, he looked cold, hard, tight, as if he were steeling himself against giving a damn about anything she might say or do. Yet he was having a curious effect on her. With the sleeves of his sweater pushed up, she could see the cords of muscles in his tanned forearms and found herself wondering what he did for a living, who he was, how he'd ended up married to a Linwood. She caught herself looking at the calluses on his hands—she hadn't noticed them yesterday—and suddenly imagining ihcm on her. She lore her gaze away, her iaee hot.

As succinctly and accurately as she could, she related her encounter with the man in her workroom. She admitted nothing more about Sarah Linwood and the painting than she'd admitted to the gray-haired man.

"This Vic Denardo," she said finally. "If he's the police's chief suspect, why hasn't he been arrested?"

Garvin sat forward. "He disappeared after the murders."

Blood pounded in Annie's ears. Vic Denardo had disappeared too? "I had no idea. None of this—I just didn't know." She drank more of her cappuccino, willing herself not to blurt out everything about Sarah. She'd made a promise, and she meant to keep it until and unless she had no choice. "Why would he risk being recognized just because he thinks I can lead him to Sarah Linwood?"

"I don't know. I can only speculate. Annie, is he right?
Can
you lead him to Sarah?" Garvin's voice was deep, persuasive, undemanding. "Did she get you to buy that painting for her?"

Annie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any details of my purchase of the painting."

"Ah." He dropped his empty cup onto the tray, crumpled up his napkin, and tossed it there too. "Well, Annie Payne, allow me to explain to you just what kind of pile of muck you're sinking into. I met Vic Denardo about a year before my wife was murdered. He was a merchant marine, a colorful character. One day he showed up at the marina where I kept my boat, and we got to talking. Next thing, he was crewing for me on a regular basis. He didn't mind rough, cold conditions. Sometimes it was just the two of us. Other times I'd have Haley with me, her father, her grandfather, Linwood friends, members of their staff or mine. He got along with everyone."

"Did Sarah Linwood sail?"

"No, and Haley only when conditions were ideal. Do you sail?"

The question caught Annie off guard. She nodded. "I grew up on the water—my father was a seaman. I don't remember him, but I guess one of the ways I felt I could get close to him was by going out on the water." She managed a smile. "And I'm from Maine—if I waited for perfect conditions, I'd never leave land."

Garvin surprised her by smiling back. "Understood."

"Please," Annie said softly, "go on."

"One day Sarah came out to the marina to pick Haley up, and she met Vic. Pretty soon he was showing up less and less. I assumed he'd gone back to sea or found other things to amuse himself. I literally didn't think a thing of it." His tone was steady, clinical; it was as if he were struggling not to engage his emotions as he related the events that led to two murders five years ago. "A few months later, I found out he and Sarah were having an affair."

Annie held back a gasp of pure shock. The woman in the little pink house and the man in her workroom? It seemed an impossible combination. "Was it a secret?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Sarah's father—Thomas Linwood—was a difficult man, especially harsh with her. She knew he wouldn't approve. To make matters worse, Vic introduced her to gambling. For years Sarah lived the life her father expected her to live. She was well-mannered, dutiful, absolutely devoted to her family. She occupied herself with good works and polite hobbies. When it all came apart, it came apart in a big way. She took up gambling like there was no tomorrow. Cards, horses, slot machines. She loved them all. She lost thousands of dollars before anyone found out."

"Was she an addict?" Annie asked, feeling herself go pale.

If Garvin noticed, he didn't say. "I'd say yes, definitely. Once he found out, Thomas did what he could to cut off her funds and get her away from Denardo. But she went up against him in a way she probably should have at fourteen. Refused to budge. Smug as hell. She was the center of attention maybe for the first time in her life, and I think she liked it."

"How sad."

"It was a sad year. Thomas and Haley were killed about a week later. From what we've been able to piece together, Sarah decided she didn't want Linwood money. She had Vic get her money from a couple of loan sharks so she could support her gambling habit. She refused to pay up. She believed her jackpot was around the corner. But Vic got impatient or his loan sharks did, and finally he went to see Thomas."

"Without Sarah's knowledge?"

"That's what she told the police."

Annie's eyes narrowed. "You have doubts?"

"Let's just say I've tried to keep an open mind. Thomas and Vic met in the library one evening. A housekeeper heard them arguing. A little while later, Vic stormed out. The housekeeper left not long after. About a half hour after that, Haley stopped in. Her grandfather was dead."

"She found him?" Annie shuddered, trying not to imagine the grisly scene. "How awful. And then she—"

"Yes," Garvin said. "And then she was killed."

"You don't have to tell me," Annie said quietly.

He shook his head. "I think you need to know everything, Annie. The police wanted to talk to Vic. Sarah claimed she hadn't seen him that day and didn't know where he was. Before the police could track him down, Haley was killed in the same room where Thomas was killed. No one was in the house at the time."

"But it must have been a crime scene still. What was she doing there?"

"I don't know for sure. She'd been doing some investigating on her own, looking into Sarah's finances, trying to get a lead on the loan sharks, I think. She was very devoted to Sarah and wanted to help her."

"Who—how was she found?"

"I found her."

Annie swallowed, twisted her fingers together. She'd seen death before. She'd been with her mother when she'd died, then, years later, with Gran. But they hadn't been snatched from her by the violent hand of another. They hadn't been murdered.

"There were no witnesses," Garvin MacCrae went on in a level, almost clinical, voice. "Ballistics tests showed she and Thomas were killed with the same gun. The police questioned Sarah. Again, she claimed ignorance."

"And Vic Denardo?"

"Nobody has seen or heard from Vic since the night he stormed out of the Linwood house. Sarah took off without a word to anyone two days after Haley's death." He paused, studying Annie. "She hasn't been heard from since. There's been a lot of speculation about what happened to her, how much she knew about the murders, how much she was involved."

Annie's head shot up. "Involved?"

"Some people think she could have put Vic Denardo up to killing her father."

"But that's horrible!"

"It's all horrible, Annie. Whether she was involved or not, whether she helped Vic get away or not, whether she was just as shocked and horrified as the rest of us, two people are dead."

"I'm sorry," Annie mumbled. "But all I did was buy a painting."

Garvin grabbed up the tray, got to his feet. He stared down at her. "No, I don't think that's all you did. In fact, I'm pretty sure Denardo's right and Sarah got you to buy that painting yesterday."

"I told you I can't discuss the details—"

"Right. Look, if you've made promises you're trying to keep, I understand. But now you have the facts. If that man was Vic Denardo today and he has unfinished business with Sarah and thinks you can lead him to her, he'll be back."

"Maybe I should just tell the police about him."

"Maybe you should. But they'll want to know why you paid five thousand dollars for that painting yesterday, and if you're in touch with Sarah—all of it. You'd better get your loyalties and promises straightened out before you start withholding information from the police."

"I never said—"

He ignored her. "Maybe you were just trying to do a good deed yesterday. But two people are dead, and their murderer is still at large. I'm not trying to be hard on you, Annie, but I wouldn't forget that if I were you."

Without waiting for her to respond, he started across the crowded shop. Cursing silently, Annie followed him out to the street, where a light, steady rain was softening the hard edges of the evening. She whipped an umbrella out from her tapestry bag and unfurled it without inviting Garvin MacCrae under its bright yellow canopy.

He didn't seem to mind. The rain, in fact, seemed to have a calming effect on him. Or perhaps it was this sudden conviction of his that she was in cahoots with Sarah Linwood—which she was. Annie gritted her teeth, leading him across Union. How could she have been such an idiot as to walk into the Linwood mansion yesterday without any facts, any background—without even the last name of the woman she was representing?

"Sarah must be pretty persuasive," Garvin MacCrae said calmly, "for you to have gone blindly into that ballroom yesterday morning."

Annie refused to answer.

"A little pissed at her for not giving you the facts, are you?"

"You're so sure you're right, aren't you?"

"Tell me I'm not."

"Why? You wouldn't believe me."

He gave her a half smile, a glimpse into a man she suddenly knew could be warm, understanding, a trustworthy ally. But she wasn't destined to experience that side of Garvin MacCrae when he thought—when he knew—she was withholding information from him. "You got that right, Annie Payne."