Just Before Sunrise (14 page)

"I'm sorry. Let me try again."

"Only if you'll tell me if that was Cynthia Linwood in here after lunch."

Annie gave a mock frown. "Who's doing whom the favor here?"

"It was," Zoe said, thrusting the jar back under Annie's nose. "Garvin MacCrae, Cynthia Linwood. You're certainly getting around, my friend."

"Apple pie."

"What?"

"The smell. It's apple pie."

"No, it's not."

Annie laughed. "Why do you keep having me smell stuff if you're always going to argue with me?"

Zoe screwed the cap back on the jar. "Because I'm ever amazed at what an untrained sense of smell comes up with. Apple pie. Good God."

"Well, what is it?"

"Essential oil of juniper with a touch of vanilla. I drizzled it over raw cotton, just for fun. The vanilla must have triggered your apple pie response. It's the only thing I can figure. But how on earth could apple pie make you feel harassed?"

"It didn't. My day did. And there's no vanilla in apple pie."

"Yes, but it has a similar nostalgic scent." Zoe plopped down on Annie's high swivel chair. Business was slow on Tuesday. "Did she buy anything?"

"Who?" At Zoe's long-suffering sigh, Annie said, "Oh. Cynthia Linwood. No, she just stopped in to see my gallery. I met her at Winslow's last night. "She'd already provided Zoe with a detailed account of the opening that morning over corn muffins. Zoe, of course, had accused Annie of willfully leaving out crucial details about her and Garvin MacCrae, which she had. "She seems nice enough. I think she's curious about the painting I bought at the auction."

"Well, who isn't?" But she became serious. "Cynthia Linwood's in a position to really help you, you know. All she has to do is recommend you to her friends, and you won't have to worry about paying the rent. Our miserly landlord might even be forced to hire someone to keep up the courtyard." She leaned forward, peering at Annie. "You have dark circles under your eyes, kid. Up late pondering Garvin MacCrae?"

For sure, Annie thought. "Zoe, last night was not a date."

"Doesn't keep a body from staying up late pondering." She slid off the stool and grabbed up her concoction. "But you're already feeling harassed, so I'll leave you alone. Go home and take a hot orange blossom bath, get some sleep."

"I was going to take Otto for a run on the beach."

Zoe grinned. "That too."

She departed with her dryer fuzz, and Annie called two customers to notify them that their frame orders were ready. She reached answering machines for both and left what she hoped were coherent messages. She hadn't had so much as a browser in the past forty-five minutes. No Winslow Gallery was hers, especially on a Tuesday.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she could see herself and Gran out on the rocks on a quiet summer afternoon, the only sounds the wind and the gulls and the lapping tide. Gran had never lived in the city, had never wanted to live anywhere but on her bay. She'd seldom even traveled. Everything she needed, everything she wanted, was right there on the peninsula. She didn't miss art galleries, coffee shops, big-screen movie theaters, city lights.

Annie rubbed one foot over Otto's back. Lethargic all day, he was conked out behind her desk. Cynthia Linwood hadn't even noticed him. Probably just as well. How could she explain herself, her life, to someone like Cynthia Linwood?

"I'm homesick, Otto," she said softly.

It was only because she was so damned desperate to have Garvin MacCrae on her side, she decided. An inexplicable bit of insanity on her part. Totally misguided. But there it was, eating away at her, making her squirm. Time to latch onto the woman she'd been before Saturday morning's auction. Before kissing a man who only wanted to use her to get to his wife's murderer.

A man materialized in front of her desk, jerking her from her stupor. She jumped and just managed to keep from falling off her chair and making an ass of herself. "I'm sorry," she said, her heart pounding in classic startle response. "I didn't hear you come in."

He was a dark-haired, good-looking man in his mid-to-late thirties, conservatively dressed in a gray suit and red tie. He wore expensive preppy glasses. Obviously not expecting her extreme reaction, he gave her a tentative smile. "No apology necessary. I didn't mean to startle you. I had no idea you hadn't heard me." His smile reached his dark eyes, helping to calm her. "No one's ever accused me of being light on my feet."

Annie waved a hand, not feeling so embarrassed. "Oh, it's not your fault. My mind was wandering."

Abandoning Otto, who hadn't alerted her to company or even stirred, she went around her half-moon desk. She had on one of her better outfits today, a bisque-colored silk sweater with a slim black skirt and silver hoop earrings. Basic, mix-and-matchable, but attractive.

Her new customer did a quick survey of the gallery, then glanced back at her. "You're Annie Payne, I take it? I'm Ethan Conninger. I work with the Linwoods. I—" He broke off as Otto took it upon himself to emerge from behind the desk and stretch, an impressive sight even for someone accustomed to rottweilers.

"It's okay," Annie said quickly, "he's friendly. His name's Otto."

"After von Bismarck?"

She shook her head. "After this old lobsterman who spotted him in the water. Otto Miller. It's a long story."

Ethan Conninger's easy manner didn't change. "I see. He doesn't deter business?"

"No one's complained yet."

He grinned at her, irreverent. "Who would?" Otto, ever unpredictable, decided to make friends with him. Ethan Conningcr gingerly patted his massive head and stood back from his slobbery mouth. "Hey, fella. You're a big guy, aren't you?" He looked back at Annie as he straightened. "He's a beautiful animal. I've considered getting a rottweiler, but I've never really been around one. How old is he?"

"Three." Having someone to pet him instead of cringe at his presence, Otto flopped happily down at Ethan Conninger's feet. "I rescued him from a bay in Maine when he was just a puppy. He's never been your stereotypical rottweiler."

"I can see that." Since Otto hadn't chomped off a leg or anything, Ethan Conninger seemed more at ease. "Well, I just stopped by to introduce myself while I was in the area. Cynthia Linwood mentioned you were at Winslow's last night. I couldn't make it myself."

"Yes, she stopped by earlier."

"Did she? I knew she was planning to." He grinned easily, self-conscious in a charming way. "Look, to be perfectly honest, we're all curious about you after the auction. The painting you bought— frankly, I thought it had been destroyed years ago. So when you came out of the blue and paid as much as you did—" He shrugged. "Tickles my curiosity bone, anyway."

Annie smiled. "I understand. I didn't expect this reaction on Saturday when I bought the painting. I had no idea of its background."

"It must have come as a shock when you learned." He peered closely at an oil painting of a meadow of lupine that one of her Maine friends had done. "You had us glued to our chairs, I'll say that. Garvin and I have been friends for years—long before either of us got involved with the Linwoods. He's very tenacious. Actually, I was surprised when he stopped at five thousand."

"I'm glad he did." She tried to keep her tone light, that of a woman who had nothing to hide. Garvin wouldn't be fooled, but maybe Ethan Conninger would be. "I don't know if I'd have paid more than five thousand myself."

He cocked his head back at her. "No regrets?"

"I wouldn't say that. If I'd known about—if I'd known why Garvin wanted the painting, I might not have bid at all."

It was the truth, she thought. She hadn't known about the murders. If she had, she might have argued with Sarah and refused to represent her. At least she would have better been able to assess the risks of what she was getting into.

Ethan Conninger moved on to her pottery and glasswork displays, apparently giving them his full attention. "Cynthia mentioned you and Garvin have made peace."

"I didn't know we needed to."

He raised his eyebrows, giving her a rakish grin. "Then you're the only one."

She could feel the blood rising to her cheeks and wondered if he noticed.

"Any plans to put the portrait on display?" he asked casually.

"No, not right now." Maybe, she thought, when Sarah went public with her work. "I certainly didn't mean to stir up bad memories—"

"A lot of memories went on the block this weekend, Annie." Abruptly serious, he moved back toward her, Otto on his heels. "John and Cynthia wanted to do a real housecleaning. The painting wasn't the only hot button that could have been pressed. The house itself—" He broke off, his dark eyes clouded behind his glasses. "It wasn't an easy day for any of us, but at least it was all for a good cause. The Haley Linwood Foundation has become a real force in the community."

"I'm sure it has," Annie mumbled awkwardly. She recalled Garvin's reaction to Cynthia Linwood's reminder of the foundation's annual dinner on Friday. Maybe he'd moved on after his wife's death, but he wasn't over it. On some level, he could hope that finding her killer would give him the closure he needed.

"Look, I've taken up enough of your time," Ethan Conninger said. The earlier casualness and smoothly irreverent manner were back. "You've a nice gallery here, Annie Payne. Good luck to you. I hope it succeeds."

"Thank you."

As he turned to go, Gran's painting caught his eye, and Annie suddenly decided that Ethan Conninger knew a bit about art. "That's an interesting work," he said. "Not so easy to dismiss, is it? It makes me feel homesick, and I've never even been in a cottage that looks like that."

"My grandmother painted it. She lived in that cottage her entire life."

"Amazing. I suppose it's not for sale, either?"

Annie smiled, shook her head. "Nope."

He laughed. "It's going to be tough to stay in business when you insist on keeping your best stuff for yourself."

"Well, not many would consider Gran's painting or the painting I bought Saturday quality work—"

"But you do."

"They have heart. They're honest. I don't know, they just work for me. I don't pretend I'll ever get the five thousand back for the painting of Haley Linwood MacCrae, and Gran's—" She glanced up at it, immediately comforted. "I wouldn't take a million dollars for it."

Ethan Conninger winked at her. "It'll be interesting to see how you survive in San Francisco with that attitude. But it is refreshing. Glad to have met you, Annie Payne. Next time I'm ready to buy some artwork, I'll be in touch."

"I'd appreciate that."

After he left, Annie spent a restless hour before finally closing up shop for the day. She skipped her run on the beach with Otto and instead walked him up and down a couple of hills, then headed back to her apartment. She grabbed an apple and paced around her small main room. Five minutes later, without thinking too hard about whether she had the time, the energy, or the nerve for it, she decided that objective details on the Linwood murders were long overdue, and she headed to the San Francisco public library.

Garvin headed up the dock, yachts and launches and the sparkling bay behind him, a strip of grass with benches and a parking lot up ahead, and the main buildings and grounds of the marina up to his left. He knew he looked like hell. It was Wednesday afternoon, and he'd spent the last twenty hours out on the water. He'd just anchored his boat. He needed a shower, a meal, someone to handcuff him to his desk to keep him from going back out across the Golden Gate to see Annie Payne.

But Michael Yuma waved to him from the front of their marine supply store, a small white building in need of paint. Typically, Yuma looked as if he'd been scraping barnacles off the bottoms of boats all day. "Hey, MacCrae. You're twenty minutes too late. Your damsel in distress was just here."

"My what? That's a pretty sexist term, you know, Yuma."

Michael squinted at him in the late afternoon sun. "Yeah, well, you didn't hear what she called you. Man, her feet weren't touching the ground, she was so mad."

" 'Damsel in distress' implies troubled—"

"Oh, she's that too. Didn't want to show it, but I could see it. Blond lady. Had a big ugly dog in the car with her."

"That would be Otto," Garvin said dryly.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't going to argue with him in the car. She wouldn't give me any details. She said to tell you she'd hunt you down like a rabid dog."

"Those were her words?"

"Yep. I'm from the city. What do I know about rabid dogs?" He grinned, but the concern hovered in his dark eyes. "I wondered why you headed out to sea. Now I'm getting an idea."

Garvin raked a hand through his hair and glanced back at the water, half wishing he'd stayed out another twenty hours. Yuma was perfectly capable of running the marina without him. He had yesterday, when Garvin had headed across the bay and kept watch on Annie's Gallery, ducking into Union Street shops and restaurants in which he had no interest in a half-hearted effort to keep her from spotting him. Anyone who ventured down the brick walk to her courtyard shop, he saw. Cynthia Linwood, Ethan Conninger. The odd browser. Aromatherapy customers for the shop next door.

But no Vic Denardo. And the only one watching Annie Payne seemed to be him. By dusk he was so disgusted with his own behavior and agitated by the situation that he'd had to get out on the water. He'd stayed out all night and then most of the day.

"You told her where I was?" he asked Yuma.

"Yep. Told her I expected you in before nightfall and offered her coffee and a place to sit inside if she wanted to wait here, gave her directions to your house in case she wanted to wait there. She chose to leave. My bet is, she's up at your place."

"You don't think she went back to San Francisco?"

"Uh-uh. She was after your hide." Yuma clapped him on the shoulder. "Nothing like an angry woman to greet a man just come in off the water. You need me, MacCrae, give a holler."

"Always good to know, Yuma."

The kid was still chuckling as he headed back to work, but Garvin knew that Michael Yuma had meant what he'd said. If Garvin needed him, Yuma would be there. But what could he—or anyone—do about Annie Payne?