Just Before Sunrise (9 page)

"Well, I don't believe that man today was this Vic Denardo character," she said huffily. "I think he's someone you dispatched to throw me off guard. Then you could swoop in, play the good guy, and try to get me to confirm this theory of yours that—"

"No, Annie." His voice was deadly serious. "That's not what happened."

Her heart pounded, and she knew it wasn't, knew before she'd even made her lame accusation. She turned down the narrow walk that led between the two upscale converted Victorian houses to her courtyard. Garvin, she noted, stayed with her. He seemed unaffected by the rain, the chilly temperature, the dark. She found his presence oddly reassuring, despite his doubts about her. She closed up her umbrella and leaned it against her storefront while she unlocked the door. Otto was pacing inside, impatient with being thrown off his routines. Not many men, Annie thought, spirited her off for coffee.

She glanced back at the man who had. He was standing in the doorway, watching her. "Thank you for coffee." Her voice was steady, formal. "If that man comes back—whoever he is—I'll let you know."

"For your sake, I hope he doesn't."

She acknowledged his words with a nod before retreating into her workroom for Otto's leash. When she returned, Garvin MacCrae was still standing in her doorway.

"Can I give you a ride home?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'll be fine. I don't live all that far away. Otto could use the walk." She swallowed, smiled. "Me too."

Garvin walked briskly to her half-moon desk, whipped a page off a notepad, grabbed a pen, and jotted something down. "Here's my home number and address," he said, "and the number and address of my marina." He walked over to her and tucked the sheet into her tapestry bag. "Call me anytime."

"Thank you."

He remained close to her, close enough that she could smell the dampness of his thick dark navy sweater. "And when you see her next," he said softly, "ask Sarah about what I've told you."

Annie started to speak, but he touched one finger to her mouth and shook his head, and a moment later, he was out the door.

Chapter Four

Later than usual on Monday morning, Garvin took the winding road down from his hillside house in Belvedere and headed toward the water. The winter rains had turned the usually golden Marin hills across the Golden Gate from San Francisco a lush spring green, and the bay sparkled in the morning sun. He had grown up in San Francisco, made his mark there, found love, endured loss. His parents, his two sisters, his brother all lived in the city. He had traveled extensively but had never lived anywhere else. He thought of Annie Payne packing up a rusting station wagon and a rottweiler and heading clear across the country to open an art gallery. Was she running away from her losses—or toward a new life?

He'd been tempted to run after Haley's death. In a way, maybe he had. He'd moved out of the city, abandoned the financial district. If Haley came back to life tonight, she'd find him a different man from the one she'd married. She might not like what he'd become. She might not even recognize him.

He seized his steering wheel and forced himself to concentrate on his driving. The bay sparkled in the late morning sun. It was winter, and not many boats were out. He rolled down his window, inhaling the cool air, tasting the salt on the breeze. But he remained tense, distracted by the certainty that Annie Payne was way, way over her head in Linwood troubles.

He gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself. Any urge he had to protect Annie Payne was ridiculous, unasked for, and totally beside the point. She had crossed the country on her own. She'd set up a gallery on her own. She'd come to the auction Saturday on her own. She was
not
helpless.

He swerved off onto a narrow road, veering down to a strip of land along the water where he owned a struggling marina. It had become his focus, his anchor, in the years since the murders. No one would mistake it for a posh San Francisco Bay yacht club. It was a working marina, with a boatyard, sheds, a marine supply store, a machine shop, and docks for those who didn't care about amenities.

He found Ethan Conninger waiting for him out on the dock. He was dressed for his job as the Linwoods' personal financial manager, his deep blue eyes behind studious round glasses. He was a tall, well-built, good-looking man, as smart about money as Garvin, just never as ambitious in his career.

"Morning," Ethan said. "Thought you'd be up with the seagulls."

"Not today." Not, Garvin thought, after a night of tossing and turning over the plight of Annie Payne, of thinking about her troubled slate eyes and how she'd licked biscotti crumbs from her lower lip.

Ethan glanced around at the marina. "Bare-bones operation, huh? You always did go for the basics when it came to sailing."

Garvin shrugged. "Not everyone likes a fancy yacht club. Anyway, you didn't come for a tour dressed like that. What's up?"

Ethan's expression changed almost imperceptibly, a seriousness coming over him. "I'm here about the auction on Saturday. You and this Annie Payne character really have people stirred up over your fight over that painting. You saw the piece in yesterday's paper?"

"Just gossip." Dangerous gossip, Garvin thought, if it had brought Vic Denardo out of the woodwork.

"Maybe, but you know John and Cynthia when it comes to gossip. They've both had enough of it. I've tried to talk her out of it, but Cynthia's decided to look into why a new gallery owner in town would pay so much for such a painting. She thinks there might be more to it than just fancy." Ethan grinned suddenly, some of his usual irreverence creeping in, but the seriousness stayed in his eyes. "Though God knows, Garvin, you could drive a saint into a bidding frenzy."

Garvin shifted his gaze out to the water, boats bobbing in the waves. A day of hard work. That was what he'd promised himself after yesterday's jaunt to Union Street. He'd considered going to the police, but what would he tell them besides that Annie Payne had been pale and scared yesterday and had described a man who fit Vic Denardo's description? What could they do that they hadn't already done in the past five years?

But early this morning, in the milkiness of dawn, half awake, he'd felt the curling, snaking doubt. What if he hadn't gone to the police because he was afraid they'd scare Vic away?

"Garvin?"

"What? Sorry. I was just thinking about the auction. What does Cynthia plan to do?"

"Just check this woman out, I guess. She's asked me to keep my eyes open."

"What about John?"

"He hasn't said anything to me. If I had to make a guess, I'd say Cynthia's trying to keep him from getting hurt, in case this Annie Payne's up to something."

Garvin turned his attention back to Ethan. "Such as?"

Ethan shrugged, awkward. "I don't know."

But he did. Garvin could see it in his discomfort, the way he pushed up his glasses and gave a little laugh, never one to appreciate anything that might interfere with his good humor. Ethan Conninger preferred to avoid confrontation, to enjoy life. It made him fun to be around, if not a good shoulder to cry on. He didn't like to dwell on his own problems, never mind anybody else's. He'd never had Garvin's drive and ambition, but seemed content working for the Linwoods, operating in their social circle, but not really being a part of it, wanting nothing more than what he had.

"I've thought—" He breathed out, hunched his shoulders against a gust off the water. "Well, I suppose it's possible Annie Payne's in cahoots with Sarah somehow, although how and why I can't imagine. If Sarah wanted the painting, she had every right to it. She didn't have to send someone to buy it for her."

"What if she didn't want anyone to know she's back in town?"

"That's what Cynthia said." Ethan bit off a sigh. "It's all speculation. For all I know, Annie Payne doesn't even know who Sarah Linwood is and she's just some Linwood groupie."

"Is there something you wanted from me?" Garvin asked.

"I was just hoping you'd heard something that could put Cynthia's mind at ease or if you're suspicious yourself."

Oh, he was suspicious. Even before his visit to Annie's Gallery late yesterday, he'd had reason to doubt Annie Payne's story. But he saw no reason, at this point, to inform Ethan or the Linwoods of what he knew and suspected. "Sorry, I can't help you. If and when I can, I'll let you know."

Ethan's dark eyes narrowed on him. "You're pursuing this thing?"

Garvin tucked a toe between cracks in the weather-grayed boards of the dock and peered back at his friend. "I don't know yet. I'll put in a full day's work here, then decide."

Ethan grinned irreverently, handsomely. "Never thought I'd see Garvin MacCrae gassing up boats for a living. Well, it's not like you'll starve."

That was true. Although he had refused to take one penny of Linwood money when his wife had died, Garvin had made enough money from his previous work to keep him going for as long as he needed.

"Take care, Ethan," he said.

"Yeah, I'll keep you posted on any developments. We should go out on the water sometime."

Garvin smiled. "We should."

But he suspected they both knew it wouldn't happen. They hadn't been sailing together in five years, since a merchant marine named Vic Denardo had wormed his way into their trust and betrayed it in the worst manner possible.

After Ethan had left, Michael Yuma joined Garvin out on the dock. He was about five seven, all sinewy muscle and black eyes and black hair, a smart, driven mix of Chinese, Mexican, Irish, and probably a few other things. Garvin had taught him to sail in a program for troubled inner-city kids and agreed to take him on at his marina. True to his word, Yuma was a twenty-four-year-old workhorse.

"Hey, MacCrae, you look like you're ready to pitch someone into the drink. Maybe I shouldn't stand too close, huh?" Yuma laughed. He had on jeans, a ratty gray sweatshirt and boat shoes he'd adopted after a year in lost-and-found, a contrast to the very correct gear of most of the marina's clients. "I remember the first time you dunked me. I thought I was seal meat for sure. Water was so cold—man, I'd rather jump into a tub of ice cubes."

He could have used more colorful language. Michael Yuma knew every raunchy metaphor and crude word there was. But in cleaning himself up, he'd cleaned up his language. Garvin had never met anyone with more grit and determination.

He thought of Annie Payne, wondered at what measure of grit and determination had brought her across the country.

Garvin clamped his jaw shut. "Hell."

His young partner was still grinning. "Woman trouble, Mac-Crae?"

"Yuma—"

"I read about the auction in the paper. I know you don't like to show it now that you're mellowing out under my supervision, but, man, you do hate to lose. You check out this lady who beat you?"

Garvin's gaze fell on him. "Don't you have any work to do?"

He flashed a cheeky smile. "Lots. So do you."

"Then let's get to it."

"Yep, I'm right," Yuma muttered as they started up to the supply store, where there'd be coffee, sailing talk, work. "Woman trouble."

Annie felt as if she were trapped in an old rerun of
The Streets of San Francisco
as she drove up to Sarah's pretty, out-of-the-way neighborhood. She kept checking in her rcarvicw mirror ior any sign she was being followed. She hadn't formed any strong opinions about the man in her workroom, but she figured Garvin MacCrae for one relentless man. He would stoop to following her. No doubt in her mind.