"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.
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.