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?"