"Otto, it's okay," came his owner's voice. "You remember Garvin MacCrae from yesterday, right?"
Garvin glanced up from the dog, and immediately went still, his eyes narrowed on Annie Payne. She was pale and obviously shaken, not just surprised to see him but unnerved. He'd come straight from the marina he'd bought a couple of years after Haley's death. He hadn't bothered changing from his sweater and torn, stained jeans. He knew he looked very different from yesterday at the auction, but that didn't explain her reaction.
"Oh," she said, clearing her throat, "hello."
She was visibly trembling, with none of yesterday's easy manner and cheerfulness. He supposed she'd learned about Haley. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." She gave him a quick, phony smile. "It's been a busy day."
"Because of that stupid piece in the paper this morning?"
"It did bring out the browsers. I—one of them—he just—" She inhaled, breaking off. "It's just been a weird day."
"Ms. Payne?"
Her slate eyes fastened on him abruptly, and she seemed steadier. "It's Annie. And I'm okay. I just had an unsettling experience with a man who hid in my workroom. He's gone now. He slipped out through the back—"
Garvin didn't wait for her to finish. With Otto on his heels, he ducked into the workroom. It was small and tidy, used for storage and a modest framing operation. He checked the back alley but saw no one. On his way back into the gallery, he noticed the print of Spiderman. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd have found at any of the galleries Haley had dragged him to during their brief time together.
Some color had returned to Annie's cheeks, but she was still clearly shaken. "Did this guy threaten you?" Garvin asked.
She shook her head. "Not really."
"What do you mean, not really'? What exactly did he say?"
She shut her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, and Garvin was again struck with the gut feeling that Annie Payne was hiding something. Otto yawned and flopped down between them.
"It was about the painting," she said finally. "The one I bought yesterday. I had no idea—" Her gaze, direct and pained, focused on him. "I didn't know about your wife."
"I know you didn't."
"I'm sorry."
He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her words.
She took a breath. "The man just now—he said the painting was done by your wife's aunt, Sarah Linwood. He thinks—he accused me of buying it on her behalf. He said they have unfinished business. I don't..." She paused, averting her eyes. "I don't have any idea who he is."
"Vic Denardo," Garvin said, his body rigid, his mind reeling.
Annie Payne frowned. "Who?"
She didn't know. She'd paid five thousand dollars for Sarah's painting of Haley and yet knew nothing about the murders, the scandal, that had shattered the Linwood family.
It didn't, Garvin thought, add up.
"This man," he said. "Describe him."
She licked her lips, no color left in her face. "He was probably in his mid-to-late fifties. Stocky, maybe five nine. Thick, wavy gray hair. Dark eyes."
Garvin clenched his hands into fists. "That's Vic."
"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.