"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?"