"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, MacCrae?"
"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."