Before she could control it, dispel it, Annie was taken aback by the image—clear, detailed—of him studying her from across the table. His deep, earthy eyes, his blade of a nose, his thick brows. His mouth, sensual, compelling. Even his callused hands as he'd held his mug of black coffee. Her throat went dry, her mouth tingled. So much for a transitory attraction, she thought.
Sarah released her hand and sat back, suddenly looking exhausted. "He and Haley were so different. For a while I thought some of his strength and drive would rub off on her, some of her softness and joy in living on him. But I don't know. They'd only known each other a year before they married, and then a year later Haley was killed."
Two years total. Not long at all. "How sad."
"Yes," Sarah said. She grabbed her cane, leaning on it without making a move to rise. "Yes, how very sad. Haley was always so optimistic, so determined to enjoy life and see the good in others. She was charming, totally without pretense." Sarah's shoulders sagged; she seemed almost to sink into her chair. "I can't imagine how losing her the way he did affected Garvin."
Annie thought of him walking down Union Street with the drizzle collecting on his dark hair and his face grim, uncompromising. He had looked determined, but not haunted, as if he'd gone on with his life with the understanding that he would never be the same again.
"Dear God," Sarah mumbled, her voice strangled, "we lost her too soon."
Supporting herself heavily on her cane, she got slowly to her feet. A quiet melancholy had settled over her. She'd been in such a pleasant, homey mood when Annie had arrived. She felt a pang of guilt at having inflicted herself on this pain-racked, isolated woman. What if that hadn't been Vic Denardo yesterday? What if Garvin MacCrae had latched onto him and the painting in his desperate desire to find his wife's killer, and Sarah out of guilt and regret over her past association with him?
"I'm sorry, Annie. I can hardly warn you against Garvin when I've used you myself. I should have told you everything before I sent you to the auction. The painting—can you understand why I wanted it?"
It was all that remained of her early work, and it was a portrait of a niece she'd lost to murder. "Yes. I understand."
Sarah made her way to her rattan chair in the living room and, thrusting her cane onto the floor, dropped down into the faded chintz cushions. Feeling awkward, concerned, even a little scared for Sarah, Annie collected her walker from the kitchen counter and brought it to her, setting it against the wall near her chair.
"I haven't gambled since the murders," Sarah blurted, her eyes suddenly fierce on Annie. Then her face crumpled, and she covered her mouth with a big, paint-stained, gnarled hand and choked back a sob.
"I'll go now," Annie said quietly.
"The police—you can call them if you want. It won't do any good. They haven't found Vic in five years. They won't now. But you can call them. I can't hold you to your promise."
"Sarah, I haven't figured out what I should do or—"
"I won't hold you to it." Her voice was little more than a murmur. She sank back against her chair, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm getting all muddled. I need to think. I—" She sighed, breaking off. "Perhaps it wasn't wise to try and come home after all."
"I'll leave," Annie said. "We can talk later."
Sarah didn't answer, just lifted a hand in a feeble wave, and Annie withdrew without another word. As she started down the stone steps, she glanced back. Through the curtainless windows she could see Sarah Linwood, one-time heiress and mercurial recluse, back on her feet, edging her way to the easel she had set up in corner of her cottage, all of San Francisco spread out before her.
When her doorbell rang at six-thirty, Annie expected it was her landlord coming to tell her he'd changed his mind about Otto after all. She had a tiny ground-floor apartment behind a building on Russian Hill. It had its own entrance via a brick wall overgrown with the kind of greenery that didn't grow in Maine even in the summer. The three floors of the main building were reserved for larger, more elegant, far more expensive apartments.
Her doorbell rang again.
She smelled faintly of bleach. She had resumed her cleaning spree after tea with Sarah Linwood. Her little apartment fairly gleamed. She knew she was playing ostrich, avoiding facing up to the consequences of walking into that auction room on Saturday.
She stopped just in front of her door, Otto at her side.
What if it was the stocky, gray-haired man from yesterday?
"Hello," she said through the door, "who is it?"
"Garvin MacCrae."
She felt an unexpected surge of excitement mixed with a flicker of trepidation. She'd been rattled all day, especially since her visit with Sarah Linwood. Her resistance was down. What if she said something she shouldn't say? She still hadn't figured out what to do. Call the police, not call the police, trust Sarah, not trust Sarah. It was as if she were paralyzed by the shock of what she'd learned in the past two days.
"May I come in?" he asked.