A gleam of victory flashed back at her. "Then where is it?"
"At a friend's house. I didn't want to leave it here after the trouble at the gallery yesterday. Plus with all the publicity—" She dragged her rolled-up bandanna from her hair and ignored the rush of adrenaline at telling Garvin MacCrae what amounted to a boldfaced lie. "I just thought it'd be smart not to keep it here."
"I thought you were new to San Francisco."
She frowned. What did that have to do with anything? "I am—"
"But you've made a friend you'd trust with a five thousand-dollar painting."
"You got it," she said stubbornly, and ducked into her bedroom.
She shut the door firmly behind her. Her bedroom was just big enough for her double bed and skinny dresser, but she'd cozied it up with a basket of Zoe's potpourri, lots of bright, inexpensive pillows, and a framed photograph of a Maine sunrise. She paused at a photograph of Gran and her mother on her dresser, felt their presence, let it help anchor her. An evening out with Garvin MacCrae, who didn't for a single, solitary second believe she'd bought that painting for herself or anyone but Sarah Linwood. Well, it would be her first big San Francisco opening, and she meant to enjoy herself.
She stripped off her cleaning clothes and grabbed a dress from her tiny closet. If Garvin were truly devious, he would search the premises, find her checkbook, discover her neatly noted deposit of ten thousand dollars on Thursday, and know she was lying through her teeth.
"Not that he doesn't know that already," she muttered, slipping into her versatile black knit dress; it hugged her torso but gave her legs room to move. With a silk scarf, it could do a gallery opening. With her ankle boots and a sweater, it could do a chilly walk on the water with Otto. With Gran's crewelwork shawl, it could do anything.
She skipped the scarf and opted for the shawl. It would give her confidence a boost.
She added black stockings and her dressy black flats and scooted into the bathroom, ignoring Garvin on the couch and Otto, with one paw on his lap, getting himself scratched on the neck, maybe preventing her guest from searching the place.
Her bathroom had a shower and a pint-size sink; no tub; no linen closet. She kept her change of linens on a wicker shelf above the toilet. A basket of Zoe's potpourri gave off a cheery citrus scent. Annie used spray-on gel to revive her hair, then dusted on translucent powder, a smudge of a neutral eyeshadow, one coat of mascara, and two coats of the darkest berry lipstick she could find.
"Hey, not bad," she said aloud to her reflection, pleased with herself.
Except her hands were shaking just enough to remind her she wasn't going out with Zoe and her husband or having yet another tete-a-tete with her richer fellow tenants about Otto being at least as friendly as their Lhasa apsos and cocker spaniels. No. She was going to a gallery opening with a man who thought she could lead him to his wife's killer. That he was attractive, compelling, and intriguing didn't change that basic fact.
A spray of cologne, and she was off.
Garvin dumped Otto's paw off his lap and rose, his eyes impenetrable, not a spot of drool or a single dog hair on him. "Ready?"
"I think so. I don't smell like bleach, do I? I disinfected Otto's dish before supper."
He'd moved close to her, close enough to make her pulse race. "You don't smell like bleach."
His eyes glinted with sudden humor, suggesting there were layers and layers to Garvin MacCrae, things to intrigue and catch a person defenseless. Annie quickly pulled her shawl onto her shoulders and fetched a fat rawhide bone for Otto, then she stood in the middle of her hardwood floor and looked around for his favorite toy.
"Can I help you find something?" Garvin asked.
"Otto's bowling ball—oh, there it is."
She spotted it in the corner next to the couch, rolled it out with her toe, and nudged it toward Otto, who was busy with his rawhide bone. "He's not used to having me go out at night, and I don't want him chewing my new furniture because he's bored or annoyed with me."
"I expect," he said wryly, "that Otto fit in better in Maine than he does in San Francisco."
"In some ways, yes, but I think city life appeals to him on a certain level. He really likes people."
"A good thing."
She grinned. "Isn't it, though?"
With Otto settled down with his bowling ball and rawhide bone, Annie followed Garvin MacCrae outside into the cool night air.
* * *
Chapter Five
Both floors of the Winslow Gallery were brightly lit and packed with well-dressed people from all over the Bay Area, some of whom Annie recognized from the newspaper and television news. She noticed that Garvin stayed close to her as they made their way into the crowd.
"I'll bet T. J. Winslow doesn't have to put out flowerpots and sweep up cigarette butts and dead leaves to offset his rent," she muttered.