The guard handed her back her ticket in a way that made Annie wonder if she had dog slobber on her sweater. Or maybe she was just a tad paranoid because of the strange circumstances that had brought her here today.
With a hasty parting smile, she proceeded up the walk. The cool, rainy winter weather brought out the scent of flowers and grass and earth and reminded her of early spring mornings in Maine. It was the dead of winter there now. She sucked in a quick breath at the sudden stab of nostalgia, the unbidden image of her and Gran watching the fog swirling over the bay from their old wooden Adirondack chairs on the cottage porch. She tucked a drifting strand of hair back into its pin, steadying herself. She was in San Francisco at an auction that would require her to keep her wits about her. She wouldn't—she couldn 't—indulge in daydreaming about a life that was no more. She planned to enjoy herself even as she completed her rather peculiar mission on Pacific Heights.
"I have to have that painting," the woman whom Annie knew only as Sarah had told her.
After checking with the second guard at the front door, she ventured down the center hall of the cool, beautiful mansion, peeking into elegant rooms that were blocked off to the public with velvet ropes, absorbing every detail of architecture, design, and decor. Although the house had been unoccupied for several years, it was gleaming, spotless, without a single sign of neglect or disrepair. The Linwoods had put it up for sale. Hence, the auction of much of its contents. From what Annie gathered, necessity— banks, debts, the IRS—hadn't played a role in the decision to sell. But she really hadn't done much investigating. She was too busy with her gallery and settling into her new life—and even with her odd mission, there was no need for details. Her role at the auction was simple and clear, and, she had to admit, had an intriguing element of excitement and mystery. She had never represented an anonymous buyer at an auction.
A smartly dressed woman behind a table at the ballroom entrance checked Annie's identification and took a letter from her bank as assurance that any check she wrote wouldn't bounce. It was all brisk, formal, and routine, but Annie noticed that her palms had gone clammy. Wishing to remain completely anonymous, Sarah had deposited ten thousand dollars into Annie's checking account on Thursday morning. It was all perfectly legal, just unusual. What was to keep Annie from ducking the auction and blowing the money herself? But Sarah seemed to trust her.
The woman at the table presented Annie with a white card with the number 112 in large, legible, black print. Suppressing a twinge of nervousness, Annie managed a quick smile before proceeding into the ornate ballroom. Scores of buyers were settling into rows of mundane folding chairs set up against a backdrop of glittering crystal chandeliers, lavish murals of pre-1906 San Francisco and breathtaking views of the bay. Annie found a vacant chair well into a middle row and sat down, tucking her tapestry bag at her feet, suddenly feeling ridiculously tense.
What if someone else bid on the painting? What if she didn't get it?
The rest of the chairs soon filled up, an announcement was made that the proceeds from the auction would go to the Haley Linwood Foundation, and, finally, things got under way. The auctioneer was thin, white-haired and regal, a far cry, Annie thought, from Ernie Hathaway.
The first items went fast, with only token competition. There was no yelling, no complaining, no hooting. This was San Francisco. This was Pacific Heights. Even Gran, a pragmatic woman who didn't stand on ceremony, had considered Ernie's auctions a spectacle.
After forty minutes, the painting came up. Annie held her breath as it was brought out and set on an easel, then gasped in shock the moment it was uncovered. The buyers seated near her glanced at her in surprise. She tried to control herself. She was totally unprepared for this one: the painting was Sarah's work. There was no question.
Clutching her shawl in her lap, Annie forced herself not to speculate on how a painting by a reclusive, eccentric artist had ended up in a Linwood auction.