"But she wasn't seeing John Linwood then," Annie said.
Garvin shook his head. They were moving in the general direction of his car. Maybe her zest for walking would peter out by the time they reached it. "I don't really know when they started seeing each other. I haven't kept up with either of them."
Otto jerked forward to sniff a mailbox. Annie paused, obviously trying to give her dog a little freedom to maneuver. Passersby gave him wide berth.
"She and John seem happy," Garvin went on. "I think people are too willing to dismiss her as a trophy wife. That's not what Cynthia's about."
"A trophy wife? What's that?"
Annie seemed truly mystified. Garvin explained. "Older, wealthy, successful man marries younger, attractive, often but not necessarily successful woman. Usually a first wife is dumped along the way, but that's not the case with John. His first wife—Haley's mother—died about ten years ago. I never knew her. If he and Cynthia can find happiness together, I figure it's none of my business."
"It must be tough to have people dismiss you as a trophy for some man without knowing anything about your relationship." Annie made a face, shuddering. "I guess it happens, though. I'd hate that myself. I'd rather just not get married." She grinned suddenly, casting a smart-assed look up at him. "Not that I'm trophy material."
Oh, Annie. Garvin had all he could manage just to keep himself focused on not tripping over his own damned feet. And not carting her off somewhere private, quiet, free of distractions like rottweilers and Linwoods and too many memories. If there were such a place.
Otto started forward again, Annie after him.
Garvin fell in beside them. "You didn't leave some man heartbroken back in Maine?"
She cut a grin at him, showing the dimple in her cheek. "I might have, but if I did, I don't know about him."
But he couldn't match her light mood, and as they came to his car, he touched her arm, remembering his conversation at the marina with Ethan Conninger. "Annie—about Cynthia Linwood. She has the same questions about you that everyone else does."
Annie cocked her head back, alert, curious. "That you do, you mean."
"I'd just hate for you to think she was trying to take you under her wing, help you get established here in San Francisco, and all along she had another agenda."
Her look turned sharp. "You know something."
He sighed, dug in his pockets for his car keys. "Nothing that should surprise you. Ethan Conninger stopped by the marina on Monday. He said Cynthia was curious about you and had decided to look into why you bought the painting of Haley. He's keeping his eyes open, too."
"I see," Annie said, tight-lipped.
"It doesn't mean she thinks any less of your gallery. Or you."
Annie wrapped Otto's leash around her wrist and drew it taut as a couple with two pugs walked by. "I prefer to take people at face value. They say what they mean, mean what they say. I like being that way myself." She threw her head back, exhaled at the sky. "Lord, what a week."
"Annie—"
She faced him, her eyes clear, determined. "If you'll give me a ride, I'll take you to see Sarah Linwood."
Garvin held his breath, said nothing.
"Otto will fit in your backseat. He won't—at least I think he won't tear up the leather." She attempted a grin. "He's not used to leather, so I can't say for sure."
"Annie." His voice was strangled, just a hint of the tension that had him in its grip. "He can tear up the whole damned car for all I care."
"You hear that, Otto? Permission to commit mayhem."
But her humor rang hollow, undermined by the loss of color in her cheeks. Garvin got the doors to his car open, tried not to wince when Otto galumphed into his backseat. Annie settled in front, her knees together, her feet tucked in, hands folded on her lap. Not nervous, just uneasy.
When he climbed in beside her, she smoothed the skirt of her dress and said, "Head toward Twin Peaks."
Her tone was steady, difficult to read. Her eyes were pinned straight ahead. Garvin hesitated. "Annie, if you're not sure—"
"Sarah's sure. That's what counts."
He eased out into rush-hour Union Street traffic. He had a dozen questions he resisted asking. Where had Sarah been living the past five years? What had she been doing? Why was she back in San Francisco? Had she been there all along? And Vic Denardo—
But they were questions that had to wait.
Annie gave him general directions as he headed out Market, traffic heavy but moving. Her tone was crisp, matter-of-fact. She had her own troubles. A business to establish, a new life, her own memories to hold at bay.
"Look, Annie, you can just give me her address. If you don't want to put yourself through this—"
"No. I told her I'd come with you." She glanced sideways at him. "When I bought that painting on Saturday on Sarah's behalf, I had no idea I was thrusting myself into the middle of two unsolved murders. Maybe I should have been more careful, but I wasn't."
"Sarah didn't tell you?"
"And I didn't ask."