John seemed to sense what he was thinking. His face clouded, and he gave up on any semblance of normality. "I didn't expect today to be as difficult as it has been. The memories—well, I suppose this day is long overdue. I'll just be glad when it's over."
"I understand. I certainly didn't mean to make it any harder on you."
"You haven't. Well, Garvin, I hope we'll see each other again soon."
"I hope so, too."
John Linwood withdrew into an adjoining room, and Garvin sighed heavily, cursing himself for having come today. Neither he nor his father-in-law, he noted, had mentioned the name of the artist. Sarah Linwood's family and friends hadn't heard from her since the murders. Five years. Now no one knew if she was alive or dead.
Instead of heading directly out as he'd intended, Garvin abruptly about-faced and made his way down the hall to the table at the entrance to the ballroom. The woman who kept track of the buyers and what items they bought regarded him with sympathy. "I'm sorry things didn't go your way, Mr. MacCrae. A lot of people were rooting for you."
"Thanks. Who's the lady who beat me out?"
"I'm not supposed to say—"
"It's okay. I don't want to put you on the spot." In spite of his tensed jaw, Garvin produced a smile. "If you speak to her, tell her I hope she enjoys the painting."
The woman chewed on one corner of her mouth and glanced into the ballroom. More frenzied bidding was going on. Garvin paid no attention. A runner—a panting college kid—burst up to the table with the tag from a sold item. It would be matched to the number of the buyer, in order to bring item, buyer, and money together at the right time.
As she took the tag, the woman subtly tilted her clipboard toward Garvin. He scanned down to Number 112.
His opponent's name was Annie Payne of Annie's Gallery on Union Street.
A dealer.
Garvin gritted his teeth. A damned dealer! She'd paid five thousand dollars for a painting by an unknown, a painting that, as far as he could see, wasn't worth even the five hundred he'd meant to pay for it. Given the painful memories associated with it, even Haley's family didn't want it.
Maybe Annie Payne was compulsive about bidding and had gotten in way, way over her head when he'd bid against her, ending up with a painting she didn't really want at such a price. Once the adrenaline rush passed and she realized what she'd done, she might have regrets.
Of course, Annie Payne could also be scamming him. She could have known who he was and planned to sell the painting back to him for a tidy profit, assuming he'd play her game her way, which was a hell of an assumption.
Maybe she had another buyer already in mind?
Who?
Garvin swore to himself. It was just a painting. Never mind that Sarah, for all her recklessness and self-absorption, had captured the very essence of Haley's nature. His wife was gone, and Garvin had slowly come to accept life without her, even if he couldn't forgive himself for not loving her enough to have saved her. If only she'd come to him with whatever she'd learned about Sarah's finances, her gambling debts—whatever it was that had compelled her to go back to the Linwood house that night. But she hadn't. And she'd died.
He slipped out the front door, relieved to have the Linwood house at his back. It had been madness to come today. He should have known it wouldn't end up as he'd planned. At the very least, he should have known there'd be no avoiding the past he had worked so desperately to put behind him, if not forget.
He trotted down the steps and out to the street, barely aware that the rain had stopped for the moment. The sky was still gray, the air damp and chilly. Halfway down the block, he recognized Annie Payne wrestling with her new purchase at the rear of a small, rusting station wagon.
He slowed his pace, studying her. She didn't look like a crafty dealer who'd deliberately outsmarted and outmaneuvered him. Most of her blond hair had come loose from its pins and sticks, dropping down her forehead and temples in pale wisps. A brightly embroidered shawl hung off one arm, its fringe tickling the street. One wrong step and she'd trip over it. Garvin felt his curiosity piqued by her. Why on earth had she paid such an exorbitant amount for Sarah Linwood's painting of her niece?
"Otto," Annie Payne said firmly, apparently unaware of Garvin's presence, "you have to move. Now, I warned you I'd have a painting when I got back. So there's no excuse for being stubborn." She glared into the back of her car. "Otto, I mean it. Move."
Glancing into the station wagon, Garvin was surprised to find an enormous rottweiler sprawled in back. Otto, presumably. His massive head was twisted around at her, his big brown eyes studying her without apparent concern or intention of doing as she said.
No, indeed. Annie Payne wasn't what he'd expected at all.
"Otto. You're not keeping your end of the deal."
As if she'd had every expectation that he would. Up close, Garvin noticed she was slender and fit and probably weighed less than her dog. He said, "I see you have a problem."