"Just in a muddle," she said under her breath.
Zoe Summer, along with the rest of San Francisco, had heard about Sarah Linwood's return. She wanted details. Annie promised to provide them during the first slow time they had. Given the extra publicity, she had no idea when that would be. Her gallery was packed, even the cash register active. People weren't just looking but buying, mostly low-and medium-priced items, a few frames. There were tons of inquiries.
Two reporters called. One stopped in. They all wanted to talk to Sarah Linwood. Barring that, they'd talk to Annie. She declined. Sarah's whereabouts weren't for anyone but Sarah to divulge, nor were the specifics of the agreement they had made regarding the auctioned portrait of Haley Linwood MacCrae. None of the reporters had yet made the connection between Sarah's appearance at last night's foundation dinner and the police report on the break-in at Annie's apartment. Annie chose not to enlighten them.
Nor did they ask about Garvin MacCrae. She certainly didn't volunteer any information about him. Before he'd dropped her off at her gallery, with Otto slumped in the backseat with his shaved head, he had said he would meet her at closing. They would then head up to see Sarah together and discuss their next move. He was still hoping her open presence in San Francisco would keep Vic Denardo at bay.
It didn't. He called at noon. "The police are looking for me. They think maybe I broke into your place last night and beat up your dog." He didn't sound particularly upset.
"Didn't you?" Annie asked coolly. She was behind her desk, browsers sifting through her gallery.
"Nah. Me and Otto were just starting to get along. I wouldn't hurt him. And why would I break in? You don't have anything I want besides Sarah's address, which I figure you haven't written down anywhere. Am I right?"
"About that, yes. What about the painting?"
"What would I want with a painting? Besides, I know Sarah has it, not you. Look, I didn't break into your place, and I didn't hurt your dog. Believe me or not, it's your choice." He didn't seem to care one way or the other. "Hell, if it'd get you to take me to Sarah, I'd say I did it. How'd Johnny and the new wife receive her?"
"I didn't stay. Mr. Denardo—"
"Conninger? My buddy Ethan was there, wasn't he? We used to sail together. Him, me, Garvin."
"Yes, I know. Mr. Denardo, what's the point of this call?"
"I want to see Sarah. Tell her to name the place, the time. It doesn't matter to me. I'll be there."
Annie inhaled. "She could just name a time and place and have the police meet you instead."
"You're a tough cookie, aren't you, sugar? I'd be watching. You tell her, okay?"
Annie said nothing.
"Okay, sugar?"
She sighed. "I'll tell her."
She slammed down the phone in frustration. A customer, an elderly man, was looking nervously over the counter at her. She smiled. "May I help you?"
An hour later, business was still percolating, and Annie hadn't told the police or Garvin or even Zoe about Vic Denardo's call. She'd almost talked herself into believing the break-in had been a random act, an ordinary urban burglar who'd panicked when he saw a rottweiler, smacked him on the head, probably with whatever he'd used to knock in her window, and got out of there while he had the chance without bothering to steal anything. It didn't have to be Vic Denardo's work.
She groaned. Obsessing wasn't going to get her anywhere.
At two o'clock John and Cynthia Linwood walked into her gallery together, a handsome couple despite the disparity in their ages. "Isn't it charming?" Cynthia beamed at her husband, as if showing off a pet project. Last night's chilliness might never have existed. "I just love the feel of the place, its mood. So many galleries are so inaccessible, so snobbish that people are put off or afraid to ask questions for fear of being sneered at. All that attitude. I hate it."
Annie finished ringing up a sale, and Cynthia greeted her with a broad, unselfconscious smile. She wore a close-fitting black suit with pearl earrings and not a strand of her Jacqueline Kennedy hair out of place. John Linwood, also crisply dressed, seemed more awkward, aware of the furtive, knowing looks he was getting from browsers who had recognized him. Either that, Annie thought, or he simply wasn't used to being in a retail establishment.
"I overheard what you said about my gallery," she said. "Thank you."