Read Online Just Before Sunrise by Carla Neggers - Free Book Online
Authors: Carla Neggers
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Christmas."
He studied her with a disturbing, penetrating intensity. "Why San Francisco?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd visited twice before and liked it, and I had this fantasy of opening my own gallery. Then my cottage was swept out to sea in a storm. I'd lived there my whole life. My father died when I was a baby, and for a long time it was just my mother, grandmother, and me. Then my mother died when I was sixteen, and Gran died the summer before last." Annie used a tiny spoon to skim cinnamon-sprinkled foam off her cappuccino. "So when my cottage was lost, it seemed like an opportune moment to leave."
"Any regrets?"
"No, not really. I love Maine—it's home. But I'm enjoying San Francisco, and I love running a gallery. I thought about opening one in Maine, but I don't know if I could have brought myself to quit my job there. I was director of a small maritime museum. It's hard to give up that kind of security. But if I headed west"—she shrugged—"then I'd have no choice."
Garvin settled back in his chair, but Annie had no illusions that he wasn't watching, listening to everything. "How does the painting you bought yesterday fit in with your gallery?"
"I'm not sure," she said quickly, hoping she didn't look as if she'd been caught unaware.
"It just struck your fancy and you paid five thousand dollars for it?"
His tone was nonconfrontational, without even a hint of disbelief or sarcasm. Very slick, Annie thought. But she wasn't fooled. Garvin MacCrae no more believed she'd bought that painting for her gallery than the man in her workroom a half hour ago did. She tried her cappuccino. "Pretty much."
He opened his mouth, then shut it again and drank some of his coffee. Finally, he said, "When you're ready, I'd appreciate it if you would tell me exactly what this man who hid in your workroom said to you."
Annie dipped her biscotti into her cappuccino and bit off the end, welcoming the rush of sugar and chocolate. She could feel Garvin's eyes on her. In spite of his patient words, he looked cold, hard, tight, as if he were steeling himself against giving a damn about anything she might say or do. Yet he was having a curious effect on her. With the sleeves of his sweater pushed up, she could see the cords of muscles in his tanned forearms and found herself wondering what he did for a living, who he was, how he'd ended up married to a Linwood. She caught herself looking at the calluses on his hands—she hadn't noticed them yesterday—and suddenly imagining ihcm on her. She lore her gaze away, her iaee hot.
As succinctly and accurately as she could, she related her encounter with the man in her workroom. She admitted nothing more about Sarah Linwood and the painting than she'd admitted to the gray-haired man.
"This Vic Denardo," she said finally. "If he's the police's chief suspect, why hasn't he been arrested?"
Garvin sat forward. "He disappeared after the murders."
Blood pounded in Annie's ears. Vic Denardo had disappeared too? "I had no idea. None of this—I just didn't know." She drank more of her cappuccino, willing herself not to blurt out everything about Sarah. She'd made a promise, and she meant to keep it until and unless she had no choice. "Why would he risk being recognized just because he thinks I can lead him to Sarah Linwood?"
"I don't know. I can only speculate. Annie, is he right? Can you lead him to Sarah?" Garvin's voice was deep, persuasive, undemanding. "Did she get you to buy that painting for her?"
Annie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any details of my purchase of the painting."
"Ah." He dropped his empty cup onto the tray, crumpled up his napkin, and tossed it there too. "Well, Annie Payne, allow me to explain to you just what kind of pile of muck you're sinking into. I met Vic Denardo about a year before my wife was murdered. He was a merchant marine, a colorful character. One day he showed up at the marina where I kept my
He studied her with a disturbing, penetrating intensity. "Why San Francisco?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd visited twice before and liked it, and I had this fantasy of opening my own gallery. Then my cottage was swept out to sea in a storm. I'd lived there my whole life. My father died when I was a baby, and for a long time it was just my mother, grandmother, and me. Then my mother died when I was sixteen, and Gran died the summer before last." Annie used a tiny spoon to skim cinnamon-sprinkled foam off her cappuccino. "So when my cottage was lost, it seemed like an opportune moment to leave."
"Any regrets?"
"No, not really. I love Maine—it's home. But I'm enjoying San Francisco, and I love running a gallery. I thought about opening one in Maine, but I don't know if I could have brought myself to quit my job there. I was director of a small maritime museum. It's hard to give up that kind of security. But if I headed west"—she shrugged—"then I'd have no choice."
Garvin settled back in his chair, but Annie had no illusions that he wasn't watching, listening to everything. "How does the painting you bought yesterday fit in with your gallery?"
"I'm not sure," she said quickly, hoping she didn't look as if she'd been caught unaware.
"It just struck your fancy and you paid five thousand dollars for it?"
His tone was nonconfrontational, without even a hint of disbelief or sarcasm. Very slick, Annie thought. But she wasn't fooled. Garvin MacCrae no more believed she'd bought that painting for her gallery than the man in her workroom a half hour ago did. She tried her cappuccino. "Pretty much."
He opened his mouth, then shut it again and drank some of his coffee. Finally, he said, "When you're ready, I'd appreciate it if you would tell me exactly what this man who hid in your workroom said to you."
Annie dipped her biscotti into her cappuccino and bit off the end, welcoming the rush of sugar and chocolate. She could feel Garvin's eyes on her. In spite of his patient words, he looked cold, hard, tight, as if he were steeling himself against giving a damn about anything she might say or do. Yet he was having a curious effect on her. With the sleeves of his sweater pushed up, she could see the cords of muscles in his tanned forearms and found herself wondering what he did for a living, who he was, how he'd ended up married to a Linwood. She caught herself looking at the calluses on his hands—she hadn't noticed them yesterday—and suddenly imagining ihcm on her. She lore her gaze away, her iaee hot.
As succinctly and accurately as she could, she related her encounter with the man in her workroom. She admitted nothing more about Sarah Linwood and the painting than she'd admitted to the gray-haired man.
"This Vic Denardo," she said finally. "If he's the police's chief suspect, why hasn't he been arrested?"
Garvin sat forward. "He disappeared after the murders."
Blood pounded in Annie's ears. Vic Denardo had disappeared too? "I had no idea. None of this—I just didn't know." She drank more of her cappuccino, willing herself not to blurt out everything about Sarah. She'd made a promise, and she meant to keep it until and unless she had no choice. "Why would he risk being recognized just because he thinks I can lead him to Sarah Linwood?"
"I don't know. I can only speculate. Annie, is he right? Can you lead him to Sarah?" Garvin's voice was deep, persuasive, undemanding. "Did she get you to buy that painting for her?"
Annie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any details of my purchase of the painting."
"Ah." He dropped his empty cup onto the tray, crumpled up his napkin, and tossed it there too. "Well, Annie Payne, allow me to explain to you just what kind of pile of muck you're sinking into. I met Vic Denardo about a year before my wife was murdered. He was a merchant marine, a colorful character. One day he showed up at the marina where I kept my
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