and ran a hand through her hair, and Garvin was again struck with the gut feeling that Annie Payne was hiding something. Otto yawned and flopped down between them.
"It was about the painting," she said finally. "The one I bought yesterday. I had no idea—" Her gaze, direct and pained, focused on him. "I didn't know about your wife."
"I know you didn't."
"I'm sorry."
He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her words.
She took a breath. "The man just now—he said the painting was done by your wife's aunt, Sarah Linwood. He thinks—he accused me of buying it on her behalf. He said they have unfinished business. I don't..." She paused, averting her eyes. "I don't have any idea who he is."
"Vic Denardo," Garvin said, his body rigid, his mind reeling.
Annie Payne frowned. "Who?"
She didn't know. She'd paid five thousand dollars for Sarah's painting of Haley and yet knew nothing about the murders, the scandal, that had shattered the Linwood family.
It didn't, Garvin thought, add up.
"This man," he said. "Describe him."
She licked her lips, no color left in her face. "He was probably in his mid-to-late fifties. Stocky, maybe five nine. Thick, wavy gray hair. Dark eyes."
Garvin clenched his hands into fists. "That's Vic."
"Look, Mr. MacCrae, I don't—"
"Garvin." He forced himself to glance around the gallery, assess the situation. "You're closing up, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"Good. I'll buy you coffee. There's a shop around the corner. Otto will be okay here for a bit?"
Annie Payne stared at him.
"We need to talk," he said softly.
He watched her swallow. "I don't have anything to tell you."
"Well, I have a few things to tell you."
"This man—Vic Denardo—who is he?"
Garvin didn't mince words. "Vic Denardo is the chief suspect in the murders of my wife and her grandfather five years ago."
She started to sway, her knees going out from under her, but Garvin grabbed her arm. She steadied herself. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her jacket. She gave him a feeble smile. "Maybe coffee would be a good idea."
Union Street was crowded even early on a drizzly Sunday winter evening, helping Annie to feel a little less uneasy about going for coffee with Garvin MacCrae. Possibly, she thought, she'd told him too much about her intruder. She was shaken by the idea he could be a suspect in two murders, not to mention on Sarah Linwood's trail, but maybe Garvin had gotten it wrong. Annie glanced at him. He seemed taller than yesterday, more powerfully built. It could just be his casual clothes or even her own sense of vulnerability after what he'd told her about the man who'd hidden in her workroom. Vic Denardo. The name meant nothing to her.
As they crossed Union, she could see the drizzle glistening on her companion's dark hair. His eyes were an unusually deep, earthy shade of green. She hadn't really noticed yesterday. He pulled open the door to the coffee shop, and she ducked in ahead of him, welcoming the warmth, the smell of coffee and sweets, the chatter and laughter of the crowd.
Garvin offered to get their order while she slid off toward the back of the shop to find a table. She settled into a wooden chair at a two-person round table amidst bookcases, brass lamps, wood-paneled walls with old photographs. The shop resembled a Victorian library, and it was packed with people of every age in every manner of dress. Annie watched Garvin MacCrae weave through people and tables with his tray. He was a good-looking man, at ease, it seemed, wherever he found himself. But she sensed that he was a man with a mission, and she doubted that an item in a local gossip column was sufficient reason for him to have tracked her down.
He set the tray on the small table and lifted off her frothy cappuccino and chocolate-dipped biscotti and sat down with a black coffee for himself. "You're new in town, aren't you?" he asked.
Annie nodded. "I'm from Maine. I came out here in November and opened my gallery just before
"It was about the painting," she said finally. "The one I bought yesterday. I had no idea—" Her gaze, direct and pained, focused on him. "I didn't know about your wife."
"I know you didn't."
"I'm sorry."
He gave a curt nod in acknowledgment of her words.
She took a breath. "The man just now—he said the painting was done by your wife's aunt, Sarah Linwood. He thinks—he accused me of buying it on her behalf. He said they have unfinished business. I don't..." She paused, averting her eyes. "I don't have any idea who he is."
"Vic Denardo," Garvin said, his body rigid, his mind reeling.
Annie Payne frowned. "Who?"
She didn't know. She'd paid five thousand dollars for Sarah's painting of Haley and yet knew nothing about the murders, the scandal, that had shattered the Linwood family.
It didn't, Garvin thought, add up.
"This man," he said. "Describe him."
She licked her lips, no color left in her face. "He was probably in his mid-to-late fifties. Stocky, maybe five nine. Thick, wavy gray hair. Dark eyes."
Garvin clenched his hands into fists. "That's Vic."
"Look, Mr. MacCrae, I don't—"
"Garvin." He forced himself to glance around the gallery, assess the situation. "You're closing up, right?"
"Yes, but—"
"Good. I'll buy you coffee. There's a shop around the corner. Otto will be okay here for a bit?"
Annie Payne stared at him.
"We need to talk," he said softly.
He watched her swallow. "I don't have anything to tell you."
"Well, I have a few things to tell you."
"This man—Vic Denardo—who is he?"
Garvin didn't mince words. "Vic Denardo is the chief suspect in the murders of my wife and her grandfather five years ago."
She started to sway, her knees going out from under her, but Garvin grabbed her arm. She steadied herself. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her jacket. She gave him a feeble smile. "Maybe coffee would be a good idea."
Union Street was crowded even early on a drizzly Sunday winter evening, helping Annie to feel a little less uneasy about going for coffee with Garvin MacCrae. Possibly, she thought, she'd told him too much about her intruder. She was shaken by the idea he could be a suspect in two murders, not to mention on Sarah Linwood's trail, but maybe Garvin had gotten it wrong. Annie glanced at him. He seemed taller than yesterday, more powerfully built. It could just be his casual clothes or even her own sense of vulnerability after what he'd told her about the man who'd hidden in her workroom. Vic Denardo. The name meant nothing to her.
As they crossed Union, she could see the drizzle glistening on her companion's dark hair. His eyes were an unusually deep, earthy shade of green. She hadn't really noticed yesterday. He pulled open the door to the coffee shop, and she ducked in ahead of him, welcoming the warmth, the smell of coffee and sweets, the chatter and laughter of the crowd.
Garvin offered to get their order while she slid off toward the back of the shop to find a table. She settled into a wooden chair at a two-person round table amidst bookcases, brass lamps, wood-paneled walls with old photographs. The shop resembled a Victorian library, and it was packed with people of every age in every manner of dress. Annie watched Garvin MacCrae weave through people and tables with his tray. He was a good-looking man, at ease, it seemed, wherever he found himself. But she sensed that he was a man with a mission, and she doubted that an item in a local gossip column was sufficient reason for him to have tracked her down.
He set the tray on the small table and lifted off her frothy cappuccino and chocolate-dipped biscotti and sat down with a black coffee for himself. "You're new in town, aren't you?" he asked.
Annie nodded. "I'm from Maine. I came out here in November and opened my gallery just before
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