The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  Yet there was more. As he caressed the earthen ball, he knew this would be a water jar. It felt intuitive to him, as if he’d held this clay before. A water jar, in fact, like the women carried in biblical times. He moved his hands gently, and the clay reformed, grew.

  As an art historian, he knew well what those vessels looked like, but this would be his own creation, as well, inspired by something within him. His hands shifted, and so did the clay, the moist surface of it slick and pliable, yet firm under his touch, spinning steadily, creating a sensation almost like an electric charge beneath his fingertips. One hand formed the wall, pulling it upward, as the outside hand braced the base. Together, his hands lifted, urging the clay higher. The jar grew taller, opening under his hands, a change that awed him.

  “Anything beautiful must be handled with care.” His father pruned another rosebush, one of a dozen he had planted for his wife.

  At seventeen, however, Mason had grown tired of his father’s bromides. “I know girls get hurt easy, Papa. I’ve already found that out.”

  His father looked at him over one shoulder. “Don’t get so smug, boy. Women are stronger than we are. I’m not talking about how girls age or how they hurt. It’s beauty that’s fragile, and it’s more than women or roses. Despite what the poets claim, beauty isn’t what you see. It’s in your mind.”

  A wobble appeared in the clay, an unevenness in the wall of the jar, like a wound. A groan escaped his lips as the jar collapsed in on itself, a ruin of mud and water. He slid his foot off the wheel’s pedal, and the spinning stopped.

  Mason stared at the clay, and disappointment—almost a sense of loss—seared through him. “What did I do wrong?”

  Karen’s low voice came from behind him. “‘So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.’”

  He turned toward her, confused. “What?”

  She stepped closer, smiling, a broom in one hand where she’d been cleaning. “It’s from the Bible. Jeremiah. God knows all about clay.” She paused, watching his face. “And those of us who use it. This is your first time at a wheel. This is normal. Sometimes, just the wrong move or touch will make the pot collapse. Round it and try again. If it does it again, we’ll move to different clay. This will be too wet to try a third time.”

  His eyes still on the wheel, Mason’s hands mounded the clay into a ball, checked the centering as she’d instructed, and started again. Yet something had changed in his mind, in his view of the water jar. It formed smaller this time, with a more delicate look but a thicker wall, almost like a deep bowl. It grew, reshaped and matured under his fingers. Time vanished as his mind, eyes, all his senses focused on the creation before him. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, and he heard only the whirl of the wheel. His fingers seemed melded to the clay, as if he’d become bonded to it.

  Beauty is in the mind. It’s in the act. It had been in the face of a man who’d broken away from his only son to dash into a blazing house after the woman he’d loved for twenty years. Mason would never forget the look or the act. It was the last thing his father did.

  Karen took his right hand and placed a stylus in it, and he used the point to insert fine lines around the upper edge. Finally, he lifted his hands away and straightened, a bit startled that his back ached. He twisted a bit to stretch his muscles, his eyes still on the clay. Yet he knew it was finished. The clay had become what it was meant to be. Satisfied, he took his foot off the pedal. As the jar slowed to a halt, his eyes narrowed. Returned to reality, he saw that the jar looked like a young child’s art project, its too-thick walls a bit crooked, the lines around the neck far from straight. Yet…

  “Very nice.”

  He jumped. He’d forgotten that Karen was still in the room. He shook his head. “It looks…lumpy.”

  Her laughter brightened the air around them. “It’s still your first time on a wheel. I think it’s amazing.”

  Mason finally looked away from the jar, first to her, then to windows behind him. The light had faded to a dim evening purple. Mason stood suddenly, tipping over the stool, his gaze flashing about the room.

  The basement studio had changed dramatically. Karen had righted all the equipment and many of the baskets and supplies had been restored to their previous order. Shards of fired and raw clay had been swept into a half-dozen piles of like colors—red and black in one pile, blue and yellow in another. A rust and bronze stack of broken raku-fired pieces stood near the door.

  Mason’s jaw dropped. “How long—”

  “About ninety minutes.” Her grin sparkled. “I even grabbed a snack while you were working. Now you get it. The thing with the clay.”

  His words stuck in his throat, and Karen waited patiently, leaning on her broom. Mason’s mind spun, like the wheel, as he tried to get a grip on what just happened. He had not heard her sweeping or moving anything. He’d had no idea that much time had passed. His time on the wheel had felt brief, miniscule, no longer than a song on the radio. The feel of the clay, the rotations of the wheel, had sucked him in, mesmerized him. The world had closed in around him, confined to the circle of water and earth. All existence had narrowed to the creation of a water jar.

  Karen shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper. Still, in the rock, plaster and glass of her studio, her words were clear. “It doesn’t happen to everyone. Aunt Evie, who was an efficient nurse and is now a dance teacher with all the patience in the world with her students, can’t get beyond the icky feeling of the clay. Jane, who loves art and artists, can make a pretty pot, but it doesn’t capture her. For her, it’s just a chore that puts her manicures at risk. She embraces art but can’t ‘do’ art. That’s why she sells it.”

  “That’s why I’m a historian who teaches and writes about art.” His hoarseness surprised him, and he cleared his throat. “I can’t ‘do’ it either.”

  Karen nodded at the lopsided water jar. “Oh, yes, you can. My guess is you just had not found which art is yours. Maybe the way you got lost is a sure sign that you have now.” She took a deep breath and leaned the broom against a shelf. She leaned against the same shelf and crossed her arms. “No one thought I could do it, either.” She looked down at the floor, her gaze distant. “After my parents died, I became a wild child. Aunt Evie couldn’t do anything with me. I lost focus on everything. I barely passed any of my classes. Counselors, ADHD medications…nothing worked.” She paused. “When I turned fifteen, I asked Jake if he could help me with an art project, and instead he introduced me to the wheel. Four hours later I had a pot and a new way to focus. From that day, everything changed. When I couldn’t study, I’d go to his studio…then I could go back to the books.”

  She looked at him, the blue in her eyes so dark and intense that Mason felt the impact of her gaze all the way to his toes. “Jake also brought me to God. You have no idea how wild I was. How out of control. How many times I’d already been in court. I really was on a path of no return. Only the grace of God and a goodhearted judge kept me from having a juvenile record.” She waved away her past. “I believe God saved my life the first time, with my parents, then the clay saved my life later. Jake gave me the Scripture that says, ‘Then the word of the Lord came to me: “O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand.”’ And,” she continued softly, “Jake reminded me that an artist of any medium has been granted an incredible gift from God. It’s on loan from Him. Our hearts long to give it back to Him in the same way we crave Him. It’s not just what we do for a living.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “God’s intervention. I won’t stop. I can’t.”

  The pressure in Mason’s chest threatened to choke off his breath. His mind still felt oddly out of sync, a bit numb and not quite back in the
real world. Yet this amazing woman had captured his heart, and his earlier need to protect her intensified, even as his respect for her work, her heart, her past, soared. She was both the strongest woman he’d ever met…and the most fragile. He straightened, stretching a kinked muscle in his back.

  “Then I don’t think you should.” He almost smiled at the relief in her face, but he continued. “But I also am not convinced that you should stay here tonight.”

  “This is my home. I won’t abandon it.”

  Mason stood and walked to the sink, organizing his argument as he washed the clay from his hands.

  The clay. He watched the muddy water swirl down the drain, realizing she’d shared her most intimate world with him. Her home. Her clay. She might still be holding him at arm’s length, but what she had shared spoke straight to his soul.

  He dried his hands and went to her, raising her fingers and kissing them lightly. “These hands,” he said softly, “let your soul shine through your art. This person is determined to stop you, so he has made your house a target because it’s not secure. If you stay somewhere safe, there is hope he might leave the house as well as you alone.”

  “I won’t go to Aunt Evie’s.”

  Mason didn’t question her determination to avoid her childhood home. She’d said it twice. That was enough. Explanations could come later. “Then I have an idea….”

  An hour later a car pulled up in front of Karen’s house. Large, powerful and a nondescript charcoal gray. In the twilight, even the make and model were a mystery. The tall, lanky man who unfolded from the driver’s seat, however, stood out because of both his height and the Eurasian cast of his features and skin. Fletcher MacAllister greeted the two young people with a wave and a scowl. “You missed dinner,” he said to Mason. “Maggie’s not a happy camper.”

  Karen snickered as Mason tried not to look too embarrassed. Fletcher’s wife, Maggie, managed Jackson’s Retreat, the writers’ colony where Mason had lived for the past few months. Even the locals were familiar with most of the rules of the retreat, including the one that stated that all residents, without exception, ate their evening meal in the main lodge.

  “Think she’ll forgive me?”

  Fletcher picked up the bag Karen had at her feet and put it in the trunk. “Under the circumstances, probably. Just don’t make a habit of…” Fletcher’s voice trailed off and he grew still, his eyes scanning the front and side of Karen’s home. He wandered toward the stone path at the side, leaving the trunk open. He walked slowly, his gaze moving over the ground as if he were tracking animals.

  “Fletcher?” Mason asked.

  Karen put a hand on his arm, her voice a low whisper. “Just wait.”

  They followed as Fletcher headed for the back, stopping as he examined the back door. He squatted, examining the door frame. “No forced entry?”

  “No.”

  Mason glanced at her, then cleared his throat. “Tyler didn’t get a chance to talk to Karen about—”

  Fletcher ran a finger down the edge of the door. “I know. I called him when you asked me if Karen could stay for a while at the retreat. He filled me in, asked if I would…You have a key outside?”

  Karen nodded. “Yes, but it’s hidden.”

  Fletcher backed up, then looked around the area near the door, taking in every detail. Finally he reached down and turned over a rock about four feet from the walk. The key’s brass color shone stark against the dark earth.

  Karen’s frustration rose in her throat. “How did you—”

  “It’s been moved. The rock, I mean. How many people know you have a key out here?”

  “Family. Maybe a couple of friends. You know, I forget sometimes you were a New York cop.”

  Fletcher turned, a crooked grin on his face. “I’m glad. Wish I could. And I know there are times Maggie wishes I could stop. Anyone else?”

  Karen paused, running through the list of people she trusted enough to share the key’s location. Jane, who wouldn’t tell a soul. Aunt Evie. Jake. Shane. Then, “Oh.”

  Fletcher and Mason came alert, speaking at the same time. “Who?”

  Karen sighed, then bent to pick up the key. “Last year I had some work done, some refinishing in the house. Had all the windows installed. The general contractor on the job knew about the key. Some of his workers might have seen him pick it up.”

  Fletcher glowered. “And you didn’t change the locks or the hiding place?”

  Her eyes widened. “It’s Mercer!”

  “It’s also 2008.” Mason ended the sentence with a slight growl.

  Karen, suddenly annoyed at both of them—and herself—propped her hands on her hips, defiant. “Don’t patronize me.”

  Fletcher went back to studying the ground around the door. “Did anyone but Tyler know you were going to breakfast?”

  “No, and I’m not usually out of the house so early in the morning. It’s some of my best work time. The light in the studio is amazing in the morning.” Karen sighed, not quite believing all that had happened in just one day. “I get my best ideas, just looking out over the yard, thinking, maybe pray—”

  “So if this were planned, they had to be watching or know you’d be gone.”

  “How could they—”

  “Jane’s!” Mason’s word burst out across the yard.

  “Give the man a cigar,” Fletcher murmured.

  Karen’s stomach churned. “You think that was to get me out of the house?”

  “Guaranteed.” The Cajun accent in Mason’s drawl caused Fletcher and Karen to turn to him. Mason nodded. “It would guarantee that both Karen and Tyler would be occupied. What else would?”

  Fletcher nodded absently. “Tyler should put you on a consultant’s retainer the way he has me.”

  Karen grinned at Mason’s puzzled look and whispered, “I’ll explain later.” Karen loved telling Fletcher’s story, as many of Mercer’s natives did. They were fascinated by the tall detective, who had adopted their town and married one of their favorite residents, Maggie Weston. Bestselling author Aaron Jackson, who had started the writers’ colony, was Fletcher’s best friend, and Aaron had used Fletcher as the model for his hero in a series of novels. This had brought a lot of uncomfortable fame to the introspective investigator, and it was part of the reason Fletcher had left the NYPD. Fletcher had no interest in sharing his private life with Aaron’s fans, a reluctance that, of course, made them even more curious. After Aaron’s murder, Fletcher had put his NYPD training to work to assist Tyler in the investigation. In the process, he’d fallen hard for Maggie, only adding to his charm for the local folks.

  Fletcher rotated slowly, his focus now turned away from the house, his gaze scanning through the trees and down the back slope. He pointed at a trail that led away through the trees. “Where does that go?”

  “It crosses Oak Drive about a quarter mile from here, then skirts the city park and ends up at the old Elkins place. I use it to get to Aunt Evie’s on Oak and to jog in the park.”

  “Do a lot of folks know about it?”

  “Pretty much the whole town.” She pointed back at her basement. “The original owner here died before the house was finished, but his wife kept kids after school for almost a year, trying to pay the bills. Once local kids find out about a trail like this, it’s never a secret again.”

  “Kids,” Fletcher muttered, then turned away again. Karen almost burst out laughing. For a couple of months rumors had been circulating that Maggie might be pregnant…rumors that had started when Maggie had joined a knitting class and started stocking up on lots of light blue and pink yarn. Looking at his back, Karen hoped the reticent detective would not be surprised by the boisterous way Mercer, and in particular Maggie’s church, welcomed a new baby into their midst.

  “Do the kids still use it much?” Fletcher walked closer to the tree line.

  “Occasionally. More often during the school year, cutting between the neighborhoods and downtown. I gave a few lessons last summer in t
he high school art classes, and the kids from the class sometimes drop by to see what I’m doing these days.” Karen paused, her eyes widening. “You don’t think this was a kid!”

  He shook his head, staring at the ground. “No, but I do think this is how whoever did it got away. I wanted to know how cluttered the trail might be.” He pointed at the ground. “Clay dust.”

  Karen and Mason rushed to his side and Mason squatted. “I’ll be. Clear as day.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Well, not all that clear. But from the description Tyler gave me of your basement, my guess is that the guy walked out covered in it.” He looked again at the woods. “If we’re lucky, he had a few shards that clung to him, as well, maybe dropped off along the way. If we find a suspect with clay dust on his clothes, we’d have something to compare. With the alarm, he knew he didn’t have much time, so he had to break in and get out in about three minutes. Enough time to destroy but not enough time to clean himself up. I’ll get Tyler’s guys back over here to secure the trail tonight. We’ll look tomorrow.”

  Mason looked up at him. “So you’re convinced this is a man?”

  Fletcher tilted his head sideways. “Almost certain.” He let out a long breath and looked down at Karen. “What’s worse, I think it’s probably someone you know.”

  Karen shook her head, backing away from him. “I can’t accept that, Fletcher. No one I know would do this!”

  Fletcher looked her up and down, his brown eyes intense. “Women who have conflict with people they know tend to lie, scheme, betray. They plot. They don’t usually turn to violence, and when they do, it makes the evening news because it’s so rare. Men are more likely to take action, even against people they care about. This is someone who knows your art, your home, your routine. He knew your studio was in your home, which room it was in and how to get you out of the house. He either knows you or has been watching you.”