The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  Mason’s blunt voice cut in. “Which is why I want her out of the house.”

  Fletcher’s eyebrows went up, and he brushed away a smile with his hand. “So let’s get to it.”

  Karen stared at Mason as a twinge formed in her gut that was part annoyance—what right did he have to tell her what to do?—and part affection. I can’t believe he wants to protect me like this. She spun away from them both. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  She heard them head back up the stone path, but she kept her gaze on the woods behind her house. Just that morning she’d watched the sun ease above the trees, filling her world with glorious light. Now, as it sank on the other side of the house, the woods felt unexpectedly ominous. A breeze moved through the trees, lifting her hair and pushing the leaves to a soft whisper.

  Memories of times in those woods flowed through her mind. They were one reason she’d wanted this house so much. She and Penny Elkins darting through them, chasing squirrels and the occasional deer. With fallen tree limbs they’d built towering mansions and sleek airplanes, great ocean liners and successful restaurants. The grand dreams of children.

  Then, without warning, her memory flashed red and white, bright, explosive colors. Karen gasped and jerked back to reality. “What in the world…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to process the thoughts of red and white. Swirls spun, and the white clustered into clouds, the red fading to a gentle blue. The sky. But why…?

  She stood stock-still. This had happened before, these flashes, which one of her childhood therapists had claimed were repressed memories. She didn’t quite believe it, but now…

  Karen spun and went back to the house, digging the key out of her pocket. She flung open the basement, deactivated the alarm and grabbed a box from one of the shelves. Moving rapidly, she filled it with brushes, glazes and tools.

  “What are you doing?” Mason asked from the doorway. “We were getting wor—”

  She pointed to a box on one of the bottom shelves. “Grab that clay.”

  “What’s going on?” He picked up the box.

  Karen tossed a sketch pad into her box, then paused just long enough to tap the side of her head. “Something—a memory, I think—is trying to push through. I have no idea what it is, but when it comes, I want to be ready.”

  Luke Knowles’s client watched silently as Karen reemerged from her basement, pottery supplies in hand and that idiotic professor in tow. A low snarl seeped from between clenched teeth, and a hand brushed back a tree branch as the two headed up the stone path and disappeared into Fletcher MacAllister’s car.

  Then the snarl eased into a long sigh of frustration.

  Why is she so stubborn? It should have been over by now!

  She had to stop making those freakish vases. Jumpy and unfocused, that was her typical manner. So easily distracted. Surely the three coordinated hits—Knowles, the gallery, her home—would be enough to convince her to move in other directions with her wretched pots. The plan had been so simple; scare her, distract her. Kill her? Yes, the thought had occurred. But the time was not right. Not yet. Maybe later, when the gain had been firmly secured.

  DuBroc and MacAllister’s involvement added unforeseen complications. Both were outsiders and would be quick to spot problems that locals might not notice…like someone being in these woods, watching. Worries about Tyler Madison had been nonexistent—this was way out of his league. He and his men hadn’t even looked at the woods. And even if they’d seen the familiar face peering at them, they wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

  Dolts, all of the local ones. But MacAllister had turned to the woods immediately, almost as if he could see the outline of the watcher still hanging about to see the results of his handiwork. His remaining ties to the NYPD could also prove troublesome. He trusted no one. Meanwhile, DuBroc’s hovering could give Karen a useless sense of security, while his adoration of those awful vases could give her the encouragement to “buck up and carry on.” That she had gone back for supplies and clay…definitely not a good sign.

  Not good at all.

  The bark of a maple tree pushed through the client’s shirt as shoulders pressed back, a weariness settling over them. I never wanted this to get so bloody. Please let her get the message soon.

  Care had to be taken, but the path was set. There was no choice. She had to stop. Or be stopped.

  SIX

  Karen stood silently as Fletcher and Mason unloaded the car, looking up at the A-frame lodge house. Already she missed her home, her own bed. Lacey. Still, this was better than going to Evie’s.

  The locals just called it “The Retreat.” Most of them didn’t even know its official name: The Aaron Jackson Foundation Writers and Artists Colony of Mercer, New Hampshire. They would have snorted at the pretentiousness of such a title, anyway. After all, it wasn’t a resort, just a cluster of cabins scattered over ten acres of rolling woodland. The center of the retreat, the rustic four-bedroom lodge, was the most impressive part of the estate and was home to a groundskeeper and the retreat’s manager, Maggie, along with her husband, Fletcher MacAllister.

  The local folks might have sighed a bit, however, to know that the “Foundation” part of the title had been added by Maggie after Aaron Jackson’s death the year before. Aaron had founded the retreat as his literary legacy, and then had been murdered on the lodge’s back deck. Aaron had been a vibrant character, flamboyantly prowling Mercer’s cafés and galleries, supporting the region’s artists and writers and the town itself out of the proceeds from his detective novels. Fletcher, the model for the hero of those novels, exuded an unusual magnetism, and the respect and affection he showed toward his wife reminded Karen that there were, in fact, still men about who deserved the title of gentleman.

  The thought made her glance toward Mason, who stood, eyes down, as Maggie berated him for breaking one of the key rules of the retreat.

  “There are too many people here dedicated to making this work for their careers, Mason, and too many who want to be here.” The strands of Maggie’s soft auburn hair trembled around her face as she spoke. “I understand everyone has a problem now and then, but you’ve been distinctly absent the past few days. If you can be successfully productive somewhere else, then you don’t need us. What have you written this week?”

  Fletcher set Karen’s suitcase and box of supplies down at her feet, then straightened, watching Maggie, his weight resting on one foot. Karen wondered if he felt what she did—a strong desire to interrupt, to defend Mason’s actions in light of the day’s events. But they both remained quiet, markedly aware that this was between Mason and Maggie. When she finally paused, Mason cleared his throat, his voice soft.

  “Do you remember when Aaron was working on his fourteenth novel? When he suddenly stopped, set it aside and started a brand-new one?”

  Maggie stepped back, clearly not expecting this defense, but willing to go along. “I do. He’d taken a vacation to Bon Aire and become fascinated with scuba diving. He got back and couldn’t let it go, so he went back, stayed another month and started a new book about the island and diving.”

  “It launched as his fourteenth book. He finished the other one later.”

  Maggie nodded. “And?”

  “I’m fascinated by Karen’s pottery.” Mason’s face lit up, his enthusiasm almost childlike in its glee. “From the moment I saw the vases in Jane’s gallery,” he continued, “I knew I had to follow my nose, so to speak. I’m known for my research about art crimes, but part of what I do is find the best new artists and make sure they become better known. And here were these vases…they were the most creative body of work I’d come across in a long time. Then to find out that the potter lived here…well, the second art crime book has been a bit sidetracked.”

  Maggie’s vivid green eyes swung slowly to Karen, and her lips pursed, as if she were fighting a smile. “Ever been the object of an obsession before?”

  Karen’s cheeks felt parched by the heat of embarrassment. She opened her
mouth, but it was Fletcher who answered. “Probably not twice in one day.”

  The thought sobered them all, and Maggie let out a long breath, her gaze back on Mason. “All right. But I can’t make exceptions for you too much longer.” She shook a slender finger at him. “No matter what the circumstances.”

  Mason nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.” She turned to Karen. “Would you rather stay in the house or in one of the cabins?”

  Mason and Fletcher chimed in with a simultaneous masculine chorus. “House.”

  Maggie straightened her spine and arched her neck, bringing her chin down. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to harden, reminding Karen distinctly of Lacey about to pounce on her chosen prey. Her voice dropped, making the words a low and somewhat threatening rumble. “I don’t believe I addressed either of you.”

  Karen choked on a smidgen of laughter and swallowed heavily as both men took a slight step backward and looked away from them. “I’m most concerned about a place to work, where I can put my wheel, maybe a kiln. If I can’t go back to my own house until this is over, I’ll need them here. They’ll need a solid floor, preferably concrete, a 220 plug and a source of water.”

  Maggie nodded, apparently distracted from her urge to flay two overprotective men. “We can set that up in the studio.” At Karen’s puzzled look, Maggie lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “We’re thinking about opening residency up to artists as well as writers, but the cabins aren’t set up to store great quantities of supplies. After all, an eight-by-eight-foot canvas takes up a lot more space than a laptop computer. So we built a studio last year. Lots of windows and spots for the larger canvases. It’s wired and there’s a sink with a paint trap. It’s also not too far from the lodge, which would make both of these pups happy.”

  Karen nodded. “That should work fine.” She sighed. “I really appreciate this, Maggie. This morning when I got up, I certainly didn’t expect—”

  Maggie cut her off with a wave of her hand and walked closer, stroking Karen’s shoulder. “It’s no imposition, I promise. Besides, I know all too well how upside down your life can get in one day.” She bent to pick up the suitcase at Karen’s feet, only to have Fletcher leap toward it, reaching the handle before she could grasp it. Maggie straightened, scowling at him. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  A rush of joy shot through Karen, and she almost squealed. “So it’s true!” She grabbed Maggie’s arms, startling the older woman. “Isn’t it?”

  Maggie froze for a moment, annoyance knitting her eyebrows together. Then she relented, her shoulders dropping a bit, and nodded. “Yes,” she said softly.

  Karen pulled her into a hug, which Maggie returned warmly, enveloping them both in the comfortable aroma of Maggie’s ever-present sandalwood perfume. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. We weren’t going to tell anyone yet, but…”

  “It’s a very small town,” Fletcher finished, amusement in his voice and eyes.

  Karen released her friend. “When?”

  “Around Christmas, we think.”

  “Awesome!” Karen bounced up on her toes. “This actually means my day ends on a good note.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “If I’d known it would help this much, I would have told you sooner.”

  “No, this is perfect. I needed it now. And I’ll help any way I can when the time comes,” Karen promised. “I love babies!”

  “Believe me, I’ll remember that the first time I need a babysitter.” Maggie turned and took Mason’s arm. “Now, I know for a fact you two haven’t eaten, and I may scold my writers, but I never let them go hungry.” She tugged him toward the kitchen. “I saved two plates from supper. All they need is a little heat from the microwave.”

  Fletcher set Karen’s suitcase down again and offered her his arm. “Suitcases can wait. Let’s eat. Miss O’Neill?”

  She grinned and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “My pleasure, Mr. MacAllister.”

  Two hours later, with dinner finished and the kitchen tidy, Karen unpacked in one of the spare rooms of the lodge. She got ready for bed, then lay back across the mattress, staring at the ceiling, going over the events of the day one more time. The early morning, with its crisp air and warm coffee, felt like a year away, almost like a favorite memory that had suddenly become hard to recall. Thoughts of Luke Knowles, Jane’s shop and the destruction in her studio followed, renewing the sharp ache that had made a home just below her heart and stayed there all day. Even watching Mason with the clay—he had been so captured by the formation of the earth beneath his hands—could not hold the joy it should have for long.

  A long, slow breath eased out of Karen as tears stung the corners of her eyes. “Lord, why is my life changing so much? Is this part of Your plan or interference with what You want for me? First Mason, now all this?” Frustration roiled over her. Why is this happening? How on earth could those vases mean anything to anybody other than as a piece of artwork? People sometimes developed emotional attachments to objects, but these were usually pleasant feelings because they either had made it, or had received it from someone special.

  So…what did they mean?

  The thought made Karen sit up, scowling. “Not a good emotion,” she murmured. “Someone who hates not me but the vases themselves.” What would make someone hate an object?

  Bad memories, surely, but why?

  Karen stood and went to the window. The bedroom Maggie had assigned her overlooked the wooded acres behind the lodge where the cabins lay scattered. She could see only three of the ten buildings, two cabins and the studio where Fletcher had stored her supplies. The larger of the two cabins was the home of a writer who’d been at the retreat for more than a year. The smaller one, just to the left of the studio, was Mason’s. A light still shone in one of the windows, casting a warm gold over the ground outside. She could see him moving about rapidly, almost as if he were pacing.

  A gentle smile spread over her face. “What a mess we are,” she whispered. “You’ve touched my heart, Mason DuBroc. But why did this happen now? And why are you even here?”

  Why, indeed. Karen returned to the bed and sat down heavily, closing her eyes, murmuring, “Lord, help us. I so need Your wisdom and guidance. I don’t know what any of this means, this horror with the vases, these feelings for Mason. I don’t even know what to do next. Help?” Then, as was her custom, she waited.

  It was what Jake had taught her, almost as a part of her training with the clay. “Prayer is a two-way conversation, child. You have to talk. You have to listen. Just like with me.” It hadn’t just been Jake’s lesson on pottery that had helped her focus her riotous brain; it had also been his lessons on prayer.

  Karen breathed deeply, evenly, eyes still closed. Listening. Slowly, a sense of peace settled over her, as one of her pottery lessons with Jake floated through her mind. She’d been nervous about trying to do something different, unique, with her art, instead of routine pieces that might sell locally, but not truly reflect her vision. Jake had reached out, picked up a lump of clay and dropped it in her hand.

  “God gave you this. He trusted you with this precious gift. Trust Him to guide your use of it. You are His child. He will protect you.”

  Karen’s eyes snapped open. “Protect me? But…”

  Trust.

  “Always the hard part, that trusting,” Jake frequently reminded her. “We humans want to do our own thing, control our own lives, go our own way. Some say it’s natural, but it’s not. Gotta be His way or it never works like it should.”

  Trust.

  Karen stood up and finished getting ready for bed. “Okay, Lord,” she said, slipping between the sheets. “I know You’re there. You’ve given me too many blessings over the years to doubt. Just let me know what I need to do.” Snuggling down, she drifted off into a sleep of pure exhaustion.

  That night, the nightmares returned.

  “She woke us all up screaming. She’s been like this ever since, s
o we called Jake.”

  Mason froze in the door frame, one foot in the main room of the lodge, the other still on the back deck. Maggie and Fletcher turned to look at him, then Fletcher nodded for him to come over.

  He had awakened suddenly, needing to see Karen, to know she was safe. He’d walked over from his cabin to see if Karen wanted to go get breakfast. It was still early, barely 6:00 a.m., but he knew that both Maggie and Karen were early risers, and the lights in the lodge house already blazed brightly. But Maggie’s words had not exactly brought a warm welcome.

  The front wall of the great room had a large fireplace in the middle, with an intricately carved, dark wood mantel, around which a seating area had been arranged. Karen sat on one of the plush couches, a quilt around her shoulders, her feet tucked up next to her hips on the cushions. Her pale face looked drawn and tight, and her eyes seemed to be focused on something not of this world.

  Fletcher and Maggie stood next to her, Maggie clinging to Fletcher’s arm. They were all still in their pajamas and robes, although Maggie had managed to make coffee. Fletcher and Karen both held on to cups as if afraid the coffee would fly away at any moment. Jake sat on the sofa next to Karen, clutching her hand. “How long has it been?” His low voice had a rough, steely edge to it. “I know you were still having them when you left home. So…ten years?”

  Karen remained still a moment, then blinked and nodded.

  Mason knelt in front of her. “They stopped when she started making the vases.”

  Karen eased back to awareness at his words, her gaze coming into focus. Her eyes focused on him, and she collapsed toward him, throwing off the quilt and sliding off the couch into his arms. “What does he want from me!”

  Startled, Mason caught her, wrapping his arms around her. Her anguished cry wrenched his heart, and he held her silently, clueless as to what to do next. Looking over her shoulder at the older man, he could see Jake nodding at Maggie. “This is progress,” he said, the rumbling growl of his voice a little lighter.