The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  Karen grinned. “So it wasn’t only my father who didn’t get along with Grandmother?”

  Jake harrumphed. “That old woman could have tried the patience of the Lord Himself. She thought I was a bad influence on Evie. Probably was, though, as you can see.” He smiled briefly, then continued. “After all, I never was much for money and status. Just the thought of being upstanding and proper gives me indigestion.” He put a fist against his diaphragm as if he needed to burp.

  “It does not!” Karen couldn’t hold back her laughter.

  “Does, too!” Jake’s serious expression was betrayed by the shine in his eyes.

  Karen sighed, the humor fading. “Was that the start of my father’s competition with Carver Billings? The house?”

  “More like the end.” Jake stretched his right leg and massaged the knee a moment. “I’m getting too old for all this. That particular family drama took place only about six months before they died. His problems with Billings began not long after he started SDKM.” He tapped the photo. “Probably around then. But the Steen estate may have been the most irritating situation. Billings wanted to buy into Mercer for years, but historic homes in this area seldom come up for public sale. They usually pass between family members, if they change hands at all.”

  “Why Mercer?”

  “We’re commuting distance from Portsmouth, Manchester and Boston. He smelled money.”

  “So are a lot of small towns in this area.” Karen had a hard time envisioning Mercer as a community of cluster homes and crowded subdivisions.

  “But developers always seem to be looking for more.”

  Karen hesitated, but she had to ask. “Do you think they were killed because of business?”

  He shrugged.

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Legitimate businesspeople don’t just murder each other when the competition heats up!” She took a deep breath, not wanting to take the other approach any more than the rest of Mercer. “If no one had a reason to kill my father, then it had to be a random crime…or…”

  Jake waited.

  “Fletcher thinks it was personal, and that it was about my mother. But no one can find anyone with a reason to kill her, either.”

  Jake’s gaze grew distant, as if he were scouring through his own set of memories from that time. “Fletcher,” he said, his voice dropping, “is very good at what he does. His instincts are amazing.”

  “So you think he’s right?”

  Jake shrugged one shoulder. “I think that twenty years does not make an assumption any truer now than it did then. It could have been because of business. But it also could have been personal. We do your parents a great disservice to assume either without evidence.”

  Karen stood, then reached down and ran her finger over the images of her parents. “Then let’s hope we can find some quickly.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  Karen wet her lips. “Where I’d started. I need to go back to my house, to work. I really do need to work this thing out in the clay.”

  “But you also need to not be alone.” His concern for her was palpable. “Have someone with you, even if Jane has to camp out upstairs.”

  Karen hesitated, but she had to respect his love for her. “All right.”

  Jake watched her a moment, then nudged the photo album. “Take it with you. There are a lot of photos of your family in there. I want you to have as much time with them as you need.”

  Karen set her plate on the floor and closed the album, resting her hands flat on the cover. “Thank you. I’ll bring it back before you know it.”

  Mason sat in one of Laurie’s booths, his hands clutched tightly around one of her ceramic mugs, which she had kept full of coffee since he’d tripped through the door more than an hour earlier. The Federal Café, mostly empty at this time of the afternoon, echoed with the rhythmic taps of the servers’ shoes and the soft clattering of the five or so diners consuming a late lunch.

  He had not eaten. Could not. Maggie’s sandwich now lay like a lump in his stomach. Something about the way Karen had fled, desperate to disappear into her clay work and away from the events of the day, had left his stomach sour and churning—feelings he knew were as much because of his own past as his growing emotions for the young potter.

  After Jake had followed Karen, Mason had driven into town, but they weren’t at the house. Desperate to trust Karen and Jake, frustrated by inactivity and frantic for information, Mason had walked the length of Mercer twice. Finally, Laurie had lassoed him, insisting he sit for a while before revisiting the house.

  He stared into the cup, struggling to stay in his seat. He wanted action, to do something, to make sure she was still safe. The ache in his chest told him that, truly, he’d let himself go far too soon, and had not guarded his heart enough.

  The steam from the coffee, the fragrant scent of the dark swirls, reminded him of his father, who had liked his coffee dark and strong, “so that a spoon would stand up in the middle,” according to his mother.

  He could see them in his mind, dark skin against light, the black hair of his father’s Cajun ancestors blending with his mother’s English blond as they held each other. They hadn’t been able to be in the same room without touching each other, and their love for their son had been palpable, and so supportive it had made him feel invincible. Kisses and hugs had been frequent and open, and they’d never grown remote or distant, as Mason had seen some long-married couples do.

  “I want that kind of love,” he muttered into the cup. “That exact kind.”

  And the fact that he’d lost them both at the same time, precisely because they’d loved each other, remained a pain so deep in his being that he felt it every day. “Because they loved each other.”

  He didn’t want to lose his chance at a love like that. Not like this. He had to do something.

  Mason closed his eyes. Lord, help me with this woman. Help me sort this out, find a way to help her. To love her as she deserves. Whatever it takes. Please.

  He opened his eyes again, the coffee still in front of him, dark and rich.

  Coffee. She’d definitely go back for the Kona. Abruptly he slid out of the booth. He motioned at Laurie and left a five on the table as he strode out. He ignored her attempts to say something before he left, and his steps lengthened as he headed away from the center of town, back down the hill to Karen’s cottage. He’d wait for her there.

  He paused only when he saw the first wisps of smoke, the first dancing tongues of flame in her living room windows.

  “No!” he screamed, then broke into a run toward the house.

  The client had not lingered to see the initial burst of flame nor waited to see fire and heat demolish the little house that evoked such loathing deep within. Maybe if she hadn’t made the studio so clean and airy, so perfect for pottery-making, then maybe…

  Ah, such wasted thoughts. What-ifs. What if Karen hadn’t become a potter? What if David and Stephanie had not died so easily? What if David had failed, even once, in his plans to take over historical New Hampshire? But, no, he had not. So unforgivable, a lack of failure in one so young.

  Lack of failure creates arrogance, a sense that you can do anything you set your mind to. So it was with David O’Neill. Arrogant, so self-assured. His very attitude begged for him to be given a comeuppance.

  What if I’d gone ahead and killed the seven-year-old Karen? “Should have.” Then none of this would be happening. But as easy as murder had been with her parents, with Karen it had been hard. “Odd child.” She’d stared, in full recognition of what she was witnessing, but with no screams, no fear, just that unblinking stare. The slap had snapped her out of it, but then Karen had just turned and fled into the yard. Catching her had put the whole thing at risk, but bending over her, whispering, “No one will believe you,” had worked better than expected.

  Until now.

  Then one more what-if came to mind. What if Karen was in the house?

  The client paused, then spo
ke aloud, reassuringly. “Of course she’s not home. She’s hiding. But this will kill her will. It’s over. This will take care of it.”

  What if it does not?

  The client drove on, refusing to take that line of useless thinking. No more what-ifs.

  TWELVE

  Karen emerged from the woods at the edge of the property in time to watch Carver Billings pull up the long, gentle curves of his driveway. She looked around at the scaffolding, where a crew of painters scrapped and repaired a facade untouched in years, and at the stunning landscape work of three gardeners so focused on their work that they did not notice the arrival of the newcomers.

  Billings drove an older model Buick, and he got out, looking puzzled but curious about Karen’s appearance in his yard. Karen broke into a trot, arriving at the driveway a bit breathless. “I’m sorry to trespass. I’m Karen O’Neill. There’s a trail that runs adjacent—” She turned to point, but Billings interrupted her.

  “Excuse me, but did you say Karen O’Neill?” The words were spoken hesitantly, but Billings’s deep voice was pleasant and cultured. “David O’Neill’s daughter?”

  Karen looked at him uncertainly. “Uh, yes, I am. Are you Mr. Billings?”

  He smiled and held out his hand. “I am. And I am very pleased to meet you, Miss O’Neill. I knew your father quite well.”

  Karen tucked the photo album tightly under her left arm and took Billings’s hand with her right. She had no idea how to respond, then Evie’s charm-school training kicked in. “My pleasure, Mr. Billings.” She cleared her throat and straightened. “I had heard that you had bought this house. Welcome to Mercer.”

  Mr. Billings’s smile widened. “Thank you. Don’t mind the trespassing. The Realtor warned me about the trail, that we might see children use it on occasion.”

  “Shane Abernathy.”

  Now it was Billings’s turn to look confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your Realtor. Shane Abernathy. Tall, thin, bald guy. Speaks as if he swallowed a thesaurus.”

  He chuckled at her description. “Yes, of course. I’ve known Shane for some time. We’re in the same business. Good man. Good reputation. It’s why we chose him.”

  “He’s my cousin. I grew up with him. That’s how I knew about the sale. My aunt told me.”

  “Mercer is quite a small town,” Billings said quietly, then his smile returned and he took a deep breath. “Of course, it’s why I’ve wanted to live here for so many years. We’ve visited often over the years and have many friends here. Now that my wife and I are retiring, the timing seemed perfect.” He focused on Karen. “I do hope you’ll come to dinner some night soon. We’ve almost finished redoing the dining room.”

  Karen paused, trying to gauge whether the invitation was genuine or just polite. Billings, his white hair a touch windblown, embodied elegance in his straight-backed stance and carefully groomed clothes. His pale blue eyes shone above the smile in a way that felt sincere to her. “I will, sir. I will call later in the week.”

  “Excellent! We’ll make sure—” He stopped, frowning, just as Karen did, at the sound of an approaching siren. Tyler Madison’s cruiser hit the Billings drive at high speed, only slowing when close to Karen and Billings. Tyler rolled down the passenger window and shouted at Karen.

  “Get in!” he demanded, and she did.

  “What’s happened?”

  Without another word, he backed out of the drive, his foot hitting the gas pedal hard.

  “Tyler—”

  “Let me drive.” He looked over at Karen just once, then focused on the winding roads of rural Mercer.

  Once was enough. Whatever had happened was bad. Karen laid the photo album on the floor, tightened her seat belt and curled against the car door, hugging herself, fighting a wave of fear that made her light-headed. One thought locked in her mind. Please, Lord. Not Mason.

  Mason sat at the back of the ambulance, feet propped on the bumper. He held an oxygen mask to his face, but he couldn’t stop staring at the flames in front of him, the monstrous red-orange claws that leaped up the side and roof of Karen’s cottage, tearing it apart. The heat of the blaze had melted siding on the house next door, and the firefighters zealously fought back from the front and rear of the house. Neighbors had gathered, watching and pointing from the streets, and gasps and a few screams hit the air when the roof gave, the weight of it plowing through the blackened first floor and dropping into the basement with a roar.

  Mason wanted to be numb, craved it. But he wasn’t, and tears leaked from his eyes as the EMTs worked on his shoulder and left arm. Yet the tears weren’t from the physical pain, sharp as that was, or the smoke that billowed around them. I couldn’t find her. That was the pain he wanted to be numbed. Lord, I couldn’t get to her.

  He’d tried. When the fire had almost exploded in her living room, spreading quickly, his adrenaline rush had helped him break in the door, causing a backflash that had singed his hair and sent him reeling backward. Still, he’d pushed forward, entering the house, screaming her name. She had to be there. Where else would she be?

  The fire had already blocked the stairs to the second floor, and he couldn’t get past it. The floor beneath his feet had begun to crack and give when he’d headed downstairs, where he’d found himself trapped. The fire had seemed almost alive as it had lapped through the ceiling and crawled down the wallboards of the studio. Something liquid and melting had poured down the staircase behind him. He’d broken out one of the windows to escape, collapsing in the backyard, coughing and gagging from smoke inhalation. He didn’t remember getting hurt, but his left shoulder throbbed, and there were cuts and scrapes up and down his left side and arm.

  Please, not upstairs. Don’t let her be upstairs. His fervent prayers felt like the pleas of a child. Save her.

  “Save them,” the teenaged Mason had begged the firefighters who’d rushed to his own home. His father, ordering his son to stay and wait for the emergency teams, had gone back in the blazing house to get his wife. Neither had returned. Later, Mason had spent days sifting through the ashes, looking for any sign of his past, anything that looked familiar. Nothing had remained. Only their wedding rings, which the coroner had given to Mason after the funerals.

  “Please, not again.” Mason’s voice, muffled by the mask, sounded distant and hollow.

  The EMT looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  Mason shook his head. “I can’t leave. Not yet.”

  “Mason!” The scream, high-pitched, feminine and desperate, jerked Mason to his feet. He turned toward the sound to see Karen racing toward him, hair flying, feet stumbling over hoses and equipment. He dropped the mask and ran, his chest tight with relief. He caught her up in his arms, his tears wetting her hair and face as he held her as tightly as he could.

  “You’re safe! Thank God you’re safe!” He kissed her hair, her cheeks, showering her with the grateful relief that seared through him. “Chère, ma chère, I thought you were in the house!”

  “You went in!” she yelled at him. “Tyler said you went in after me!” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she suddenly pushed back at him, smacking his chest. “You idiot! I could have lost you, too!”

  She hit him again, and he caught her hands and held them against his chest with one hand, stroking her face with the other. “I had to.”

  “But the house was on fire!” At that moment her own words seemed to sink in, and her eyes widened as she turned, looking past him. “My house!” She screamed again, and lurched toward the flames.

  Two firefighters, hearing her scream, turned to block her, but Mason held tight, pulling her against his chest, holding her arms down. “It’s gone,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

  Karen’s sobs rocked her now, and her knees gave way. Mason eased both of them to the ground, still cradling her against him. She clung to him, fingers curled like claws into his shirt and skin. He didn’t even feel the pain. All t
hat mattered was her. “Chère,” he whispered over and over as he stroked her hair and back, trying to give her comfort.

  A few moments later Tyler approached and draped a thick woolen blanket around both of them. Mason looked up with wordless thanks, and Tyler nodded, his face somber. He left them and went to stand next to a man in a firefighter’s uniform. He directed the action, his only equipment a handheld radio. He and Tyler spoke in low tones, and the fireman handed Tyler a small slip of paper, then pointed toward one corner of the house.

  That’s where it had begun, Mason thought, remembering how the flames had birthed in that corner and spread across the living room. Arson.

  Mason tightened his hold on the sobbing Karen and kissed the top of her head again, his sense of relief still more powerful than any physical pain, anger at the attack or sympathy for her loss. She was still there, and in that moment, that was what mattered most.

  He watched the dying flames as her sobbing slowly ceased. They subsided almost at the same time, the red and yellow flickers slowly consumed by black smoke as Karen’s grief evolved from racking sobs to silent shivers of grief. Finally, with a long, shuddering sigh, she raised her head and looked, first at him, then around her.

  When she spoke, her whispered words cracked and broke in the heated air. “How do I tell him that I’ll stop? How do I make him leave us alone?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.”

  She leaned her head against his chest, and her grip eased, becoming less desperate. “What do I do now?”

  Mason knew the feeling all too well. The loss, the feeling of being adrift, with no home or focus. Or hope. “I don’t know. But whatever you need to do, I’ll help,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise you.”

  Standing at the edge of the crowd, Luke Knowles’s client tried to avoid grinning, but the sense of success, of winning, was almost overwhelming. Seeing Karen slumped against that stupid boy—he had run into the burning house! Fool!—the client knew the final goal had been achieved.