The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  “Let me take you to Jake’s.” Mason reached out, as if to take Karen’s hand.

  They all stood silent for a moment, but Mason could see the edgy fear begin to drain away from Karen, and he stepped closer. “Not to the house. To the studio.”

  Still, she remained wary. “Why?”

  His voice dropped in volume and tone. He so wanted to comfort her! “Because I think you need the clay.” He paused, then pushed the thought again. “You need the clay.”

  They waited, and Mason watched a half-dozen emotions play across Karen’s face. Doubt. Fear. Desire. When he saw the desire, the need, he knew for certain that he’d been right.

  “Let me get some shoes.” Karen turned and left the room.

  Fletcher and Tyler immediately turned on Mason. “Be careful,” Fletcher warned him. “The killer may think she’s defeated after last night, but that doesn’t mean she’s not still being watched.” He focused again on Tyler. “I’ll contact the owners of the house where her parents died. She may come around sooner rather than later.”

  Tyler agreed. “I’m going to check with the fire chief.” He returned to the table, his hand resting thoughtfully on the photo album Jake had given Karen. “I’m going to take this, as well, if no one objects. And some of the photos from the house.” No one answered, as no one objected. Maggie brought him a bag from the kitchen about the same time that Karen emerged again from her bedroom. This time her shoulders were set, her mouth in a firm line. “Let’s go.”

  The client sighed as Laurie set a breakfast plate on the table. Success made life so much brighter, more fun to indulge in the little pleasures—like French toast at the Federal Café.

  Remaining close to Karen O’Neill had been a serious risk, especially with all those vases floating about. But she apparently had not made the connection between the face on the vase and the face in her past until quite recently.

  A snarl curled the corner of the client’s mouth. Mason DuBroc recent, as a matter of fact. What a mistake that was! He certainly looked and sounded like a dolt from Hicksville. Who knew he’d be the one to draw the lines between the dots and connect vases with faces with events. And so quickly that plans had to be escalated, if only to ensure the success of defeating Karen’s dreams to become the next big thing in the art world.

  Insurance. Hmm. There was a pause in the eating. That article about those blasted vases had been well written with an intriguing amount of detail and historical references. DuBroc seemed to be an expert at research and well skilled at linking cause and effect. Unlike Karen O’Neill, whose notorious lack of focus had even made it into DuBroc’s article; the good professor had a bit of a ferret in him, a determination to get to the mole, no matter how deep the hole.

  The client almost laughed at the image. Still, if the boy truly had fallen in love with the artist, he could remain a problem long after the pottery had ceased to be.

  The cup of coffee paused in midair. Perhaps a little more insurance was called for after all.

  FOURTEEN

  Mason’s words echoed in Karen’s mind as they drove to the Steen estate. They had struck hard, sounding so much like Jake’s advice earlier in her career that they had made the hairs on her neck stand up. They began the drive in silence, pulling away from the retreat in Mason’s sports car, both facing stonily ahead. As the woodland gave way to the small-town streets, however, Karen looked over at him.

  Soot still stained his clothes in random patches, and smears blotched his forehead and cheeks. The morning mist had dampened his thick hair, and the small curls at the ends of his hair caressed his neck and jawline. One dropped repeatedly over his right eye, ignoring his efforts to keep it pushed out of the way.

  She pursed her lips, wanting to say something, yet almost everything in her head felt weak in the wake of his earlier speech and the determination of all three men to see this through to the end. Finally, what came out was a murmur barely louder than the car’s humming engine. “Thank you.”

  He looked at her, his dark eyes intense. He pushed the curl back and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He turned quickly to look back at the road, causing the curl to drop again.

  “I would do anything for you.”

  She reached up and brushed the curl back. “I know.”

  With an action both forceful and affectionate, Mason clasped her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. Every muscle in Karen’s body tensed at the soft, brief touch, and she realized that she, too, would do anything for this man at her side.

  “Lord,” she whispered. “Please get us through this in one piece.”

  Mason lowered their hands to the console between the seats but did not release hers. His eyes sparkled as he glanced at her again. “Amen.”

  He finally let go as they reached the Steen driveway. He turned into it, driving this time all the way to the back, parking next to Jake’s studio. They got out and entered without knocking.

  Jake stood at the sink, cleaning a few of his tools, the running water masking the sound of their entry. Yet when he turned and saw them, he showed no surprise. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, his rough baritone both serious and welcoming. “Evie told me about the fire. She and Shane were both there.”

  Karen nodded, remembering the pale faces among the crowd. “I know. I saw them. Along with half the town. Even the newcomers.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I need the clay.”

  Jake dried his hands on a ratty towel and motioned toward his worktable. “I’ve already cut three sections off. All brown, but I have red and white if you need them.”

  Karen picked up one of the dark chunks of raw clay and hefted it, bouncing it in one hand a moment, then switching hands. She dropped it back on the table with a dull thud, then stripped off her outer shirt and pulled her T-shirt from the waist of her jeans, fluffing it a bit.

  “I’ll get you a bat and some water. Center wheel?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she replied, though she barely noticed his movements as he placed a round bat in the middle of his three wheels. Her focus was now solely on the clay, her clay. She rolled it on the table, kneading it until the texture felt right, a soft firmness that she liked and could sense under her fingers, yet could never describe to anyone else. Karen dropped the ball onto the center of the bat with a solid thump. Her foot found the wheel’s pedal almost out of instinct, and she centered the clay, then wet her hands and cupped both around the ball, increasing the speed of the wheel. The earth under her hands seemed to come alive, shifting and changing with the least touch. “What are you?” she whispered. “What do you need to be?”

  Tall. She coaxed it, the clay building upon itself. Holding both hands around it to steady its growth, a pillar emerged, elegant and stable. She paused, watching it spin. “What kind?” In her mind she saw it, a vase, but not one of her face vases. They were broad and sturdy, with the thicker walls needed to support the faces, which were hand-built and added later. This one was slender and elegant, like her aunt Evie. The face vases were also wild and kaleidoscopic with their colors, bright reds and greens. This one would have red streaks, but the base would be emerald green, that special glaze that Jake kept, which went on black but fired the color of Shane’s favorite sweater or Carver Billings’s Buick, or the pants…

  The pants.

  A vision flashed in front of her face. Legs walking toward her face. Emerald green. Sweatpants. Blood splatters. Green and red streaks…no, green with red streaks…

  Karen heard herself scream, but she only saw her hands crushing the clay, the wheel grinding to a halt, her fingers buried deep in the earth. Tears blurred her vision and she fought to stay upright but couldn’t. She weaved, and strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her down to a sitting position on the ground. The clay came with her, the ball landing heavily in her lap.

  “Chère.” She looked up to see Mason’s face close, his expression so fraught with anxiety that she wanted to touch him, but her hands remained weigh
ted by the clay. Her breath was so rapid she felt as if she were panting.

  “The house!” Her words sounded like a wheeze, but she had to get them out. “I have to go to that house!”

  Mason pulled Karen to her feet with Jake’s help, both of them watching her for signs of dizziness or instability on her feet. Her scream had turned every one of his nerves inside out. Whatever she’d seen had shaken her to the core. They escorted her to the sink, where Jake scraped the clay from her hands and held them under the water until the last morsel of earth had washed away.

  “What house?” Jake asked, as Karen dried her hands and Mason found her a stool to perch on.

  “The house.” Karen inhaled deeply, shakily.

  Obviously, she still felt rattled. Mason hovered just behind her left shoulder, until she reached out and took his hand. “I’m okay,” she said, looking up at him. “I just saw something…The clay brought it out…”

  Jake nodded. “It has a way of doing that. What did you see?”

  “Legs. It must have been after the murder, when I was out in the yard.”

  The older man’s eyebrows went up. “Just legs?”

  “Not exactly. Pants, actually. Emerald-green sweatpants. You know, the fleece kind, but without the elastic around the ankles. They had blood on them.” She looked up at Mason again. “I think Fletcher’s right. I think I’m close to remembering. The house might help.”

  Karen gripped Mason’s arm. “Do you have your cell phone?” He nodded and she continued. “Call Fletcher and get the address, will you?” She turned back to Jake as Mason pulled out his phone. She pulled Jake into a tight hug. “Thank you, for everything.”

  Mason dialed slowly, watching as Jake returned Karen’s hug with fatherly affection. “Be careful, girl. You’ve been holding in a poison for a long time. Be careful that it’s not you that gets stung.”

  Karen looked at him, a little puzzled by the remark. “I will.”

  A dark voice buzzed in Mason’s ear. “Fletcher MacAllister.” Mason turned away, and didn’t hear if Karen and Jake said anything else.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were at the retreat, transferring to Fletcher’s larger, distinctly nondescript car. Fletcher teased Mason as he locked up the sports car. “Did you just have to buy arrest-me red when you got that thing? Not very practical.”

  Mason snorted. “Of course. I’m not very practical, remember? I majored in art history.”

  “Where’s the house, Fletcher?” Karen settled in the front passenger’s seat and fastened her belt.

  The tall detective folded himself into the car and did the same. “Ridgeview Estates. Back in the mid-eighties, it was a new development.” He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure Mason was also buckled in before starting the car. “The open house was in a spec home at the back of the development.”

  “Spec meaning…?” Karen prompted.

  “Built to sell from ready. Most developments, you go in and buy a plot of land and a house plan based on the models you view. Then the contractor builds your home the way you want it. Spec homes are built without buyers signed up. Most developers build one or two.”

  Fletcher pulled out of the retreat and turned away from Mercer. “This home was toward the back of the development, and had only one neighbor at the time. According to your father’s notes, he was the broker of record for the development. Semi-steady sales, and it gave him time to work on ideas for SDKM. He had disagreed with the developer over having a spec home so far back in the complex, and he suspected it might have been for a relative who backed out of the deal. I found evidence that your dad was doing everything he could to sell the home but without a lot of luck.” Fletcher made a right turn and headed up a slight incline.

  “I suppose they checked out the developer after the murders,” Mason said.

  Fletcher nodded. “As best they could. He never was much of a suspect. He and his wife were in Florida at the time, checking out retirement homes.” He glanced at Karen. “Part of the reason the cops had problems solving this is that they couldn’t find anyone who hated your parents. Except for Carver Billings, David kept his business as low-key as possible, probably to keep Elizabeth Steen from getting curious.”

  Karen sat a bit straighter in her seat. “Okay, I’m going to ask because no one else seems to want to.” She faced Fletcher. “We’ve gone around and around the pros and cons of who could have done this. Aunt Evie had motive, but there’s no evidence. Daddy’s business could have been the cause, but there’s no evidence. Now. What’s the likelihood that Carver Billings actually did kill my parents?”

  Fletcher’s mouth tightened, and Mason watched him in the rearview mirror, admiring the man’s self-control. “As you pointed out, the problem,” Fletcher said evenly, “is with the evidence. Circumstantially, he would definitely be a ‘person of interest.’ But there’s nothing physical, nothing forensic to connect him.”

  Karen let out a frustrated sigh. “Or anybody! So no matter what I remember, the killer could still go free.”

  “Unless what you remember points to some kind of evidence.” At the top of the incline, a faded and cracked subdivision sign announced that they had arrived at Ridgeview Estates, Modern Homes For The Twentieth-Century Family. For Sale By Owner signs clustered around the foot of the larger sign, their arrows all pointing into the subdivision. Fletcher turned, then slowed, checking a small slip of paper lying on the front seat. “It’s 1412 Essex. Ridgeview Boulevard to Wilmot to Essex.”

  Fortunately, Wilmot went only to the left, and the right onto Essex took them to a cul-de-sac at the rear of the subdivision. The houses, midsize ranch homes fronted by vinyl siding and dubious landscaping, showed their age with mold on the gutters and cracks in the sidewalks and driveways. Most of the lawns were neatly cut and edged, but the homes seemed to belong to folks with more stuff than the houses could hold. Toys and lawn equipment spilled out of garages and onto the drives and yards.

  The house at 1412 Essex had been cared for more expertly than most on the street. “Retired couple,” Fletcher explained, as they parked and got out. “They plan to stay here until they have to move into assisted living, and they have more time to take care of the house. They’re the only owners the house has had. Bought it not long after the crime scene cleanup crew had finished.” He parked the car near the mailbox. “When I called, they weren’t surprised. They knew the history of the house and told me they’d been expecting such a call for years. They left a key under a chair cushion on the sun porch.”

  He led the way around the back of the house, where they found the door to a pleasantly furnished, glassed-in sun porch unlocked. The warm and comfortable room did come complete with a key under the pink flowered cushion of an equally pink wicker chair. Fletcher stopped and pointed toward the backyard, a broad strip of grass that ended at dense woods running the length of the property.

  “These houses are a bit more prized because most of that area is common grounds for the complex. So you wind up with a lot of lawn that you don’t have to take care of and a great view.” He pointed toward a slight rise in the ground. “They found you there, Karen, about fifty feet from the house, close to the woods. They think the culprit walked right by you. They found blood drops leading from the house into the trees.”

  Mason watched as Karen stepped toward the glass, her hand reaching out. Color drained from her face, and the fingers that seemed to be trying to reach back through time trembled. He put his hand on her back. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  She continued to gaze into the past. “Do you remember this morning, when you said you had to go after those boxes? You had to?”

  “Yes.”

  She faced him, her eyes dark blue and moist. “I have to, Mason. What I saw this morning with the clay…I know I can never go back to the pottery unless I do this. And I know now that this is the time. While you are here with me. I have to.”

  She turned and followed Fletcher into the house. Mason hesitated, glancing
back to the yard. While you are here with me. The confidence in the words made him want to take every step right alongside her.

  “Hide her and keep her,” he muttered, and entered the house.

  The back door led to a small dining area, separated from the galley-style kitchen by a bar. Directly in front of them, on the other side of the kitchen, was a tidy living room.

  A hallway led from the living room down to two other bedrooms and a bath, and Mason heard Karen checking out each room. He and Fletcher watched as she eased through the house, her actions more like those of a terrified seven-year-old girl than a twenty-eight-year-old woman. She peered around every corner, as if expecting someone to charge out and grab her. Mason’s chest tightened as the pictures from Evie’s photo album dashed through his mind. Karen as a child, a blond doll with a bright smile and far too much sadness in her eyes.

  “Cui bono?” Fletcher asked. When Mason looked at him, puzzled by the Latin phrase, Fletcher shrugged one shoulder. “First question any lawyer asks. Who would benefit most from their deaths? Evie? Billings? Someone else we’ve not thought about?”

  Karen’s head appeared around the frame of the door separating the kitchen from the den. “As many times as we’ve asked, I don’t know, really.” She paused, that long-ago sadness returning to her eyes. “Maybe there is more about my parents we don’t know.” She looked around. “I had to come, but maybe it’s too soon. We don’t know enough.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Unless your father had personal conflicts we’ve not been able to uncover, I’ve always thought it was personal, ever since I read the cold-case file, and saw the descriptions of the wounds…” He paused. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Karen stepped back into the kitchen, her face solemn. “I did it almost every night for years after, Fletcher. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember. When the nightmares started, I tried even harder. Nothing. Then I found that pottery helped the nightmares. Since then, remembering didn’t seem important.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Now it does.”