The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  He looked her over carefully, then nodded. He squared his shoulders and led them back into the living room. “They think your mother was stabbed first.” He turned slightly and swung his arms over an area in the middle of the room. “About here. Best guess is that she was facing that way.” He pointed at the back door.

  “The front door would have been standing open,” Mason said softly. “Since it was an open house.”

  Fletcher nodded. “And she either didn’t hear the killer come in, or…”

  “Or she knew them well enough to turn her back on them,” Karen finished.

  “Yes.” Fletcher hesitated, looking Karen over again closely.

  “I’m okay,” she reassured him.

  He wet his lips and continued. “There were slight wounds on the back of her shoulders and neck—faint cuts that look almost as if the attacker didn’t really know the strength it takes to kill someone, or didn’t really want to kill her…at first. The fatal wounds were on the front, as if your mother had been attacked from behind, then turned to defend herself.” He turned toward the front door. “She had defensive wounds on her hands and arms.”

  They followed as Fletcher walked back through the kitchen and into a small den. He pointed to a door on the far wall. “Your father may have been in the master bedroom suite and heard your mother’s screams. He was killed here in the den.” Fletcher paused again, his eyes watching Karen steadily. “But your father was only stabbed twice in the chest.”

  Karen chewed her lower lip. Mason stepped toward her protectively, but she shook her head and he stopped. “So my mother was attacked like that because an inexperienced killer got to her first?”

  Fletcher looked down at the ground, as if deciding how much to say. “The attack on your dad was clean. Almost sterile. Two wounds that went directly between the ribs into the heart.” He crossed to her, his voice low and gentle, despite his words. “This wasn’t an inexperienced killer, but the murders were substantially different. Your father’s was clean and quick, just two wounds, one probably for insurance. The killer just wanted him dead and out of the way. Your mother’s death had passion in it.”

  “What about two killers?” Mason asked. “It would explain why David didn’t make it any farther than the den once the attack on his wife started.”

  Fletcher nodded. “It would. And it would make sense if this were, in fact, a random crime of opportunity. But why kill with such passion if you just want money? Why not just rob them?”

  Karen’s eyes scanned the walls, and Mason couldn’t tell if she was remembering the house as it had been or if she just didn’t want to look at Fletcher. Her voice had taken on a tear-choked hoarseness. “You’re saying that whoever did this wanted my father dead but my mother punished. This was about her.” She swallowed. “Aunt Evie and Billings benefit if this is business, but who would want to kill my mother? Who could possibly benefit? She was a stay-at-home mom. She took me to dance class and acting lessons. We would go to the park. I never heard her have a fight with anyone, not even my dad. In fact, the only time I remember her even raising her voice was when…”

  Karen’s voice faded to a harsh whisper and her eyes went distant. “The vases…the faces…those white streaks…” She stopped and her eyes widened as a look of horrible recognition clouded her face. “Oh, no!” she whispered.

  Fletcher took a step toward her, questions obviously on the tip of his tongue.

  The step saved Karen’s life.

  Behind him, the window at the back of the den popped, and Fletcher cried out as a bullet sheared through his shoulder before embedding itself in the kitchen door frame, only inches from Karen’s head. Karen’s screams filled Mason’s ears as he grabbed her, throwing both of them to the floor. Fletcher fell heavily beside them.

  The windowpane, which had split top to bottom from the first hit, fell out of the frame as another bullet buried itself in the far wall. A fiery sting seared Mason’s scalp, and blood flowed down one side of his head. As the first red drops hit Karen’s cheek, she reached for his face, her hand pressing hard against his wound.

  “Get into the kitchen!” Fletcher rolled onto one side, breathing heavily, grasping his shoulder. “Behind the bar.”

  Mason and Karen scrambled on hands and knees back into the narrow room, and a torrent of Cajun-accented French ripped from Mason, most of which had little to do with protecting Karen and everything to do with taking care of whoever wanted her dead. Fletcher crawled in behind them, bracing his back against the fridge. His face was stark white from the pain, and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to Mason. “Call Tyler. Speed dial two.” He then slid into a position between them and the back door and drew his gun, propping it on his knees.

  Mason fumbled with the phone, finally getting it open and dialed. When Tyler answered, words tumbled out of Mason in a confusion of French and English, which, amazingly, Tyler understood. His only response was, “Hang on. We’re almost there.”

  FIFTEEN

  “They’re on their way,” Mason announced. His face was now almost as pale as Fletcher’s, and he dropped the phone to the floor. Karen grabbed a dish towel from the counter and pressed it against his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding on the side of his head. She moved to help Fletcher, but he waved her away, motioning for them to be quiet. They waited, the silence broken only by Fletcher’s labored, pain-filled breaths.

  After a few moments they heard heavy footsteps on the sun porch. Fletcher tensed as the back door swung open, but the voice that boomed through the room brought relief to them all.

  “Fletcher!” Tyler shouted.

  Mason almost laughed in relief as Fletcher called out hoarsely, “Over here. Kitchen.”

  Tyler rushed to them, checked their wounds and draped his jacket around Fletcher’s chest. “Don’t want you going into shock,” he muttered.

  “Help me up,” Fletcher responded, his words thick and slightly slurred.

  “No dice, buddy,” Tyler cautioned. “You sit. The EMTs are on the way. Is the house clear?”

  Fletcher nodded. “So it worked?”

  Tyler paused, then glanced briefly at Mason and Karen. “Yes. You called it perfectly.”

  A sound burst from Karen that was half sob, half moan as she realized what they meant. “Shane?”

  Fletcher’s chin dropped as he peered at her. “You knew?”

  “No.” Tears dropped from the corners of her eyes, but she brushed them away. “Not till this morning. I saw…” She looked up at Mason. “I saw it in the clay. Then here.” She motioned around the kitchen. “Also, at the farmhouse I could remember someone arguing with my mother. Tall, wearing green.” She touched a strand of her hair. “With the white streaks.”

  Mason looked confused, and he took the towel from Karen to hold it himself. “But Shane’s bald.”

  Tyler shook his head. “Only since he was a senior in high school, when he started shaving his head. We thought he did that because his black hair had started turning gray in his late teens.” He pointed to his temple. “Here, in two patches. It’s a Steen family trait to turn gray early, but not usually in such a distinctive manner. Almost no one remembers him like that.”

  “I certainly didn’t. There are no pictures of him like that at the house.” She paused, the pieces falling into place. “That’s why you took the photo album this morning! To compare photos with my vases!”

  Tyler nodded. “The only two existing pictures of Shane with his hair streaked are in the photo album Jake gave you. I’m sure he’s destroyed any his mother might have had.” He turned to look behind him, where EMTs bustled through the back door with gurneys. “We’ll talk later. Let’s get everyone taken care of.”

  Karen and Tyler stood in the living room, watching as the EMTs handled the basic triage on Mason and Fletcher. Although both wanted to walk, the medics insisted they use the gurneys.

  Karen’s sense of relief was palpable, as if a ton of granite had been lifted from her back.
She followed them out, pausing to look around at the flurry of law-enforcement activity. Two patrol cars had pulled into the backyard, and she spotted the four officers at the edge of the woods. Three more brushed by her and into the house, followed by a crime scene specialist. “I had no idea,” she said to Tyler, “that you’d brought out the National Guard.”

  Tyler smiled gently and put his arm around her protectively, his gaze on the edge of the woods. “I called in the county guys. We took too many chances as it was. It should never have gotten this far.”

  Karen followed his gaze and saw two more officers emerge from the woods, escorting a handcuffed Shane Abernathy. She broke free of Tyler’s grasp and ran toward her cousin, only to have the look on Shane’s face stop her cold. His eyes caught hers, and she shuddered at the hatred in his face. Hatred for her.

  “Why, Shane?”

  He spat on the ground. “Stay away from me!” The two officers jerked him around and loaded him into the car.

  “I suspect,” Tyler said slowly, “you’ll find out that it had something to do with the way your grandmother’s will was written.”

  Karen felt a shade of grief settle over her, mostly for Evie. Karen had lost parents she barely remembered, but Evie had lost her mother, sister and now her son. “Are these things always about money?”

  His arm tightened. “Money or love.”

  She leaned against him. “Take me to the hospital. I want to be with Mason.”

  “You got it, kiddo.”

  For the second time in two days the hospital treated Mason, causing one of the ER docs to jokingly suggest he set up a cot in the waiting room to save time. Mason required twenty-two stitches on the side of his head, but Fletcher’s wound required surgery, and they wanted to keep him overnight for observation, despite his protests. He threatened to walk out, until Maggie showed up and ended the argument with a single look.

  Tyler, Mason, Karen and Maggie gathered in the surgery waiting room, hands gripping paper cups of bad coffee and peanut butter crackers Karen had bought out of the vending machines in the hospital basement. After a few sips, however, Karen abandoned her coffee on a table next to Mason’s chair and settled on a sofa next to Tyler. “You know you have to tell me. You and Fletcher hatched a plan while I was asleep, didn’t you?”

  Tyler shrugged and leaned back against the cushions. “That is what we do around the office, you know. Take care of folks. It’s a major part of our job.”

  Karen could see the light in his eyes and nudged him with her elbow. “Don’t get cute,” she said, smiling. “What did you do?”

  He cleared his throat. “It was pretty clear that the killer knew you but didn’t want to hurt you directly—just everything and everyone around you, to scare you. We started eliminating everyone you knew, one by one, until only four people remained—Jake, Evie, Shane and Carver Billings. The next step was to establish where they were when the attacks happened. That narrowed it to Shane and Billings. Billings remained at the top of the list until the fire. Although you saw him returning home, Fletcher verified that he’d been at a meeting with a contractor. No time to set the fire.”

  Mason growled. “And Shane was there last night. Offering to help.”

  “Probably trying to cover his tracks.” Tyler swirled the coffee in the cup, staring a moment into the dark liquid. “Maggie’s information about David and Stephanie’s will made me realize that we might find a different motive in yet another will—Elizabeth’s. Turns out she remained so angry with Evie over her first marriage that she left everything to Stephanie. Elizabeth was dying—no time to win her over. Shane knew that with Stephanie dead, Evie would get the estate, which she did. But we still had no forensic evidence at all to connect him with the attacks on you or the murders. The footprints weren’t enough to get a warrant. And we knew as soon as Shane became convinced you’d quit he would disappear…unless he thought someone around you would still persist.”

  Karen stiffened. “So he wasn’t shooting at me. He was trying to kill Mason!”

  Mason’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

  Tyler nodded. “Yes. We suspect he saw you at the house that morning, digging out those boxes.” He glowered at Mason. “God’s looking out for you, boy. Shane could have easily taken you out then. Probably thought he might be spotted there, or he would have. I suspect he stayed with you after that.” Tyler sat up straight. “When you called from Evie’s to let us know you wanted to go to the original crime scene, we realized that he probably would either overhear you or Jake would tell him. He would think it was the perfect setup.”

  Mason scowled. “You used us as bait.”

  Tyler’s mouth twisted. “A lure, actually. We were supposed to be there before the shooting started. The guys tracking him into the woods lost him for about ten minutes.”

  Mason was not appeased. “Still an awfully big risk, especially since we didn’t know we were taking it.”

  Maggie tilted her head to one side, looking Mason over carefully. “You already knew you were being watched. And you have to remember something. This wasn’t just about catching Shane. It was also about helping Karen.”

  Karen stood, her voice low. “I need a few minutes.” She left the waiting area and walked to the end of the hall. A few doors down on the right, a tiny chapel waited, and she slipped in, letting the door close softly behind her. Surrounded by stained glass and the worshipful silence of the room, Karen knelt near the altar.

  “For someone used to hopping about praising You,” she whispered, “I sure have turned into a whining slug lately, haven’t I? Three days of turmoil. I feel as if I’ve spent them in a cement mixer. And I still don’t know what I’m going to do!” She paused. “But You were there, weren’t You? In my friends. My family. Thank You for that.” She sighed. “Help Evie, please. And Shane. Help me understand. Be with Fletcher and Maggie. Show me where to go from here.”

  With that, Karen closed her eyes, opened her heart and waited. Images flashed through her mind, much as they had at the farmhouse and the murder scene, only this time the lace curtain had lifted. The tire swing, the little girl dancing in the yard with her mother, the workshop…only, the workshop wasn’t for woodworking….

  The clay. Mason. And Jake’s words, once again: “Listen to Him. Listen to the clay.”

  The images brightened again, then faded away entirely.

  Karen opened her eyes, her vision blurred from the tears that seeped from the corners of her eyes. They weren’t tears of grief or sadness. They were tears of hope.

  EPILOGUE

  Lot 43

  Carver Billings stood next to Karen, both of them looking up at the newly painted farmhouse. His broad grin was infectious. “Didn’t think you could do it, did you?”

  Karen laughed. “No, I didn’t. And I couldn’t have without your help.”

  “Well, old houses have been my specialty for thirty years. Just because I retired doesn’t mean I’ve lost my touch.” He reached out and took her hand. “You know, your father would probably have gotten a kick out of this. He really did think you hung the moon.”

  Karen squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your sharing so much about him with me over the past few weeks.”

  Carver nodded. “He was a good man…and a good competitor. The best I’ve ever come up against.”

  “Which is, of course, why you once tried to sue him.”

  Carver looked at her, puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. “Ah, yes. That was merely business. I was trying to slow him down.” He turned to the house again and sighed. “I do miss the work. I know this is finished, but don’t be a stranger.”

  “Of course not. I’ll have an open house in a couple of weeks, and you and Annette had better come. After all, we’re virtually neighbors.”

  “Absolutely.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then he headed for the Buick waiting in the drive. With a quick wave, he left, returning the clearing around the house to a comforting quiet disturbed only by songbirds and
breezes. Karen took another deep breath, simply enjoying the fruits of six weeks of hard labor.

  With her own house in ashes, Karen had moved into the Jackson’s Retreat lodge house temporarily. Evie, grief-stricken about her son, had gone into seclusion, barely communicating through Jake. Yet when Jake had suggested she might heal faster if she released Karen’s inheritance early, Evie had agreed, and had had him call the lawyers. The court had approved, and a month after Shane’s arrest, Karen O’Neill had found that she owned a good portion of the land around Mercer, including a farmhouse untouched for twenty years.

  Many prayers later, she had known. This would be her home. She had turned to Carver for advice, and he, in turn, had contacted his inspectors, electricians and renovation experts. The house, now refurbished and modernized, gleamed in the afternoon blend of sun and leafy shadows. The logging road and driveway had been plowed and graveled, and the workshop had a new concrete floor, heating and air-conditioning and heavy-duty wiring for her kilns and wheels. And tall windows on the eastern side, for the morning light. Karen had even received her first shipment of Kona coffee, perfect for mornings on the new deck that graced the back of the house.

  She turned her face into a beam of sunlight and closed her eyes, feeling more blessed and peaceful than ever. “Thank You, God!”

  Karen walked up the steps and across the now-sturdy porch, her bare feet padding across the wooden planks. Inside, bright colors, new furniture and comfy pillows and throws had turned the dusty living room into a home again. Lacey, rescued from the vet after the fire, had spent the past few weeks chasing mice and exploring a brand-new set of trees to climb. Now she stretched and meowed at Karen from a sun-drenched rocker near the front window.

  Sometimes, Karen still felt she could hear her parents in these rooms. Nothing ghostly or supernatural—just the legacy of a beloved family home. Two pictures of them, gifts from Jake, graced the mantel, and Karen went to them now, shifting each slightly. “Welcome home, Mama. It’s ours again, Daddy.”