The Face of Deceit. Ramona Richards
those vases to go away.” Tyler shifted his weight. “Karen may not be in danger right now, but that doesn’t mean this won’t escalate even more. We’ll do what we can, but watch your back. And hers.”
Mason watched, thoughtful as Tyler’s patrol car backed away, tires crunching on the narrow gravel drive. On the way over, Tyler had explained that since no threat had been made against Karen, he was limited in how much action he could take to protect her. He could add the extra drive-bys, but with only a five-officer force, no one could be there 24/7.
Inside again, Mason shut the door and turned, his eyes focusing on Karen’s back. Her shoulders slumped forward as she leaned heavily against the deck railing, and Mason wondered if she were praying again. She did that a lot, more than he was used to his friends doing, and it created an odd ache just below his sternum that he couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe; he’d accepted Christ as his Savior fifteen years ago, at a youth rally when he was nineteen. His faith, however, was a closely held, private thing. Few of his friends even knew he was a Christian, and he was comfortable with that. He didn’t want to discuss his faith, definitely didn’t want to discuss theirs. His chosen profession, and his public image, didn’t lend themselves to outward shows of belief. Yet the highly visible nature of Karen’s faith left him with a nagging urge to ask questions.
And her faith was not the only thing that tugged at him, almost without explanation. From the moment he’d seen her vases in Jane’s shop, his imagination had been captured by her talent, her sense of color and shape, by how the vases seemed almost organic, as if they had been grown instead of formed from clay. Then, when she’d opened the door that day, covered in mud up to her elbows, hair wild and her eyes dazed, as if he’d interrupted a dream…
Mason rubbed his mouth. He didn’t like that he could not find the right words to the feelings that tightened his chest and made his mind whirl whenever he was around her…troublesome, since words were his business. He didn’t like it at all.
He did, however, like her. Maybe even more than like. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Being around Karen felt like…home. Mason had never quite believed that God had a chosen path for everyone, and that He could guide each person to it. Yet he’d been planning to go to a retreat center in Georgia when he got the call about the opening at Jackson’s Retreat. He’d never been to New Hampshire. The day he saw her vases in Jane’s window he had planned to stay in Boston, but his appointment had been canceled.
True, he could explain all that away, but not the way his heart had jumped when she’d opened the door. The way he longed to stand close to her, protect her. He tried desperately not to crowd or smother her; he’d already seen how carefully she kept people at a distance. Her aunt. Even Jane.
“Lord,” he muttered. “If this is Your path for us, You have a lot of work to do.”
Mason opened the door to the deck and approached Karen quietly, waiting until she raised her head again and turned toward him. Her eyes glistened, and she licked tears off her lower lip.
His heart twisted. “Praying for Luke Knowles?”
She wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara. “And his family. And for guidance.”
“Guidance?”
She nodded. “I suspect we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“We?”
Karen’s eyebrows arched. “You don’t think we’re going to sit here and do nothing?”
A grin slowly crossed his face. “You? I can’t see you sitting still for much of anything.”
She waved a hand and marched past him. “Then come with me.”
Mason’s curiosity took over. “Where are you going?”
She kept walking, but pointed at the floor. “Down.” She headed for the far corner of her living room, away from the kitchen, where an elegant spiral staircase circled down to her pottery studio. Since he usually entered the studio from the outside, he took each of the narrow steps carefully, especially avoiding the coffee cup she’d left on a step about halfway down. The custom-built steps were barely deep enough for his size tens, and he arrived at the bottom long after Karen had disappeared from view.
Mason paused, looking around. The studio, which took up the entire basement, was Karen’s sanctuary, and she kept it pristinely clean. The house was set deep into a solid granite hillside, and three walls of the basement had been framed directly against the stone, which still protruded through the Sheetrock in places. Shelves lined almost every inch, clustered with baskets of paints, clays, glazes, molds, texturing tools and the round, flat bats for the three potter’s wheels that stood in a line in the center of the room. Every shelf was labeled and each basket neatly organized. At one end of the room stood an extruding table, where Karen pulled thin plates of clay for hand building. Next to the table stood a worktable stained with years of glaze, paint and old bits of clay. At the other end sat two kilns, one for her larger projects and one that wasn’t much bigger than a toaster oven, in which she made the smaller gifts and beads for local jewelry artists. The glass wall that overlooked the hill was spotless and dotted with sun catchers.
The potter, however, could not be seen. “Where are you?”
“Back here.” Her head seemed to appear suddenly out of a space of granite. Puzzled, Mason crossed the room to discover that there was a thin doorway in the rock, disguised by the gray stone directly behind it and revealed only by a yellow light now coming from the left.
Karen stepped out.
“A baffle?”
She nodded. “When the house was built, the owner wanted a darkroom, and the builder tried to carve this Z in the rock as a rough sort of light baffle. Rumor has it that it drove two of his workers completely crazy. Unfortunately, it was all for naught. The owner died before the house was complete. I like it.” She grinned. “When the light’s off, you can’t even tell there’s a room here.” She stepped back and Mason trailed her around the tight corner of the thin, Z-shaped baffle into a room of granite walls with high shelves along one side.
He looked up and around, his eyes widening. “This is amazing! Like a catacomb.” The cavelike room was barely four feet wide and extended back into the stone about eight feet. A bare bulb hung from a hook driven into the stone ceiling, small, but casting enough light that he could read the labels on the neat, clearly marked metal boxes that covered the shelves.
Karen’s smile broadened. “My secret hiding place.” She turned suddenly and pulled a file box from one of the middle shelves. “But this is what I came for.”
He took it from her, and a slightly surprised look crossed her face. “What’s wrong, chère?” he asked.
She blinked. “Guess I’m not used to having anyone help me.” She shrugged, then motioned for him to leave. “Let’s take it back out there.”
They exited the room, and she snapped off the light behind them, letting her private storage room disappear into the wall again. He set the box on her worktable and she flipped the lid up and back, letting it bang against the tabletop. Inside were stacks of small, five-by-seven photo albums. “That was the Wilhelms auction, right?”
When he nodded, her lips pursed. “The four in that catalog were old, earlier versions. I stopped using orange last year, went solely to streaks of green and red…and I don’t remember selling to a Wil…” Her voice faded a moment as her eyes closed. “A set of four. Not a private sale, must have been through one of the galleries. Haven’t sold four at once except…” another pause, then her eyes flew open and she attacked the box, digging through the albums “…2005. A dealer, but not in New York. Boston. Told me he’d sold four as a gift. A woman was giving them to her mother. She bargained him down to about a hundred dollars per.”
“She got a good deal.”
Karen clutched a red binder and pulled it out, plopping it down on the table. She opened it, pausing briefly at the first