The Face of Deceit. Ramona Richards

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СКАЧАТЬ wouldn’t even have to do this if I hadn’t been a dolt and left the catalog in New York. Show me what you have.”

      She then flipped several more pages, and Mason watched as the shots passed—pages of pots, plaques, vases, teapots, wall sculptures that flashed by under her fingers.

      “You keep pictures of everything?”

      “Yep. Polaroids of the older ones. Now I use digital shots, keep them on CDs. Helps me track ideas, sales, if I want to duplicate, or if I want to avoid duplicating…” She stopped and flattened her hand over one page. She took a deep breath, then pushed the album toward him. “Here they are.”

      He peered at the picture, which had yellowed a bit with age, remembering the page from the auction catalog. There they were, indeed, identical, the swirling colors and the faces with the dark hair with white streaks distinctive even in this small photo. His bidding duel with Luke Knowles flashed through his head, and Mason swallowed. “They’re remarkable.” He didn’t want to think about what might have happened had he succeeded in buying the vases. Or if the killer decided to turn his sights on Karen. His throat tightened, making his voice more guttural than he’d expected.

      She shook her head. “But not worth killing for.” Karen glanced at the picture, then focused on him, her hand closing on his wrist. “What’s the matter?”

      Mason’s hand seemed to tingle from her touch, and he felt heat rising in his cheeks. Her eyes were so blue. Almost cobalt, like the Atlantic in the high sun. But he wouldn’t approach her again. Not today. He cleared his throat. “We should probably take a copy of this to Tyler.”

      Those blue eyes gleamed. “Of course. But that’s not what’s wrong.”

      There was no way…no…he would not talk about…One embarrassing moment a day was quite enough.

      Karen broke the moment, pulling away and slipping the photo out of the album. She pointed to the address on the back. “That’s the dealer who bought them.” She paused, looking over him again. “Maybe Tyler was right. Breakfast might be a good idea after all. We could stop on the way to Tyler’s office.”

      “Yes,” Mason said quickly. “Some of Laurie’s French toast might just do the trick.”

      Karen grinned, then headed back toward the stairs, grabbing her cup as she went. “Absolutely.”

      Mason followed her up the twisting steps, pausing briefly at the top. The sun, now slowly heating the living room to a comfortable toast, streaked her hair with gold, and the curls bounced as she walked to the kitchen, making him smile. She set the cup down, then pulled an envelope out of a drawer and slid the picture in. She flipped off the coffeemaker and grabbed her purse from a stool near the bar. “Did you drive?”

      He shook his head. “Tyler drove us over from his office.”

      “Let’s walk then. Work off a few of Laurie’s calories before we eat them—What?”

      Mason hesitated. He didn’t want to say it, but all the girls he’d known would have killed him if he’d held back, especially with them going out. He reached out and touched her cheek, just below her left eye. “Your mascara…the tears…”

      Her cheeks reddened, but her smile was one of delight. “You doll,” she said. “Thank you.” She bounded up the stairs, to return only a minute or so later, her face clean and eyelashes darkened again. “Better?”

      He nodded, and she paused to set the alarm before shooing him toward the door. She locked it behind them, her key slipping easily in and out of the dead bolt. “By the way, how did you hook up with Tyler this morning?”

      “The police contacted me in New York, after Luke Knowles was shot. They had asked the auction house about other bidders, and the auctioneer gave them my name. They said they’d leave contacting you up to the local cop, Tyler, and I called him, asking if I could come with him.”

      Karen nodded. “Why did you want to come?”

      He hesitated. “To be here for you. I thought you might take it pretty hard.”

      She considered this a moment, then he barely heard her quiet “Thank you.”

      The hillside cottage was three blocks downhill from the center of town, and as they plodded upward, Mason was glad there was still a slight chill in the morning air. They fell silent for a few moments, the only sound the solid padding of their hiking boots on the rough pavement. Mason shortened his strides to match hers, feeling far too much like a lanky colt next to her elegance. Karen barely came up to his shoulder, but she had a toned, athletic build and she moved with a smooth grace. Occasionally, she’d get focused or forgetful and experience a sudden klutziness, which charmed him even more.

      Yet Mason’s enjoyment of Mercer, New Hampshire, extended far beyond the climate and Karen’s friendship. The tight-knit community, with its Revolutionary War history and art district ambience had totally charmed him. Most of the families had been in the area for almost three hundred years, with the exception of a cluster of artists who’d started flocking to the town in the late sixties.

      Their presence had given rise to an active local arts society, a number of unique galleries and the writers’ colony, where he lived. There was a lot of encouragement for homegrown artists, including the one who now strolled at his side while he struggled not to stare.

      Karen walked with her head up as they moved along the narrow lane toward Mercer’s main street. Her gaze darted along the scenery, as if recording and storing every detail of the morning. She paused occasionally to give an extra second to a squirrel, an unusual red flower or an odd shadow in the trees. After she’d stopped to finger a leaf left over from last fall, one turned to a lacey fringe by bugs and frost, Mason finally gave in to his curiosity. “What do you see in that?”

      She held it in her palm, smoothing a bit of mud off the stem. “The pattern. I’ve been making some ‘nature’ trays for one of the galleries. Hand-built. I press plants, berries, grasses, that kind of thing, into the clay to create the pattern. When it’s fired, the foliage burns off but leaves the pattern. I paint the illustrations in and around the impressions.”

      He stopped at the crossroad at the end of her street to check traffic, then took her elbow as they turned toward town again. “Is that what you did with the vases?”

      Silent, Karen stared down at the leaf, lying featherlike in her hand.

      Mason pulled her to a halt. “Karen?”

      She continued to look down. “If I tell you this, you can’t ever, ever put it in writing. You promise?”

      Mason reached for her chin and pulled her head up. “I promise.”

      “I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy.” Her gaze grew even more distant. “My aunt already thinks…” Her words faded.

      He dropped his hand to her shoulder, tilting his head to look more closely at her. “Karen, you are one of the least crazy people I know. So tell me.”

      She licked her lips. “Those vases…they’ve evolved. I kinda do my own thing now, trying to keep them new.”

      “But?”

      She finally met his eyes. “But the first ones came to me in a dream several years ago.”

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