The Face of Deceit. Ramona RichardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
he could buy them, you do think he wants to, right? Why wouldn’t he? Come on. Lunch is getting cold.” Long dark curls swinging around her shoulders, Jane headed for the kitchen.
Karen relented, brushing cat hair from her lap. Jane’s enthusiasm flattered her. Jane’s gallery anchored Mercer’s arts district, and she’d been one of Karen’s staunchest supporters since their teens. When Karen had decided ten years ago that she could, in fact, make a living as a potter, Jane had started putting Karen’s unique vases and clay art in the windows of her gallery—which was where Mason had first spotted them.
“No idea if he’ll be able to buy them or not. I’m still not sure what good this will do.”
Jane set the bag on the counter, then turned to pull plates from a cabinet. “Karen, darling, I love your naïveté sometimes. Why don’t you make fresh coffee? Your special blend Kona has been on my mind since I left the gallery.”
“Jane—”
“No, c’mon, Karen, I’m serious. He’s Mason DuBroc. Dr. Mason DuBroc. Well-known author of a book on art crime in Middle Eastern war zones so full of adventure that it would make Indiana Jones jealous.”
Karen scowled. There was that comparison again. “I know who he is, Jane. I knew that when he first showed up on my doorstep.”
“Look, girl, Mason may not brag about it around you or around the retreat, but he knows the worth of his own name right now. For him to even bid for your vases—”
“Okay, I get it.”
Jane paused in her frenzy of activity. “So what’s the problem?”
Karen stood up and walked to the tall windows at the back of the dining area, looking out over the trees that bordered the lawn. Her property sloped down and away from the house, then back up into woods that stretched into the distance.
She loved those woods. There was a path that led through the heart of them, all the way to the writers’ colony where Mason lived. But it had not been the path that had brought him to her door, and she still couldn’t shake her confusion about what had brought him to her.
Karen cleared her throat. “The problem is that I keep asking, ‘Why me?’ Why did Mason DuBroc, of all the people on the planet, suddenly focus so much of his interest on my vases and me? What does he want with me?”
“Afraid he’ll make you successful?”
Karen turned away from the windows. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Janie. You’re not good at it and I’m not in the mood.”
Jane chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “Okay, so you’re a little suspicious. I can’t blame you. It did seem a little odd when he showed up in the shop, bouncing around the displays and asking all these questions about your vases, but he’s an odd bird.” She took a deep breath. “Did I tell you that he tried to lecture two of my customers on the relation of your vases to Southern folk art face jugs?” Jane’s words picked up speed as she resumed emptying the lunch bag. “I mean, this couple hadn’t been in the shop thirty seconds! They fled before I could get out ‘Welcome to Mercer, New Hampshire.’”
Karen bit her lip to keep from laughing. “That sounds like him.” Joining Jane in the kitchen again, she pulled a bag of Kona coffee from the freezer and a jug of filtered water from her fridge. The sight Mason had made standing on her porch that first day drifted through her mind as she prepared a fresh pot of coffee.
His notoriety intimidated Karen, but his peppered questioning cut to the heart of her craft, its history and its techniques. The accent certainly caught her off guard, as well. Southern but not twangy, the slow, easy-spoken combination of Alabama flatwoods and Louisiana bayou had a thick Cajun edge to it, and when excited, Mason would occasionally season his sentences with French words or phrases that Karen never understood. At least…she thought they were French.
His looks had also gotten her attention, almost as much as the accent. Jane made him sound antic and half-mad, but Mason DuBroc was far from an absentminded professor. His brown eyes were intense and held a curiosity that seemed relentless. His lean frame was wiry, and his dark hair hung mostly straight, with a tendency to curl just on the ends. His eyes and skin were darker than most of the men she knew, and he had high cheekbones so sharp they could have sliced bread. He called himself “a mutt, a result of a lot of familiarity between the Native Americans, Cajuns and a conglomerate of English and Scottish folks hanging out in the Delta,” a description that made her own mostly Irish and German heritage sound downright plain.
And the way he smelled. Aromas were vital to Karen, and she didn’t know if he wore a cologne or if his scent came naturally from who he was and what he did. He smelled like…Karen searched her mind for a comparison. Like opening a new book in the middle of a pine grove. Maybe a hint of sage. Whatever. It made her want to stand closer to him, and she inhaled deeply, just thinking about it.
“Do you want Parmesan on the lasagna?” Jane asked as she lifted one of the wrapped plates from Laurie’s Federal Café. The café was known for its home-style meals and white decor, which Laurie kept scrubbed and polished: solid white tables, chairs and dishes. Laurie refused to use chintzy to-go containers, insisting that the locals were honest enough to return real dishes.
Karen snapped back to the present as the thick garlicky scent of the lasagna got her attention. “What? Oh. Yes.”
“Thinking about Mason again?”
Karen sniffed. “No. Yes. A little. Maybe. How is Laurie?”
Jane went with the change of subject as she pulled the wrapped paper off the plates and dusted the Parmesan over the entrées. “Cool as ever. Two of the old farmers who hang out there in the mornings got into some kind of squabble about crop rotation this morning, and she told them she’d start serving only decaf if they didn’t quit. Settled them down right away.” Jane paused, then picked up the plates and headed to the table. “She also wanted to know if you had turned serious about Mason yet.”
Karen pulled two mugs from a cabinet and ignored the question. “How did you hear about the vase?”
Jane barked a laugh. “You’ve lived here all your life. How do you think I heard?”
“The Peg Madison party line?”
“Her only son may be police chief, but I think she mothers everyone in town. She’s worried about you.”
Karen watched as the coffeemaker gurgled out its last drops, steam rising from the pot and the filter bucket. Even the scent of the rich, dark coffee refreshed her and she inhaled deeply. “Please tell Mama Peg that I’m fine.”
“Which vase was it?”
Karen shrugged. “Too shattered to be sure. One of the emerald-green ones I made early last year, I think. The bigger shards were green and orange. I did find the mark, but it was just the KONA, without the diamond.” Every potter scratched a distinctive mark into the bottom of each piece, a way of signing the artwork. At first Karen had used only her initials, KO, but over the past two years, her mark had evolved into a distinctive KONA, which stood for both her favorite coffee and for Karen O’Neill Artworks.” Late last year she’d added a diamond shape to it.
She pulled the coffeepot out of the maker and filled the two mugs. “I just don’t understand—” She broke off and fanned her free hand as if to wave away the question. “I guess there are nuts in every business.”
Jane picked up the plates and headed to the dining table. “Sister, you said a mouthful.”
That afternoon, Karen returned to the studio to get her mind off the auction. She soon lost herself in the work. The whirling pot on the wheel before her so captured her that Lacey finally resorted to using claws to get her attention. Karen jumped, an action that caused one finger to break through the wet clay on the wheel, turning a shimmering vase into a pile of mud.
“Lacey!” Karen stopped the wheel, scolding the gray half-Persian at her feet. She cupped the distorted