The Face of Deceit. Ramona RichardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 page, her fingers resting lightly on the first picture.
Mason peered at the yellowed photo. “What is it?”
Her childlike smile reminded him of a young girl caught in an embarrassing moment. “I’d forgotten this was here. These are the first four vases I sold.”
Mason gently pulled her hand back to reveal a shot of four vases in deep blues and vibrant emerald greens. No faces, yet the elegance of their simple lines enchanted the eye. “They’re beautiful.”
She sighed. “I adored them. Almost wish I had them back, but if I hadn’t sold them, I wouldn’t have known I could do this for a living. They were my breakthrough pieces.”
“Who bought them?”
“A dealer on New York’s Lower East Side.” She looked at the far wall of the studio, thoughtful, her gaze distant. “Tiny place. Brand-new. We were both trying to give each other a hand up. He bought them for thirty-five dollars, sold them for fifty dollars.”
Karen sighed as if she were savoring a favorite memory, and Mason touched her hand. “Do you know who purchased them from the dealer?”
She turned to him, her smile sad. “No. I wish I did. It would be like finding out what had happened to an old fri—” Her words faded, and as they continued to look at each other a few moments, Mason felt as if whatever it was between them had gently escalated. Mason felt her tremble, and the urge to kiss her, to hold her, washed over him. He leaned forward, his lips close to hers, but Karen suddenly tensed.
Karen cleared her throat and looked away, turning the album page quickly.
Heat shot into Mason’s cheeks and he released her hand. “Chère, I’m sorry.”
Karen stared at the photos. “No, don’t be. I mean…it’s okay. I just…” She glanced quickly at him, then back at the table. “Not the right time, with Luke Knowles and all.” She patted the photos. “We need to do this.” She faced him again, worry clouding her eyes. “Right?”
You idiot! Mason scolded himself. To Karen, he nodded. “Of course. You’re right.” He squared his shoulders and let out a deep breath. “In fact, we 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