Face of Deceit

Published:

Publisher: Steeple Hill Love Inspired

Her parents were killed as she looked on, but artist Karen O’Neill has suppressed that childhood horror. Now, years later, someone is destroying her famous “face” vases. Art expert Mason DuBroc suspects that the creepy face Karen molds points toward murder. Does Karen know something she shouldn’t? A spine-tingling thriller with a fascinating twist!

Karen took a deep breath and opened her eyes, looking directly into his. “A couple of weeks later, I started having nightmares about being chased. I couldn’t tell who it was, but there was this face.” She tapped the photo again. “This face. And legs. Thick, running legs. Green legs. I woke up in such a panic that I . . .” She swallowed. “I’d never felt a fear like that. I did the first vase in an attempt to get rid of the nightmare. I never expected to sell it–or that it would be the start of dozens of others.”

“What about the nightmare?”

“It disappeared.” Karen returned the photo to the envelope and put it back in her purse. “I’ve always been able to work out things like that in the art. It’s as if all I have to do is to get it out of my head and into the clay, then things work out.”

“Any idea what the dream meant?”

She frowned. “You mean, like an interpretation?”

“Sure. It’s not as New Agey as it sounds.” He took a deep breath, remembering something he’d heard not long after becoming a Christian. “After all, the Bible is full of dreams and visions, and most meant something significant.” He took her hand. “There are a number of books out there . . . some people think dreams are one way God answers prayers.”

Karen stared at him a few minutes, then raised her head a bit. “I’ll have to think about that one.” She nodded. “And I know just who to talk to.” Grinning, she slipped her hand out of his and took his arm as they resumed walking. “In the meantime, let’s get some French toast.”

The warmth of her hand against his skin made Mason stand a little taller as they entered downtown Mercer. Laurie, she of the world-famous French toast, operated the Federal Café, a tiny storefront about halfway between the granite city hall at one end of town and the millpond at the other. Laurie served up on plain white plates and bare tables some of the best food Mason had ever eaten, and her two “mission statements” hung near the register: “Good food served simply” and “We trust in God; all others must pay cash.”

A lanky blonde with a red face waved at Mason and Karen from the back counter of the restaurant as they helped themselves to seats near the door. Karen barely had time to drape her purse on the back of her chair before Laurie was at their side with a coffee pot and two cups. She touched Karen’s shoulder as she filled the mugs. “Just plain old coffee, but fresh and hot. Tell me you’re having French toast.”

Mason took a long sniff of the coffee, and his smile grew lazy and broad. “You know it, pretty lady. Your French toast makes life a little better.”

Laurie looked down at him, her eyes bright and flirtatious. “You need to bring your older brothers up here, if they talk like you.” As the heat rose in his cheeks, she laughed. “And especially if they blush like you.”

“French toast is not protein.”

Mason twisted in his chair at the sound of Tyler’s baritone voice to find the officer standing behind him. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s some mighty fine eating.”

“Following us, Mr. Madison?” Karen’s voice teased, but she pulled out the extra chair at the table and motioned for him to sit.

He did, removing his hat. “Not yet. We’re out of coffee at the station, so I came over to get some to-go cups.” Tyler shifted in the chair, then focused on Karen. “How are you doing?”

She examined her fingernails. “I’m all right. I think.”

Mason touched her arm. “Show him the picture.”

Karen perked back to life. “Oh!” She dug in her purse, pulling out the envelope and handing Tyler the Polaroid. “Those are the four vases. I sold them originally to a dealer in Boston. The name is on the back of the photo, but they moved recently. I’ll email you the new address.”

“Please do. You never know where a clue may pop up.” He held the photo close to his face, studying every detail. “Are they distinctive?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. I do a lot of vases, many of them of a similar design. Each vase is unique, unlike the others in some way, but they are all of the same type.”

Tyler rubbed his thumb over the print. “What’s this face on them?”

Karen shot a warning glance at Mason and shook her head. “Just one of my trademarks. I do a lot of face vases. They’re my best-selling item.”

“Is it always the same face?”

“More or less. As I said, my trademark. It’s what people expect on a Karen O’Neill face vase.”

Tyler peered at the picture again. “So this isn’t anyone in particular?”

Karen shook her head. “No. Like I said, it’s just out of my head.”

The young police chief squinted. “Looks familiar though. Are you sure this isn’t based on someone you know?”

Karen’s curls trembled and her lips tightened. “Positive.”

“Ah.” Tyler looked back at the photo, obviously not completely convinced. “Good job making it look familiar, anyway.”

Karen sighed, a touch of relief on her face. “Keep it as long as you need it.”

Tyler tucked the picture into his shirt pocket as Laurie brought his four coffees-to-go in a cardboard box. “Sure. I’ll send it over as soon as I have it.” He stood, put his hat on, then handed Laurie a five-dollar bill as he took the box. “Thanks.”

Mason swallowed and looked her over carefully. “Karen, how long has Tyler been a cop?”

She paused. “Not sure. Since college, I know. We went to high school together, but he’s older and I didn’t really pay attention. Maybe ten years. Why?”

“All that time here?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I know how you feel about the vases and that face, but you need to think about something as well. Tyler’s powers of observation are going to be every bit as skilled as yours, and this is a small town. He’s going to know most people in this area. Has to. It’s his job. Cops I knew back home could tell you family histories for every kid at the local high school, including who their granddaddies ran around with when they were kids.”

Karen stared at her plate. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“Why? What if he’s right? What if your memory is picking up on someone you really know and plopping it on those vases?”

She put down her fork and turned to him. “It can’t be.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath and dropped her voice to the point that he had to lean forward to hear her. “Don’t you understand? That face was chasing me. I was running away because I was terrified. I was running because they were trying to kill me.” Karen leaned back, watching Mason closely, waiting for a response.

He took a deep breath, not wanting to say the words that begged to come out. If her dreams were a memory trying to work its way out, they were the logical response, the only response. He swallowed hard, dropping his voice. “So has anyone ever really tried to kill you?”

Karen eyes met his, evenly, solidly. “Yes.”