The Face of Deceit. Ramona Richards

broken vases.” He cleared his throat. “Broken vases,” he repeated, “and a murder.”

      TWO

      Twice in twenty-four hours, Karen’s world flipped upside down. As the two men sat in her living room and laid out their story, she couldn’t keep from blurting out, “But who would kill over a vase?”

      Luke Knowles, a well-known auction agent, had purchased Lot 21, Karen’s vases, bidding the winning $8,000 for an anonymous client. The vases had been delivered to Knowles’s hotel room. Late last night, when Luke’s wife hadn’t been able to reach him, a manager had gone to check, finding Knowles dead and the four vases destroyed.

      Karen stared at the two men, a crime scene photo in one hand and empty coffee cup in her other. “Who?” she repeated.

      Tyler and Mason shifted uncomfortably and glanced at each other, then Mason touched her arm gently. “We were hoping you could help with that.”

      Blinking, Karen looked down at the photo in her hand again, the details registering sketchily on her mind. A hotel room in chaos; in the center, ceramic shards and clay dust—remnants of four destroyed vases—were smeared across a dresser. At the edge of the image, a man’s leg protruded into the scene. The victim, murdered because of vases she had created from her imagination and a bit of raw clay.

      The photo quivered as her fingers trembled, and Karen sat hard on her sofa. Her pottery, her art, was her heart, her livelihood and her life. Her vases, beautiful and distinct, sometimes felt like extensions of her very soul.

      But they weren’t worth dying over.

      Karen stared into her empty coffee cup as the two men sat and Tyler finished telling her about the death of Luke Knowles. She relished the security of the hard, cool ceramic under her fingertips as her eyelids stung and her vision blurred. Tyler sat across from her, his bulky frame wedged into one of her grandmother’s ancient, cane-bottom rockers, his hat clutched in one fist and a file folder in the other. Mason perched next to her on the edge of her fading rose-print sofa, his jeans a stark contrast to the feminine blossoms splayed under his thighs.

      The morning sun had broken free of the tall trees of her backyard and now cast bright yellow streaks through the windows. The room seemed to glow, despite the somber mood of the three people clustered there.

      “What about his family?” Karen’s voice was a strained whisper. “Did he have a family?” She peered at Mason, then Tyler. Her stomach felt tight, her chest constricted, but she wasn’t sure if she felt fear or grief. Or both. Hot tears leaked from each eye, and she wiped them away quickly.

      The young police chief nodded. “A wife and a grown son.”

      “I don’t understand.” Her soft voice cracked, and she swallowed again. “Why would anyone do this because of me?”

      Tyler shifted in the chair, causing the cane to creak ominously. “Just like there was a note with your broken vases, there was a note at the crime scene.” He pulled a slip of paper from a file folder and held it out toward her. Mason stood quickly and helped the paper make the cross to Karen. He slipped the photo from her fingers and returned it to Tyler.

      “That’s a copy they faxed,” Tyler explained. “The detective in New York thought you might recognize the handwriting.”

      Karen wiped her eyes again and sat the cup on the floor near her feet. She unfolded the note, her fingers trembling a bit. As if scrawled and smeared with a pen too large for the writer’s hand, the letters swirled in an almost unreadable script in the middle of the page. She studied the note, her shoulders bowing slightly as a tight chill settled at the base of her spine. She recognized the handwriting…but not from anyone she knew. The clumsy block letters were the same as in the notes that had simply said, Stop! This one, however, was more specific.

      Evil corrupts mind and soul.

      Evil must be stopped.

      All that is evil will be destroyed.

      Her head snapped toward Mason, then Tyler. “So the killer thinks my vases are evil? Or me?”

      Tyler shrugged. “New York thinks it could go either way. He could be a nutcase who has a fixation on your work, or maybe he has a problem with you personally. Or it could be a jealous—”

      “But…evil?”

      Mason cleared his throat. “Work or personal, this is about you.”

      Tyler shifted in the rocker, his mouth pursed around a word that never made it out.

      “But why?” Karen stood up and took the cup into the kitchen. Tyler caught the note as she passed by, slipping it from her fingers and returning it to the folder. She continued into the kitchen, her energy surging. She set the cup down with a solid thump on the counter that divided the two rooms. “They’re just vases.” She tapped her temple. “They just came out of my imagination and whatever I’ve learned about pots through the years.” She held her hand out toward Mason. “You know that. We talked about this!”

      “I know.” He followed her into the kitchen. “But you’re trying to make sense of something that may exist only in this guy’s head. He killed because of something that makes sense only to him.”

      Karen grabbed a dishcloth off the sink and began to wipe off an already spotless counter. “But if he thinks the vases are evil, then he thinks I’m evil.”

      “Which is why we’re here.”

      “Because evil must be destroyed.”

      Tyler’s gaze bounced between the two, and he finally intervened. “Well, it’s clear neither of you is a cop.” He joined them at the counter. “Calm down.” He perched on one of the three bar stools that stood guard on the living room side of the counter. “First of all, New York does not expect you to figure out what’s going on with this murderer. That’s their job. Second, no one really thinks you are in danger. If whoever this is wanted to hurt you…” Tyler paused and shifted on the stool. “After all, he’s already proven he knows where you live.”

      “But—”

      “Which is why she needs protection!”

      Tyler held up his hand to both of them. “And this is a small town. Everyone around knows the first thing you do every morning is make a pot of that fancy Hawaiian coffee you have shipped in and go out on your deck to talk to God. If the killer wanted you, he wouldn’t be wasting time and money buying up vases to shoot. Even a perfect stranger could sit at Laurie’s café for a couple of days and figure out what your schedule is.” Tyler shook his head. “We’ll add extra drive-bys on patrol, but the truth is, even a 24/7 guard probably wouldn’t help. Whatever his problem is, he wants to get rid of the vases, not you.”

      Karen felt the heat slowly rise from her throat to her cheeks. “Every one?”

      Tyler grinned. “My mom thinks it’s cute that you have a different robe for every season.” He stood, his mood somber again. “I do want you to take extra precautions. Make sure you lock the doors and set the alarm. Don’t wander around alone too much. And call me if you see anything strange—” he looked down at Lacey, who had suddenly started climbing his pants leg “—other than this cat—about the house.” He plucked Lacey off and put her on the stool. “In the meantime, I think you two should go for breakfast.”

      Karen’s eyes widened. Food? “You don’t think I can eat now, do you?”

      Tyler wandered toward the door, his eyes glancing casually around the room. “I certainly think you should eat. Mason has agreed to talk to you about the vases, see if you remember anything unusual about them. Maybe something about those particular vases strikes a chord with you.”

      “But—”

      “Protein. Eat some meat. Eggs. Lots of water.” He tapped the side of his head as he reached for the doorknob. “Helps you think.”

      Mason followed