Читать книгу The Face of Deceit - Ramona Richards - Страница 12

Karen watched as Mason froze for a second, then struggled to swallow the remaining bit of French toast. “You’re not joking, are you?” His voice had a note of disbelief in it, almost as if he wanted her to say she’d only been kidding. He took a quick gulp of coffee, then cleared his throat. “Is this about your parents?”

Karen closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it, but it wasn’t as if it was a big secret; everyone who’d been in Mercer more than a few years knew. She should have realized he would have heard about her parents by now, if not all the details where she was concerned. Sooner or later, Tyler would bring it up, anyway…better that Mason not be caught off guard.

She pushed her plate away and leaned toward him. “Yes. My parents were murdered. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but when I was seven…” Her voice trailed off. No, that was not the way to tell him. She took a deep breath and sat a little straighter, waving away the previous words with one hand. “Most of what I know I’ve learned from folks around town. Old newspapers.” She sighed. “My aunt won’t talk about—but other people have said—” Why is this so hard to say to him! “My father,” she said slowly, “was a real estate agent, one of the most successful in the area. Mom stayed at home with me, and she wanted to make sure neither of us ever got bored. She enrolled me in all kinds of stuff—dance classes, art camps, community theater. I’ve been told she was sweet but quite the determined stage mom. I think she might have had designs on me being a star someday.”

Mason remained still, silent; his eyes focused solely on her face. He did nothing to confirm what he had heard…or what he hadn’t. He just listened.

She took a sip of the coffee. “That day, they tell me I tried out for a local production of Annie. The director later told the police that they loved me. Gave me the role on the spot. My aunt says I had a voice that could make the rafters shake. Mom was so proud. Later, the cops assumed that instead of going home, we went to find Daddy to tell him, to celebrate. Mom had called his office, and his assistant told her about one of his open houses, gave her the address.”

She stopped, hitting the wall of darkness that always occurred at this point in the story. She looked down at her fingernails. Sometimes she wanted to remember; mostly she was glad she couldn’t. Everyone who knew—and sometimes that felt like the whole town—said it was for the best that she never recalled what happened next. Karen took a deep breath.

“Sometime after we arrived, my parents were attacked and killed. Stabbed. A neighbor heard my mother screaming and called the police, but my parents were dead by the time they arrived. They found me in the backyard, bloody and catatonic but alive.”

Mason, frozen in place, muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t quite hear. From the dark look on his face, she was afraid to ask.

“The next thing I remember,” she finished up, “is seeing my uncle Jake when I woke up in the hospital.” She reached for the coffee again. “He had to tell me my parents were gone. No one else would.”

Mason waited, but Karen couldn’t say anything more. She closed her fingers around the cup and tightened her lips, trying to hold back the tears that, more than twenty years after the murders, still edged in from the corners of her eyes.

Finally he let out a long breath. “Is Jake the one who raised you?”

Karen stared at him. Even though the whole town knew the basics of the most infamous unsolved murder in the area, no one who asked about it focused on what had happened afterward. She’d heard enough gasps of shock to last a lifetime. Questions about the killer, whom she couldn’t remember, still swirled in her head. Folks had patted her arm and politely offered their condolences, even years later.

No one had ever asked about the aftermath for her.

She studied him. “Why did you ask that?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I guess it’s the next logical question. The person who came to you in the hospital should be next of kin. I mean, you’ve mentioned that he was your mentor with the pottery, but I don’t think I realized how far back your relationship went.”

She frowned, unsure of his line of thinking. “Jake wasn’t my uncle at the time. Now he is.”

It was Mason’s turn to look confused. He lowered his head and peered at her through his eyelashes. “Say that again.”

Shaking her head, Karen suppressed a grin. “Jake is my uncle now because he married my aunt. Back then, they were still dating.” Her mouth twisted. “My family was odd during that time. Aunt Evie wasn’t sure she wanted to marry an artist, but Jake eventually persuaded her. Shane, my cousin, had it pretty rough, especially before Jake came along. Despite the family money, I’ve heard that my grandmother Elizabeth hated him, made him work for every reward. Jake helped smooth the tension in the family, but Shane left as soon as he could, joined the army and got out. He’s in real estate now. Aunt Evie married pretty young the first time, but her first husband never came back from Vietnam. I guess that’s a bit complex.”

“Not if you’re from the South,” he muttered. “So Jake did wind up raising you?”

“And teaching me pottery—”

“Can you two come with me?”

Karen jumped, twisting to stare at Tyler, who stood behind her chair. Neither of them had heard him come in.

“Now?” Mason asked.

The solemn look didn’t leave Tyler’s face. “Now. Right now.”

Karen glanced at Mason, but he didn’t hesitate. He stood, dropped a twenty on the table and waved his thanks at Laurie. They followed Tyler onto the sidewalk, where he paused only briefly, turning them north toward the tiny arts district of Mercer, speaking as he picked up speed. “Someone broke in to Jane’s gallery and destroyed every piece you had on display.”

Jane Wilson’s Heart’s Art Gallery stood on the corner of Main Street and Fourth, the best location possible, just at the entrance to the Fourth Street Arts Arcade. The rapid growth of Mercer’s arts community in the seventies and eighties had led to an accompanying expansion of tourists to downtown, especially in the summer. The town council had designated Fourth Street as a pedestrian area, closing three blocks of it to motor traffic and planting trees down the middle. Jane’s gallery, specializing in folk art of the area, had flourished, and she’d become one of Karen’s main vendors—and a close friend.