local arts society, a number of unique galleries and the writers’ colony, where he lived. There was a lot of encouragement for homegrown artists, including the one who now strolled at his side while he struggled not to stare.
Karen walked with her head up as they moved along the narrow lane toward Mercer’s main street. Her gaze darted along the scenery, as if recording and storing every detail of the morning. She paused occasionally to give an extra second to a squirrel, an unusual red flower or an odd shadow in the trees. After she’d stopped to finger a leaf left over from last fall, one turned to a lacey fringe by bugs and frost, Mason finally gave in to his curiosity. “What do you see in that?”
She held it in her palm, smoothing a bit of mud off the stem. “The pattern. I’ve been making some ‘nature’ trays for one of the galleries. Hand-built. I press plants, berries, grasses, that kind of thing, into the clay to create the pattern. When it’s fired, the foliage burns off but leaves the pattern. I paint the illustrations in and around the impressions.”
He stopped at the crossroad at the end of her street to check traffic, then took her elbow as they turned toward town again. “Is that what you did with the vases?”
Silent, Karen stared down at the leaf, lying featherlike in her hand.
Mason pulled her to a halt. “Karen?”
She continued to look down. “If I tell you this, you can’t ever, ever put it in writing. You promise?”
Mason reached for her chin and pulled her head up. “I promise.”
“I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy.” Her gaze grew even more distant. “My aunt already thinks…” Her words faded.
He dropped his hand to her shoulder, tilting his head to look more closely at her. “Karen, you are one of the least crazy people I know. So tell me.”
She licked her lips. “Those vases…they’ve evolved. I kinda do my own thing now, trying to keep them new.”
“But?”
She finally met his eyes. “But the first ones came to me in a dream several years ago.”
Okay, so she could surprise him. “A dream?”
She sighed. “A nightmare, actually.” She pulled the envelope from her purse and slipped the leaf in as she pulled the photo out. She ran her finger over the image. “Several of them. This face.” Her eyelids lowered, shadowing her gaze. “It was not long after the first show at that little gallery on East Houston. Small, but I got good notices. Sold those pieces I showed you, and it looked as if I could truly do this for a living.”
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. So pale, with the white streaks in dark hair. The sharp nose, high cheekbones. 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’s Federal Café occupied a tiny storefront about halfway between the granite city hall at one end of town and the millpond at the other. Her two “mission statements” hung near the register: Good Food Served Simply and We Trust In God; All Others Must Pay Cash.
The 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 coffeepot 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 seat 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. Mom won’t go to the grocery until this afternoon.”
“Mom?” Mason asked.
Tyler cleared his throat. “My mother is office manager for the police department.”
“Peg’s terrific,” Karen said. “She’s like a mom to the whole town.”
Tyler shifted in his 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 e-mail 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 bestselling 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.”
“That’s what drew me to do the article,” Mason interjected.
Tyler looked up at him. “What article?”
Mason explained about the magazine article he’d written and his own interest in “face vases.” “One of my grandmothers had a couple of ‘face jugs,’ which tend to be prominent in the South. But sculpting