Maskerade: Remembering Childhood

By Suzanne Brent

MASKERADE is a romantic thriller that is based in Los Angeles in the 1990's. It is about an exotic disturbingly mysterious
women who is obsessed with obtaining a rare ancient Egyptian mask for it's fabled magical powers. The battle of
dark and light forces takes the reader on a page turning journey to the ultimate plot
twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781619847910

Book preview

Maskerade

M A S K E R A D E

A romantic thriller of

an exotic, disturbingly mysterious

woman obsessed with obtaining

a rare, ancient Egyptian Mask

for its magical powers.

The battle of Dark and

Light takes the reader on a

page-turning Journey to

the ultimate plot twist.

Maskerade

A Novel

Suzanne Brent

Columbus, Ohio

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Gatekeeper Press

3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77

Columbus, OH 43123-2839

www.GatekeeperPress.com

Copyright © 2001 by Suzanne Brent

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Book design by Marta Quest

ISBN: 9781619848092

eISBN: 9781619847910

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Chapter 1

"O H, MY GOD!" JENNIFER GASPED. Her heart lurched as a flash of pain shot through her chest, as if . . . as if a . . . . She couldn’t think; her mind went blank from the pain.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on regulating her breathing for what felt longer but, in fact, was mere seconds.

The pain lessened suddenly and all returned to normal. She opened her eyes slowly. She used her arms to brace herself on the edge of the sturdy, old, dark wood kitchen table.

She looked again at the Life magazine that had fallen open. A full-color page spread before her, showing a collection of Egyptian masks. It all came rushing back; she recognized the ornate black and gold mask immediately.

It had happened again. Why? What did it mean? These questions echoed unanswered in her mind.

Jennifer Shaw eased her tall, slim frame into the wooden chair alongside the kitchen table and pushed a lock of shoulder-length brunette hair behind her ear. Her large hazel eyes held a faraway look as she remembered the last time she had been gripped with this inexplicable searing pain.

It was during the 1985 Fourth of July weekend—nearly eight years ago—at a family gathering. Her father, retired theater producer Devon Shaw, and her mother Lauren had traveled down from New York City. Her brother Timothy had flown out from Los Angeles and everyone met for a relaxing evening at her home in Williamsburg, Virginia.

None of their other relatives could join them. It produced a rare occasion for just the immediate family to be together. In her thoughts, Jennifer smiled, sidetracked for a moment, thinking what an independent, artistic bunch—loosely linked and yet bound tightly by invisible cords of their mutual belief in the past lives they had shared. They seemed to manifest an uncanny tolerance for each other’s eccentricities, which, as far back as Jennifer could recall, had never been in short supply.

Her smile faded. She realized that weekend, strangely, had turned out to be their last. While returning to New York, her parents had been in a tragic car collision, killing them instantly.

Jennifer and Timothy had muddled through the remains of their parents’ life together. The experience had been eye–opening, unsettling, and—in the end—left them with many mementos of their father’s theater career but not much money. Completely unprepared for the lawyers, the endless advisors, and vultures of little or no conscience, the seemingly endless legal maze had been trudged through with the help of a few honest friends of their parents who had guided and supported them.

However, what occurred that Saturday afternoon was what Jennifer now recalled. The family had settled around the television in anticipation of watching an old movie favorite, Casa Blanca. In the kitchen, Jennifer prepared cookies and lemonade and returned to the living room, tray overflowing, as the opening credits of the film appeared on the screen.

They were interrupted by a news bulletin. A major earthquake had struck the valley of the ancient pyramids. Fear of damage to these ancient structures was rampant. The news commentator spoke briefly on the estimated magnitude of the quake. In the chaos they viewed on the screen, a major discovery of hidden rooms and prized artifacts had been uncovered.

Jennifer sat down slowly. The family was riveted to the news; no one spoke. They watched as the camera cut away from the news reporter to several of the artifacts, barely dusted and cleaned for public viewing. Among them, an extraordinary mask was flashed on the television. Ornate in its shape and unique in its black and gold design, the commentator speculated on the mask’s age, value, and function in the ancient temple rituals.

As the mask appeared, Jennifer gasped, clutching her chest as a searing pain pierced into her body—so much so that she coughed—and, gasping for air, leaned forward quickly, trying to ease the crushing sudden pain.

Her family was alarmed at her response. She feebly attempted, between gasps, to reassure them. No, she wasn’t having a heart attack, but—God knows—it felt like one.

Her thoughts cried out, and yet, no sooner had she managed to formulate that silent question Why? then the image of the mask disappeared off the television screen. The pain instantly, inexplicably disappeared.

Never in her entire life had Jennifer experienced anything remotely similar; until now, eight years later as she stared—now unblinking and without pain—at the mysterious, impressive mask.

She decided then and there that she was going to investigate; she was not going to ignore it. This time, she was going to get some answers.

As if on cue, the phone rang. She reached quickly to answer it, a wide grin filling her face. Timothy, I can’t believe it’s you!

His warm timbered voice echoed over the long-distance phone line. Before he could get two words in, Jennifer exclaimed, You’ll never guess what happened! Immediately, she launched into a detailed description that did make him laugh at her enthusiastic rendition but also caused him a flicker of concern.

He, of course, recalled the previous incident, but so much had happened in their lives since then. He had, in the end, dismissed it, perhaps—he reasoned now—a bit prematurely. Suddenly the lines were quiet and Timothy realized Jennifer had stopped talking. Timothy? . . . Timothy, are you there?

Yes. Sorry, I just . . . , he paused, adding, It is rather strange.

I do recall some PR about a traveling exhibit of the Egyptian masks. I just don’t remember . . . . Hang on, let me see . . .

You’re right. The premier will be in Beverly Hills June 5, at Sterling Galleries. It’s only a portion of the masks; the balance will be at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art on Wilshire. Interesting that your vacation out here will coincide with the show.

A slight chill ran over Jennifer’s spine.

You are still planning the visit? This won’t stop you; I’m convinced more than ever that it would be good for you to . . . .

Yes, I am, Jennifer replied. But fear of the unknown made her heart flutter.

I know it’s a big step, Timothy said.

They went through this every time he called. It was silly, really. Timothy knew his sister would move when she was ready, but he couldn’t help nudging her along. He could hear the amused tone in her voice when she finally added, I know you care about me, but you know how stubborn I am.

Gee, news to me, Jen.

Yeah, well . . . I’m still planning on coming. Sharon has agreed to look after the shop for me. After all, it will be for about three weeks.

Timothy smiled to himself, thinking of the successful antique shop his sister had called The Liberty Bell. There were times when she treated her antiques like children. He had often teased her unmercifully about that, and, in truth, it was nothing short of a miracle she hadn’t locked him up in one of those ancient steamer trunks and left him there to rot.

Worried about your children, dear? He simply couldn’t resist, and followed it with hearty laughter at her indignant retort.

Timothy, that’s enough. Really!

I know . . . I know . . . I don’t know what gets into me.

I do. It’s something in the genes of all brothers—primal reaction to all sisters.

It must be, he managed, as laughter escaped again, and to his delight, Jennifer joined him. Peace was restored.

Timothy, before you go, what do you think about this . . . this . . . ?

The mask incident? he teased, trying to cover his own uneasiness.

Yes, I think I should look into it. It’s just awfully strange that it happened again, and—I don’t know—maybe I should check at the library to see if I can read up on it.

I’ll tell you what, I’ll see about getting us tickets to the show in Beverly Hills.

One thing’s for certain: it’ll be interesting to see it in person, Jennifer said none too convincingly.

Don’t worry, Jen; I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

After a few minutes of suggestions of sources she might check, Timothy did what he could to support her. But, for some reason, he had an uneasy feeling somewhere so far back in his mind that he was more than willing, at the moment, to ignore it.

They agreed to contact each other to confirm travel plans just prior to Jennifer’s coming in mid-May to Los Angeles.

Concluding her conversation with her brother, Jennifer went to the kitchen to heat up a cup of tea and sat down to read the article from beginning to end—this time without incident.

By the end of the week, Jennifer had left her antique shop in the hands of her partner Sharon Fields. She headed over to the library on a rather gray, rainy day. She wasn’t exactly certain where to begin, but begin she would.

Entering the quiet library, she was surprised to discover one of her customers, Dolly Mason, at the front desk. In her mid-60s, with short salt–and–pepper hair, Dolly evinced a spry energy that clung to her slim figure. Her clear blue eyes smiled up through her wire-rimmed glasses. Jenny, dear, how lovely to see you!

Dolly, I didn’t know you worked here too.

Dolly was tireless in her energetic involvement in local charities. Jenny was amazed that Dolly managed to squeeze a few more hours out of the day for the library.

Yes, it’s been such fun so far, and you know how I love to read.

Jenny smiled and nodded while attempting to sort her thoughts into a clear question.

Are you looking for something in particular? Dolly asked.

Jenny’s eyes fell on the recent copy of Life magazine, nearly covered under a stack of mail. Yes, actually. I’m interested in reading about Egypt.

Dolly’s face lit up. Oh, a subject dear to my heart!

Really?

You know, Dolly said in a confidential tone, I’m sure I lived there in another life.

She had Jenny’s complete attention.

I suppose it sounds a bit unusual, but . . . .

Oh, no, on the contrary, Jenny managed, surprised and relieved at this information. An ally in her quest! This was a good omen.

"Did you see the new issue of Life by chance?"

Dolly’s hand darted out quickly, pulling the magazine away from the stack of mail. My yes, aren’t they simply incredible? I remember when . . . .

A small line of people waiting to check out books had formed, interrupting her words. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, she said to the first customer. Jenny, check two aisles over, in the back on the left. See me on your way out.

Jenny nodded as Dolly directed her energy to the waiting customers.

Seated at one of the long, dark wood tables, Jenny began making her way through a pile of assorted books on Egypt. She was so enthralled at the information and photographs that she didn’t realize that two hours had flown by. She glanced at her watch, it was nearly four o’clock.

The sounds of footsteps made Jenny look to her left to see Dolly motion silently to come join her. She nodded with a smile.

As Jenny replaced the books and made her way to the front of the library, she realized she needed to be more specific in her search. She had narrowed it down to the ancient temples, their rituals, and the schools of mysteries, as they were termed.

Dolly was energetically stacking and replacing check-out cards. Another librarian was tending to several customers at the desk. Dolly looked up at Jenny’s arrival. Can you spare a minute to join me on my break for a cup of tea?

Looking at the sheets of rain outside, the thought of a cup of hot tea was most welcome to Jenny. Yes, I’d love one. Thanks.

Good.

Dolly led Jenny to a small but cozy wood-paneled room. Two floor–to–ceiling paned windows reflected the rain-soaked world outside. She motioned for Jenny to sit down in the nearest chair. She poured a strong cup of tea for both of them that called out for milk and sugar which she instantly produced.

You must have a piece of my lemon Bundt cake, she said. Setting her mug down, she sliced two generous pieces of cake for each, placing one before Jenny.

This looks absolutely divine, Jenny commented.

Oh, it is, if I do say so myself!

They both laughed. Dolly drew up a chair, sitting opposite Jenny. Having taken a cup of tea and a bit of cake, she looked up at Jenny, her light blue eyes alive with intense excitement. "Wasn’t that a fabulous article on the initiation masks in Life magazine?"

Initiation masks? Jenny repeated.

Yes, they were used in the ancient temples of Egypt, during the time of the schools of mysteries long ago. I’m sorry, dear. Of course, unless you had studied all this . . . , she gestured with her hands, how would you know? Is this what you came to read about?

Taken aback by Dolly’s direct assumption of the cause for her visit, Jenny wondered if she should reveal the true reason. Unsure, she decided against it.

Yes, I am, in a way. I was curious about those masks.

It is so fascinating, Dolly remarked. She paused to take a sip of steaming tea. I recall when they were discovered eight years ago. A dear friend of mine, Gertie, and her husband Charles Blake, were visiting Egypt. You can imagine, it was chaos over there. But . . . she punctuated the air with her slim hand, her husband is an Englishman and his grandfather had been involved in the digs of the cursed pharaoh’s tomb in the 1920s.

Really? Do you believe in that sort of thing? I mean . . . , Jenny hesitated.

Yes, I believe I do. You see, both he and his father have become top authorities on Egyptology in scholarly circles.

Dolly drew her chair closer to the table. Lowering her voice slightly, she pulled out the Life magazine. You see this mask? Her finger pointed to the very ornate black and gold mask that had provoked the sudden chest pains in Jenny.

Yes, Jenny said, holding her breath.

There is supposedly a curse and scandal surrounding it. It is the most controversial mask of the entire group that is on exhibit here in the United States.

What do you mean? Jenny said, her heart suddenly beating faster.

"Well, Gertie called me from her home in Boston—you know, when Life magazine came out. There have been problems that have been covered up. I don’t know the details, but she’s sending me a rare, out–of–print book that explains a lot of it. Supposedly, there was a murder the night before a young priestess was to have her final initiation to be a high priestess. This mask was worn by the murderer and is supposedly cursed."

Jenny had turned pale. Dolly quickly observed her reaction and said, Are you all right, dear?

Yes. Oh, don’t mind me. I . . . just need some more warm tea. She reached for her mug. I suddenly felt chilled.

Dolly frowned. Schooled in the philosophy of reincarnation and karma’s effect in life, she wondered whether Jenny had lived then and been involved in some way. She hoped she was wrong but it was Jenny’s next words that sent a chill down her spine.

Well, you know, it’s interesting. I’m going to be visiting my brother in Los Angeles.

Really?

Yes, and he has tickets for the premier showing of these masks in Beverly Hills. I . . .

More tea, Jenny?

Yes, thank you.

I think it sounds wonderful, Dolly lied. She was more than concerned, there was something about Jenny and these masks. Highly intuitive, Dolly always trusted her hunches.

You know, Dolly said thoughtfully, I think you should read Gertie’s book on this mask. Yes, I will make sure to get it to you as soon as it arrives. When did you say you were leaving?

Mid-May—in about three weeks. And thank you, I would enjoy reading the book.

Dolly nodded and sipped her tea. The book is coming from England, so hopefully it will be here before you have to go. If not, I will send it to you in Los Angeles.

Thanks.

Dolly’s break was suddenly cut short as the librarian stuck her head in the door, letting Dolly know she needed help up front.

Warm goodbyes were said. Jenny walked out the door and ran to her car through the rain. Sheets of rain poured down her car windshield as she sat staring out.

Her thoughts raced. What was she doing? Was she opening up a Pandora’s Box that should have stayed locked? She didn’t like the idea of a murder tied to this mask. She didn’t like it at all. A sense of unease, though distant, seemed to sit and watch her—waiting—waiting for all the players to take their places on stage.

Chapter 2

AN OFFSHORE BREEZE CAUSED THE ivory lace curtains to sway slightly. It was sunset. Pale yellow rays of sunlight fell in erratic patterns on the worn, wooden floor of Julia Ray’s Santa Monica apartment. The old building creaked, as if sighing in relief to lose some of the unrelenting heat of an exceptionally hot spell of Santa Ana weather.

Julia’s cat, Cleo, stretched and yawned in anticipation of her mistress’s return. The familiar jingle of keys sent Cleo into motion through the hallway and to the front door. Dinner would not be far away.

Julia entered her small, colorful apartment, juggling groceries and mail and managing not to stumble over her affectionate cat who rubbed endlessly at her heels. Navigating her cluttered, Victorian–style living room, she deposited the bags of food on the counter in her tiny kitchen. Placing the mail on the pine wood table, she pushed the kitchen window open, instantly relieving the room’s unbearable stuffiness.

The tinkling sounds of her many wind chimes immediately filled the air. Julia smiled and breathed deeply of the salty breeze. She thanked the powers that be for being able to live at the beach.

Not to be ignored, Cleo jumped up on the kitchen table—a strong reminder she wanted her dinner. Hands on her hips, Julia attempted a stern tone. You are truly a spoiled cat; you know that, Cleo?

Cleo licked her whiskers and meowed in response.

Julia chuckled, reaching to pet with one hand and searching for a can of cat food in the nearest grocery bag with the other.

Groceries put away, the cat fed, Julia scooped up the mail and headed to the overstuffed chair beside her answering machine. The light blinked repeatedly, indicating customers’ calls.

A popular psychic among local residents and celebrities, Julia was always busy. She pulled her long, wavy, blond hair into a pony tail. Her oval tanned face and large aquamarine eyes reflected both wisdom and childlike essence. Her thirty-eight years looked more like twenty-eight.

Julia’s psychic skills had been with her since childhood. It was, for her, simply a way of life. Each day as she awoke, her desire was to make the world a better place, if only by helping one person. Usually, she helped several.

She eyed the blinking message light and opted to look through the mail first. The cover of the new Life magazine instantly caught her attention. She gazed, momentarily enthralled, at the fabulous Egyptian masks. Quickly she read the article, surprised that a gala preview was set for Beverly Hills in June.

As she finished reading the write-up, her initial reaction of excitement had changed to concern and finally to an odd sense of uneasiness. Because there was no logical explanation, she shrugged her shoulders, dropped the magazine on the floor, and rewound her answering machine. She should have known better.

Later that night, Julia stared at a spread of tarot cards. No matter how she studied them, the outcome was the same and she didn’t like what she saw.

Among her messages had been one from Faye Black, manager of Sterling Galleries, who was a regular customer. Faye had insisted on an emergency reading. Julia always seemed to deal with Faye on an emergency basis. She was in charge of the gala event and exhibit that was being hosted by Sterling Galleries for the fabulous collection of Egyptian masks.

Faye not only relied heavily on Julia’s predictions, but always waited until the last moment to ask for help. Never a good plan and, in this case, it could prove disastrous. Faye was very nervous about being in charge of such exceptional art. Of course a successful showing would be an important feather in the Sterling Galleries’ cap.

As Julia listened to Faye’s message, she had noticed an intense edge in her client’s voice. She frowned. Faye had asked that she return her call at her home in Westwood promptly at 9:00 with an answer. It was now 8:30.

Julia couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding that settled heavily on her shoulders. Did these ominous feelings come from another time, another life experience? Were these masks evoking personal memories?

She had never before questioned her readings. It always had been simply straightforward with Faye. Shaking her head, Julia told herself to stop reading hidden meanings into all this, but a voice whispered deep within her: Caution . . . danger . . . .

If Faye had consulted her in the beginning, perhaps she could have helped reveal what elements of possibility worked but the dates were set. The exhibit was on its way from England. Little, if anything, could be altered. Now it was a matter of dealing with the results of these actions—a task easier said than done.

The message the cards revealed was clear: mystery, challenge, illusion—related to people around her. Despite public success, tragedy and death would stalk her. Julia shifted in her chair. Her necklace of crystal, silver, and feathers rattled softly. She envisioned Faye—a six-foot Nordic beauty—who was striking in a Beverly Hills-perfect way. Julia’s spine tingled, for what she saw was far from perfect. This danger was like a mysterious scent—undefinable—and yet, it clung to Faye, waiting to strike.

Julia was faced with only one course: the truth. It chilled her