Framed
“Reaching for the pliers to pull the brads, she asked, “So you think this guy’s had a sex change or something, Lois?”
“Who knows?” Putting on her coat to leave, the boss rolled her eyes. “His phone’s a wrong number, they returned the postcard I sent him, maybe he’s deep-sixed with Jimmy Hoffa. Who knows what goes on with customers? Look at the art they bring in. Look at the mats they put on it.”
“I’ll say.” Puce and fuchsia on a lithograph; what was somebody smoking?
“Another cowsy-wowsy print. Mat it up nice and some schmo will buy it.”
“I’ll do my best.” Veronica pulled the last brad and lifted out the backing.
“Well, I’m outa here. See ya, Ronnie.”
“See ya,” Veronica echoed automatically, staring at the strange little parcel she had just uncovered. Or not strange, exactly, but quite out of place, taped to the back of the fuchsia mat. Why would somebody sandwich a key inside a frame job?
A key in a clear plastic bag. Ronnie pulled it loose and looked at it more closely.
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