Framed Read Online Free

answering machine after listening to the messages, which consisted of two hang-ups and a “Sorry, wrong number.” She fixed a pot of coffee and then pulled up the gallery’s website on the computer, clicking through to the information on Jerry Berger.
    She scrolled through the thumbnails of his works: Autumn Glory —a blazing orange sugar maple, Cape Cod Ladies —old Victorian houses, and Vermont Hillside , all so familiar to her from the prints that still sold at regular intervals. She lingered over his earlier pieces, like Fire and Ice —an early snow on autumn leaves, Birch Meadow , and her favorite, the One Year series. This was an ensemble of four paintings of a toppled but not-yet-dead beech tree as it coped with the changing seasons. She often wondered where the tree was and if it still lived, or had been sawn up and carted away from its place on the edge of a meadow. Berger’s paintings of it traced the beech’s struggle to survive. She thought it significant the series began in the fall. Despite being blown over by a windstorm in late October and looking rather tattered through the snowdrifts of winter, the tree grew pale green leaves and catkins in the spring, and by summer, it sported a full head of glossy leaves. It looked healthy, even strong.
    A painter who captured such a will to live so vividly would never commit suicide .
    Yesterday, Elsie had insisted Berger’s and Bingham’s deaths were murder, but then things got busy and they never got back to talking about it. Sue looked forward to a good chat with Ginny.
    As she prepared to head to the workshop in the basement, a UPS truck pulled up in front of the gallery. A fresh-faced young fellow, not their regular driver, carried a long, heavy box into the shop and held out his pad for Sue to sign.
    “I wasn’t sure where the delivery door is in this building,” he began, but Sue doubted that. There was a large sign directing trucks to the back of the building, where a service lane provided access to the receiving area. Some of the delivery people tried to avoid going back there, where they would have to actually carry packages a few steps.
    “It’s downstairs and around back,” she said, ignoring the pad. “I’ll show you.” She gathered up her belongings and a framed piece so her hands were full, leaving the driver to carry the box.
    He sighed, but followed her down the steps.
    “The one drawback to working here is this dreary basement,” Sue commented. “On the other hand, we can open the doors and let the sun in on nice days. You can get to all the businesses through here. There’s a freight elevator over there at the left end. That will take you upstairs. This regular door is usually open by eight for the food deliveries. You can open the garage door if you need to. Just make sure you close it before you leave. Here, this is our workshop.” She unlocked a door marked with the gallery’s logo. “Please knock if the door is closed. There are three rooms in here and sometimes we might not hear you come in.”
    “Why, you get scared?” he asked, just short of sneering.
    “We’ve had an armed intruder,” Sue replied without fuss. “We don’t like to be surprised.” That should shake his attitude, she thought, and it seemed to do the job. He held out his pad again, and this time she signed it. Then she relented a bit and walked him to the big garage door. She opened it to the surprising view of a pretty little park and the river beyond it. “Some of the delivery people come here for their lunch breaks. There used to be another mill back there by the river, but it burned down a long time ago. The city razed it and put in the park.”
    The driver’s face softened into a smile. “Thanks.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jason, by the way. I’m taking over this route.”
    “Sue Bradley. Just make sure you’re not blocking the lane, and nobody will mind if you park back here. But make sure you close the door if you open