Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) by Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese
Authors: Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese
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wonderful. But I’m going to need at least five more like that to give to my family. They need me; they depend on me. Now, if moving the paintings is no longer possible…”
“It is possible.”
“But you said…”
‘I said it has become more dangerous. I did not say it had become impossible. And the fact is that…”
“That what?”
“That you may have stumbled unbeknownst on a way to make things much safer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about…no, just let me think it through for a time.”
And so they walked, the buildings of Hatteras to the West coming dimly into view, through a late morning mist that had settled over the dunes.
Finally he said:
“Yes, it could work. Carol, you were a docent for a year?”
She nodded:
“Just over a year. Before…”
“Yes, yes, I know. I also know about your fabulous presentations. Indeed, that is how I became aware of you. But now, I must ask: as a docent did you learn to do restorative work?”
“Of course. That’s one of a docent’s main jobs.”
“Can you do a frame change?”
“Sure. Again, that’s one of the things museums do. There are great works that are four, five hundred years old. Frames need changing. Besides, the frame isn’t a work of art; it’s what’s inside it.”
“Indeed. All right. Then I’m going to ask you to do several frame changes, my dear Carol. We shall thwart this Red Claw. It only requires the skill of two people. The first is you.”
“And the second?”
“The second is an artist who is about to become quite popular—about to be ‘discovered,’ really.”
“Who?”
“Why your friend, roommate, and student: Nina Bannister.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: ART FOR SALE
Thursday.
A delicious morning, cool, clear, the waves aquiline and translucent.
Carol Walker wanted to paint.
That was not her job, of course.
Her job was simply to wait.
It was ten o’clock; Nina was in town at Elementals.
There was little for Carol to do. Some cleaning. Another load of laundry for the two of them.
She was debating whether to read or…well, when one thought about it, there was nothing else to do.
So all right then, she would read. But read what? Nina had graciously made a nice little library of paperbacks available to her, but the titles were mostly mysteries, punctuated by high school literature fare, and neither seemed right for this particular moment. Janet Evanovich or Emily Dickenson. What a choice. All right then, she would…
There was a knock on the door.
She crossed the living room floor, opened the door, and found herself looking at a perfectly nondescript man. He was of average height, wore average wire-rimmed glasses, smiled an average smile, stood balancing himself carefully on average light brown shoes, and looked like he had no distinguishing marks at all except for his fingerprints, which, she decided immediately, had probably been burned off.
“Ms. Walker?”
All traces of accent had probably been burned off too.
“Yes?”
“I have a picture for you. It’s a gift from a friend.”
“All right.”
He had propped the painting against the wall. It was carefully wrapped in brown paper, and was approximately two feet square.
He picked it up and handed it to her, saying quietly:
“Your friend wishes you well.”
“Tell him, ‘thank you’.”
“I shall.”
“Do you want to…”
“No, I can’t come in. Other errands to run.”
“All right then.”
“Good luck.”
He turned, descended the stairs, got into what surely must have been a rental car, and started the engine.
By the time the car had reached Breakers Boulevard, Carol was already on the deck.
It had been well prepared for the coming of the painting.
Four of Nina’s pictures leaned against the rail of the deck. There were Old Red Lighthouse #2, Storm at Sea #3, Morning at Sea #5, and Little Red Barn #6 (Nina’s favorite of the four, except that the cow was too large
“It is possible.”
“But you said…”
‘I said it has become more dangerous. I did not say it had become impossible. And the fact is that…”
“That what?”
“That you may have stumbled unbeknownst on a way to make things much safer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about…no, just let me think it through for a time.”
And so they walked, the buildings of Hatteras to the West coming dimly into view, through a late morning mist that had settled over the dunes.
Finally he said:
“Yes, it could work. Carol, you were a docent for a year?”
She nodded:
“Just over a year. Before…”
“Yes, yes, I know. I also know about your fabulous presentations. Indeed, that is how I became aware of you. But now, I must ask: as a docent did you learn to do restorative work?”
“Of course. That’s one of a docent’s main jobs.”
“Can you do a frame change?”
“Sure. Again, that’s one of the things museums do. There are great works that are four, five hundred years old. Frames need changing. Besides, the frame isn’t a work of art; it’s what’s inside it.”
“Indeed. All right. Then I’m going to ask you to do several frame changes, my dear Carol. We shall thwart this Red Claw. It only requires the skill of two people. The first is you.”
“And the second?”
“The second is an artist who is about to become quite popular—about to be ‘discovered,’ really.”
“Who?”
“Why your friend, roommate, and student: Nina Bannister.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: ART FOR SALE
Thursday.
A delicious morning, cool, clear, the waves aquiline and translucent.
Carol Walker wanted to paint.
That was not her job, of course.
Her job was simply to wait.
It was ten o’clock; Nina was in town at Elementals.
There was little for Carol to do. Some cleaning. Another load of laundry for the two of them.
She was debating whether to read or…well, when one thought about it, there was nothing else to do.
So all right then, she would read. But read what? Nina had graciously made a nice little library of paperbacks available to her, but the titles were mostly mysteries, punctuated by high school literature fare, and neither seemed right for this particular moment. Janet Evanovich or Emily Dickenson. What a choice. All right then, she would…
There was a knock on the door.
She crossed the living room floor, opened the door, and found herself looking at a perfectly nondescript man. He was of average height, wore average wire-rimmed glasses, smiled an average smile, stood balancing himself carefully on average light brown shoes, and looked like he had no distinguishing marks at all except for his fingerprints, which, she decided immediately, had probably been burned off.
“Ms. Walker?”
All traces of accent had probably been burned off too.
“Yes?”
“I have a picture for you. It’s a gift from a friend.”
“All right.”
He had propped the painting against the wall. It was carefully wrapped in brown paper, and was approximately two feet square.
He picked it up and handed it to her, saying quietly:
“Your friend wishes you well.”
“Tell him, ‘thank you’.”
“I shall.”
“Do you want to…”
“No, I can’t come in. Other errands to run.”
“All right then.”
“Good luck.”
He turned, descended the stairs, got into what surely must have been a rental car, and started the engine.
By the time the car had reached Breakers Boulevard, Carol was already on the deck.
It had been well prepared for the coming of the painting.
Four of Nina’s pictures leaned against the rail of the deck. There were Old Red Lighthouse #2, Storm at Sea #3, Morning at Sea #5, and Little Red Barn #6 (Nina’s favorite of the four, except that the cow was too large
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