Free Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan

Trish in the library.
    â€œDebbie Weston got a job at the Washington Post ,” I told her. “She gave two weeks’ notice this morning. Move fast.”
    â€œI’m on it! I’m on it! Thanks, Britt! Thanks a million.”
    One more call and I could go home.
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œWhere have you been , Britt?”
    â€œWorking on a story.”
    She sniffed. “That’s why I called, Britt. A story.” She sounded peevish.
    â€œOh? What kind of story?”
    â€œA positive one. Why are you always so absorbed by bad news?”
    I rolled my eyes and began clearing my desk, the receiver tucked under my chin.
    â€œYou never want to hear any good news.”
    â€œYes, I do, Mom. I love happy endings. They just don’t happen often enough.”
    â€œMaybe it’s because when somebody wants to tell you one, you don’t bother to return the call.”
    I pressed a thumb and middle finger against my closed eyes, gently massaging the lids. “What kind of story, Mom? Is it a fashion—”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    Why me? I wondered.
    â€œUnlike the kind of stories that you always—”
    â€œWhat is it?” I interrupted. “I was about to go home. If I hang around here too long something will happen and I’ll wind up working all night.”
    â€œYou never have time to listen.”
    â€œIt’s not that, Mom, it’s just that I need to get out of here.” I stared at the air vents in the ceiling, envisioning poisonous PCBs raining down upon me. “I’ll call you from home.”
    â€œIt’s about Heidi,” she blurted, “the new stylist who worked the fashion show yesterday. I may have mentioned to you that her car was stolen when she and her husband went out to dinner.”
    â€œAnd she got it back?”
    â€œYes! When they arrived home the night before last it was in the driveway. Not only that—”
    â€œOh, no.” I straightened up in my chair. “There was a note?”
    â€œHow did you guess? From the thief, and it was so sweet. He left theater tickets. They went to the playhouse tonight—”
    â€œMom! Call the police.”
    â€œWhat? Are you joking?”
    â€œMom, I’m dead serious. Call the police. Do you know where Heidi lives?”
    â€œWhy, no. What are you talking about?”
    I snatched the phone book. “What’s her last name?”
    â€œBritt, I have no idea. Wait, is it English, or is it Irish? I think it starts with an A. I’ll ask at our staff meeting tomorrow.”
    My head began to ache. I quickly explained. “Mom, try to remember! We can’t page her at the theater if we don’t know her name. And without her address, we don’t even know which police department to call, much less where to send them.”
    â€œWell,” she said comfortingly, “we don’t know that they’ll do it again. Maybe they were sincere this time.”
    I glanced at the clock. Most likely it was already too late. “Mom, you don’t understand. They’re being ripped off at this very minute.”
    â€œWell, dear.” The tone was chastising. “You really should have returned my call sooner.”

Chapter Five
    Despite my frustration, I did sleep that night—for three hours. I was dreaming of fire, leaping flames, in blazing color and CinemaScope, when the claxons faded and the sirens stopped, forced out by a sound more persistent. So real was my dream that I groped for the phone, convinced that the call was a tip on some major out-of-control inferno and wondering whether I had remembered to stash my fire boots in the new T-Bird’s trunk.
    I expected the raspy voice of a fire department source or an editor. It was Rakestraw.
    â€œBritt, you awake?”
    The digital clock glowed in the dark: 3:15 A . M . I blinked.
    â€œSure,” I mumbled. “I’m always up by now.”
    â€œSorry, but you