blanket tucked in my purse. Hoping for clues there was a long shot, but it was better than interviewing everyone at the Galleria or Highland Village, two other places that might have sold expensive imported baby blankets back then.
Someone in a magazine article once described Rice Village as 'like shopping in New England, only with humidity,' and today I had to agree. Though it was just past noon, the temperature had already climbed to ninety. I was damp with sweat when I entered British Imports, and the air-conditioning offered welcome relief.
Standing inside the door, I blinked several times to stave off sensory overload. Floor to ceiling shelves to my left held knickknacks, blankets, sweaters, everything Shakespearean, books, posters and flags. The right side was reserved for china—and lots of it. Made me afraid to step in that direction. I'm clumsy enough to get thrown by a stick horse and could see myself toppling over ten-grand worth of Wedgwood.
I made a beeline for a stack of blankets but found nothing babyish. They were mostly plaid lap blankets with fringe or heavy cable knits from Ireland. I was about to approach the man behind the counter, a fiftyish guy who, in keeping with the neighborhood, looked very much like a university professor. He had a trimmed red beard and graying hair, and even in the warmth of June wore a sweater vest.
But before I could introduce myself, a well-dressed couple beat me to the punch, mentioning they had just returned from England. The storekeeper greeted them in a British accent, treating them like old friends. They began a conversation about train rides through the countryside. Since I had plenty of time and wanted the man's undivided attention, I made my way around the center glass counter and found three aisles of marmalade and candy, as well as a cooler filled with frozen items, most of them hot dogs. The labels called them bangers or beef sausage, but they were still little hot dogs. You didn't need a PI license to know that. The shelves above the cooler held dozens of cans of pork and beans. Hot sellers, no doubt. To the right of this section, a small corner had been set aside for baby items, mostly rattles and stuffed animals, but I did find blankets. Problem was, they all had Winnie the Pooh stamped or sewn on them.
By the time I'd examined every jar of marmalade and lemon curd, noted that tea comes in a hundred varieties and realized that toffee and chocolate are staples of the British diet, the couple left and I had my turn.
I walked up to the counter. 'Hi, there,' I said. 'My name is Abby Rose.'
'Gerald Trent,' the man replied. 'How can I help you?'
'I'm a private investigator and—'
'I'm being investigated, am I?' he said with a lopsided grin.
'Oh, no. Nothing like that,' I said quickly. 'I'm tracking a clue on a case I'm working. Can I ask how long you've been here?'
'I opened shop in 1993,' he said with genuine pride. My face must have shown my disappointment, because he said, 'Is that a problem?'
'This clue dates back to 1987, so yes.'
'And what
'A baby blanket.' I took the pictures out of my purse and placed them on the glass counter. 'But if you weren't here before 1993, then—'
'I wasn't, but Marjorie McGrady was. The shop was called the British Emporium back then.' He took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the pictures one by one. 'Marjorie had plenty of rubbish in her inventory, but she also had some very nice items, things like this. Probably cost her a pretty penny to import, but then she wasn't the wisest woman when it came to running a store.'
'So you've never carried any blankets like this?'
'Can't say as I have. Never heard of this Posh Prams brand, either.'
'I researched the name on the Internet and found nothing.'
'Could have come from a store in Britain she did business with. You should ask Marjorie, not me.'
I smiled. 'I'd love to. Can you help me find her?'
'Find her? She's my best customer,' he said.
'Would you mind contacting her? See if she'll talk to me?'
'Don't mind at all, though if you wait five minutes, she'll probably show up.' He laughed and reached for the phone. 'Let's just see if she's home.' He dialed a number without having to look it up, and explained to the person on the other end who I was and what I wanted. Then he handed me the phone. 'She'd like to speak to you.'
'Hi. This is Abby Rose,' I said.
'Marjorie here,' she answered. She was British, too. 'You have one of my blankets, do you? Quality item if it's indeed from Posh Prams.'
'You did sell that brand?'
'Yes, but I'd have to have a look-see at what you've got there to be certain. I imported a number of items from them.'
'I could bring the photo to you, or... we could meet here at the store.'
'I have no plans to leave the house today,' she said curtly. 'I suppose you could bring the picture by. Join me for tea.'
Her enthusiasm was underwhelming, but who was I to complain? 'Great. Where do you live?'
She gave me directions and told me tea would be ready at three on the dot. After I hung up, I said, 'She didn't sound all that excited about helping me. Maybe I could bring her something from your shop to go along with tea?'
'Marjorie does like her sweets,' he said with a nod. 'Let me give you a few choices.'
After I walked back home, I did a little more computer sleuthing on the Posh Prams angle, focusing on British importers, but still found nothing. I printed out an extra set of blanket pictures and added them to Will's file. Then I wrapped up the paperwork on a few cases I'd finished in the last few months—easy adoption reunions with happy outcomes. Nothing complicated like this case. By the time I faxed the completed files to Angel's office, it was time to leave for tea with Marjorie McGrady.
She lived in the Heights, an old and well-known residential area west of downtown. I turned off Heights Boulevard onto her street about five minutes before three and quickly found her restored home. Many of the houses in this area had been renovated in the last decade, making the Heights prime real estate. Her place looked like pictures I'd seen of British cottages, the stone and brick home surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence and a vibrant garden of violet heather and fuchsia wildflowers.
'No trouble finding me, I see,' said the cherrycheeked Marjorie McGrady after she answered the bell—a bell that played 'God Save the Queen,' if I'd heard right. She had on an old-fashioned halter-type apron complete with ruffles over her gray skirt and white blouse. I noticed a little jeweled Union Jack pinned to her silk collar.
I offered her the tin of toffee Mr. Trent had told me she liked, and this prompted a small smile that lasted about a millisecond. She placed the tin in her apron pocket and gestured for me to follow her. By the time we reached the dining room where tea had been set up, I knew I was right about the doorbell music. The entire house I'd passed through—foyer, parlor, as well as what I'd glimpsed in the kitchen— looked like Gerald Trent's shop gone mad. I'd never seen so much British crap in my life. Not quaint, organized, make you go 'aaahh' crap, either. I spied an ugly, uncomfortable-looking green velvet sofa and gaudy gold-brocade wing chairs in the parlor. Portraits of the royal family and their many castles lined the hall. Plenty of photographs of places and people looking definitely regal hung there, too, but I didn't recognize anything or anyone. She just had stuff everywhere, even little British flags in the flowerpots and fake crowns hanging from the ceiling.
Mrs. McGrady gestured to the mahogany table where a silver tray held a floral china teapot and matching sugar and creamer. I noted a basket of what looked like buttermilk biscuits as well as a bowl full of jam and another bowl of... what? Whipped cream?
'Have a seat, Ms. Rose. I don't often have guests for tea. Don't care much for company, to be honest.' She made an attempt at another smile, her gunmetal gray curls framing a round, puffy face. Matched her puffy body. Yes. Puffy. That was the word that best described Marjorie McGrady.
I took the chair she pointed to and sat in front of a china cup and saucer with a different pattern than the teapot. 'Please call me Abby.'
'If you wish. And I'm Marjorie. I've chosen a Darjeeling, if that's acceptable. But if you'd rather—'
Just then a clock bonged three times—bonged so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin. My punishment for
