being early, I decided. I turned and saw the offender, a standing replica of Big Ben. How could I have missed
'I do so love the sound, don't you?' said Marjorie, her eyes moist with joy. 'Very much like the original, you know.'
'Never heard the original,' I said, resisting the urge to massage my temples. That damn clock was loud enough to jar the pecans off the tree I could see through the dining room window.
'I'll pour, if that's acceptable,' she said. 'I must have my tea directly at three every day.'
'Go for it,' I replied. 'Those are scones, I take it?' I nodded at the basket.
'Yes. Strawberry jam and clotted cream for accompaniment.' She took a plate from the sideboard for me and used silver tongs to place one on the plate. She did the same for herself. I followed her lead, splitting the scone and spreading each half with jam and cream.
The sugar was cubed, making the tea far too sweet for my taste, but all negative thoughts were obliterated by the scone. My mouth rejoiced with each delicious bite. When I'd finished the first half and politely taken a few miniscule sips of tea, I said, 'What part of Britain are you from?'
'Oh, I'm not from Britain,' she said, smoothing more jam on another scone. 'I'm from Waco.'
I blinked. 'Oh. But you lived in England, I take it. I mean, your accent... your home...'
Her gaze met mine. 'I have visited London and the English countryside often, and find being British far more comfortable a demeanor for me than Texan. When I ran the shop, the accent helped quite a bit with sales. It's natural for me now.' Her eyes glistened with what I decided was either humor or insanity. I wasn't sure which.
'Very... authentic,' I said. 'Tell me about the store. Why did you sell?'
'I wasn't very handy at shopkeeping,' she said. 'Had a difficult time parting with my items, as I'm sure you've noticed by a glance around here. My dear husband bought me the British Emporium so that I'd move some of my collection out of our home. Then the bloody bastard died on me. Still haven't quite forgiven him. After a period of mourning, I sold the Emporium and returned to what offers me the most comfort.' She spread her arms. 'This and Mr. Tibbetts.'
'Mr. Tibbetts? You remarried?'
'Mr. Tibbetts is my cat,' she said, her tone implying I was an idiot for not knowing this. 'You'll meet him soon, now that the clock's sounded. He does like his clotted cream.'
'Can't wait,' I said, feeling as if I needed to put a 'cheerio' in my voice. I turned and retrieved my purse—a leather backpack type that I'd hung on the back of the chair. I took out the pictures of the blanket and spread them in front of Marjorie. 'Does this look familiar?'
Her hand went to her mouth to stifle her gasp. 'Oh my word.'
'You recognize it?'
'Hang on,' she said, her fake accent momentarily lost. She bolted from the room, her puffy body bouncing with the speed.
I thought about following her, but when I turned, I saw Mr. Tibbetts lumbering into the room. I laughed out loud at the sight of him—all twenty pounds of black and white fluff. He was as puffy as his owner and knew where the cream was.
By the time Marjorie returned, he'd helped himself to the bowl.
'Mr. Tibbetts,' she cried.
He raised his head for a second, revealing dripping whiskers, then resumed lapping.
Marjorie said, 'If you'd like more cream, I can—'
'No, thanks,' I answered, my eyes on what she held. 'I'm far more interested in what you've got there.'
She had a duplicate of the blanket from Verna Mae's house, same color, same two-inch satin binding. She offered it out to me and I took it, ran my hand over wool as soft as a cloud.
'I bought two of these,' she said. 'Sold one and kept the other. Mr. McGrady and I never gave up hope for a family, and if I had been blessed, my babe would have rested in this blanket. I was forty-five at the time. That's what a fool I was.'
I found the label. POSH PRAMS.
'The woman who owned Posh Prams died not long after she sent me those blankets,' Marjorie said. 'She had the most wonderful baby things. These last two blankets, however, were far nicer than any she'd sent before.'
'Do you remember who bought the other one?' I said.
'I don't recall the customers all that well. Mr. Trent is so good at remembering his customers, knows all the regulars by name. Myself? Besotted by my inventory. Yes, that sounds materialistic, but I love England, the queen, all the history and pageantry. I had my genealogy chart done and am related to the royal family. Remotely, yes, but all the items I've saved only strengthen that connection. I do remember my inventory, but not much else.'
'Did you keep receipts, by chance?'
Her already bright cheeks fired up. 'Paper takes up
room that could be best used for other items. I'm afraid I wasn't all that adept at bookkeeping.'
'You saved nothing from the year you sold that blanket? Which was probably 1987, by the way.'
'Ah, 1987. I parted with so many wonderful things in the shop that year.' She sighed heavily.
Mr. Tibbetts, snout now covered with cream, paused and offered a liquid meow in sympathy.
'Since you had those identical blankets and kept one yourself, is there anything you could pull from your memory about the sale?'
'I should be able to, shouldn't I? They were pricey. One hundred and fifty pounds each. Worth every quid, too. See how well this one has held up?' She reclaimed the blanket and held it against one cheek.
'Someone well-to-do bought it, perhaps?'
'Most of my customers were well-to-do. Of course, when you buy items for your baby, price sometimes means nothing and—' She blinked hard. 'Oh, my goodness. It was
'What do you mean?' I could tell from the far-off look in her faded blue eyes that she was remembering something.
'I'm almost certain a young black gentleman picked it up. Very young.'
'You mean he bought it?'
Marjorie McGrady eased down into a chair. 'No, he didn't. Someone else did. A telephone order. The details are all so fuzzy, but I recall thinking he was the limo driver. I probably wouldn't even have remembered that much if I hadn't seen his photo a week later.'
'Really? Where?'
'In the newspaper. How could I have forgotten all this? He was arrested. A man in possession of one of my beautiful things had been
They didn't put photographs in the paper of your everyday car thief or cat burglar—not then, not today. This must have been far more serious. 'Arrested for what?'
'Murder, I believe.'
At that appropriate moment, Mr. Tibbetts knocked the bowl off the table, and clotted cream splattered everywhere.
10
'Mr. Tibbetts!' cried Marjorie McGrady. 'Look what you've done!'
The cat, however, was too busy licking cream off the floor to pay any attention. Diva would have raced up the stairs in terror if she'd done anything like this, but not Fats Domino. He wasn't about to miss a drop.
While I picked up the shattered china bowl, Marjorie hurried to the kitchen for sponges and cleaners. She returned a minute later with a small pail, and we started in on the mess.
