"Abby, you still up?" he called from the foyer.
"You betcha, but what you see is what you get." I hurried down the stairs.
"You look great to me," he replied.
"Yeah, that's 'cause you see dead people all day."
He laughed and we kissed; then he put an arm around my shoulder. "I'm hungry. Anything besides cold pizza available?"
"Four-day-old Chinese. Very microwavable."
"Great."
Thirty minutes later, after the beef and broccoli was gone—and yes, I do eat green vegetables when they're smothered in soy sauce—we cuddled up on the sofa. Jeff took off his shoes, loosened his tie and rested his feet on the antique trunk that substitutes as a coffee table.
"You look tired," I said.
"A few hours in your company and I'll be recharged. How's your end of the case going?"
I told him about my day, then said, "Your turn."
"Did I ever tell you how much I hate bankers? They seem to take great pleasure in withholding things; mostly because they can, I guess."
"Are you talking about Verna Mae's money?"
"One of our investigative officers figured out someone made regular transfers into her account. Any chance of finding out who's been moving that cash for years is slim or fat, depending on your favorite saying."
"But can't you make them tell you? I mean, you're the cops."
"The money came through the Cayman Islands," he answered. "You'd have to be a head of state before those guys would even think about sharing information without a year of legal wrangling. Anyway, I'm guessing it's no coincidence the payments began a few months after Will was born. I suppose it could have been blackmail payments or—"
"Child support," I offered.
Jeff smiled. "You read my mind. How do you plan to investigate that angle? Because this is your territory."
"About the only clue I have concerning the abandonment is the baby blanket. Burl won't give it up."
"Why?"
"Says it was collected during the execution of a search warrant and—"
"He's reaching. Hanging onto an old unsolved case. But technically, he's right. I'll ask him to send it to me if you really need it."
"I have photos. If they don't help, I'll take you up on the offer."
Jeff pulled me close and kissed me. "Enough shoptalk. You're ready for bed. Why not help me get ready, too?"
"I can manage that." I removed his tie and started on his shirt buttons as we kissed again, but ten minutes later, when we were ready to move to a more comfortable place—like my bed—Jeff's beeper went off and he left to chase another murderer.
9
The trendy Rice Village shopping center has been around for as long as I've been alive, but in the last few years they've added enough pubs to make Ireland and England jealous. Nice for business so close to Rice University, where plenty of beer drinkers reside, but the parking problems have grown worse as a result. Cars cram not only the parallel slots in front of the stores but every narrow little street within a half mile. To avoid this, I walked the five blocks from my house to visit British Imports on Tuesday morning, the pictures I'd printed of the 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 is this cryptic clue, if I might ask?"
"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?"