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?''
''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
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?''
''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
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