Dead Giveaway by Leann Sweeney Page A

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 being early, I decided. I turned and saw the offender, a standing replica of Big Ben. How could I have missed that? Maybe because my attention had been drawn to the life-size stuffed Shakespeare in one corner and