Dead Giveaway by Leann Sweeney Page B

the massive sideboard next to him that held stacks of mismatched china and a glass display case showing off a copy of the velvet and jeweled crown used for British coronations. And I thought Verna Mae's house was overdecorated.
      ''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