Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

you, did she?”
“Don’t think so,” the kid replied. “I kept me distance. It wasn’t easy, mate. She kept a steady pace all the way.”
“Where did she go?”
“Hey … me stout.”
Michael turned and took the glass from the bartender, handing it to Wilfred. “There’s a seat over there. Shall we grab it?”
“Good idea,” the kid answered. “I’m exhausted.”
Michael said “Take care” to the businessman and followed Wilfred through the raucous mob. When they were seated, Wilfred said: “She’s a high-toned one, isn’t she? She spent the whole bleedin’ time in Beauchamp Place.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far from Harrods. Off the Brompton Road. It’s mostly for rich people and Americans. Poncy little shops … that sort of thing.”
“Where did she go?”
“Oh … a shop called Emeline that sells jewelry. I don’t think she bought anything, but it was hard to tell. I had to watch from the street. The shop was too small to do any proper spying.”
“Good thinking.”
“Then she went to a place called Spaghetti.”
“A restaurant?”
“A dress shop. She didn’t stay long. The rain started again, so she ran along the pavement for a bit. Some bloke on a motorcycle splashed water on her dress, and she stopped and gave him the finger. Said, ‘Fuck you, mac.’ ”
Michael smiled. “It’s her, all right.”
“I waited a bit, then I tailed her into a shop called Caroline Charles. The bitch behind the counter gave me a dirty look, so I couldn’t hang around too long.”
“She didn’t say anything? My friend, I mean.”
“Not much. She bought a dress. Paid for it in cash with a great wad of bills she pulled out of her purse.”
“Did she take the dress with her?”
Wilfred shook his head. “She wanted it mailed. Said she needed it by Easter.”
“Great! Did she say where?”
“Sorry, mate. She wrote it down for the shop assistant.”
“Did you follow her?”
Wilfred shook his head. “She took a cab when she left.”
“What color was the dress?”
“Sort of pink,” answered Wilfred. “No, peach, perhaps, with big puffy sleeves. Why?”
“C’mon, kiddo. Let’s grab a cab. It’s my turn to play detective.”
Fifteen minutes later, he left Wilfred at a coffee shop in Beauchamp Place, then headed off to Caroline Charles on his own. The woman behind the counter was just as chilly as Wilfred had depicted her.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. My wife just bought a dress here … about half an hour ago. An American lady in a gray sweater and pink skirt?”
“Yes.”
“A peach dress. She asked that it be shipped.”
“I recall it quite well, sir. What may I do for you?”
“Well … I know this sounds awfully silly, but she thinks she may have given you the wrong address. She’s been … uh … ill lately and she tends to be rather absentminded, and she thinks she may have given you our winter address instead of … you know … our summer one, and, well, I thought it best to check.”
The woman frowned at him.
“Frankly,” said Michael, lowering his voice to a whisper, “if I could get her off Valium, we wouldn’t have this problem. Last week she forget where she left the Bentley and it took us two days to find it.”
The saleswoman’s lip curled slightly as she pulled out the order and laid it in front of Michael. As he read it, he burned the words into his brain:
Roughton
Easley-on-Hill
Near Chipping Campden
Gloucestershire
“Good,” he said. “Everything’s in order. I guess there’s hope for the old girl yet.”
By the time he got back to the coffee shop, the address had been reduced to gibberish in his head, slithy toves gyring and gimbling in the wabe. Spotting Wilfred, he silenced him with a wave until he had a chance to write it down. Then he showed it to him.
“Make any sense?”
The kid shrugged. “Gloucestershire does. I think I’ve heard of Chipping Campden, but the rest …”
“Is Roughton the name of a person or a place?”
“Could be either, I suppose. It’s not hers?”
“Nope. Hers is Ramsey. Mona Ramsey.”
“Maybe the dress was just a gift for someone. No … that’s not likely.”
“Why not?” asked Michael. The thought had already occurred to him. If she was being kept by a wealthy benefactress, she might well pick up a little something for her.
“Well,” said Wilfred, “she tried it on, didn’t she? Unless her friend is exactly the same size.” He paused for a moment, apparently reading Michael’s mind.