All of those events came full circle with Flora and me now standing on the front step of 4 Cogdon Lane in London, laughing as the footsteps of doom approached to catch me with my hand in the cookie jar, or in the mail slot. When the person rounded the corner and walked up to us, it turned out not to be the police. There stood a tall man, a caretaker sort, who approached and asked if he could help us. After a "who, us?" and a downright slapstick, he-said-she-said excuse, we improvised and explained what we were doing, but eventually smiled and told him the truth, hedging our bets that he would be a kind fellow. He was. He introduced himself, and I stopped rubbing my arm and extended it to shake his hand. His name was John. He had one of those elegantly 'common' accents. John told us about this quiet street. He said things reverently about the neighborhood, funny things about the rich Arab prince who lived next door, and that although the owners of Judy's place were looking to sell, they had made it clear they weren't selling to their neighbor. What'd he do to them? It was a funny line. He told us the house was free-hold and for that reason would go for three to five million pounds, which seemed outrageously expensive, but then, what in London isn't?

            He told us that the family that owned the house lived in Italy. As he was talking he stared to lead us down the street. He then knocked on the window of the shop on the corner, a dry cleaner and laundry. A very elegant, 40-50ish, foppish person came out (there I was, holding my man-fag bag, pearls and an ascot, calling him foppish!). He told us that his name was Alfred, It was clear that he and John were old neighborhood buddies.

            Keeping the thrill and excitement about what we had been doing the last fifteen minutes under wraps, Flora and I listened to these two men speak about how they were proud that Judy Garland had been a resident of their street. Alfred was kind and said that he was just a fan, and not "an aficionado" like we were, which is how he put it. He didn't know the half of it. Alfred had all the wrong facts about Judy’s days on this street, but I kept my mouth shut, as did Flora—all the facts he had were flattering to Judy.

            Flora spoke up and said she would like to rent the place for a month, to do some writing she was working on. She said that she thought that she could get inspiration from the space. I smiled and looked at her, this was the first she'd mentioned such a plan to me.

            John mentioned that Judy Garland had been on television the night before, and Flora told him it was A Star is Born that had aired. John looked at us and winked and said, “She’s quite captivating.” He took Flora's number and said he would be in touch once he spoke to the landlord, he was sure that she could get in. I looked at Flora and said, “Well. I guess I'll be coming back on a day's notice.” Who am I kidding? I'd bring a tent and camp out in the bathroom.

            As the four of us ended our chat, Flora and I walked around this beautiful London neighborhood, past Belgravia Square, and along the street were large mansions, so stately and so very London, with their private gardens and their amazing architectural details, all looking beautiful, creamy colored cakes. We would keep our secret crime to ourselves—a special memory.

            Judy's gone. I know she'll always be with Flora and me, and so many others. Her talent and style are eternal. Her voice—a boundless gift—is thankfully recorded for future enjoyment any time any of us want to pick up where we left off, and remind ourselves why we can't forget her. As I said to Flora as we walked, "Her music is in my head,” and it is. I can pop any song on and listen to Judy and lose myself in her magic.