“Could Mitchel be related to Leathan Gunn?” Alice asked, her excitement obvious in her voice.
Annie looked down at the page. “There’s no mention of Leathan, but Grandpa did make a very interesting notation at the end. He wrote, ‘The sealskin goes to the one who bears the falcon and the rose.’”
She heard Alice gasp over the phone line. “Thank you, Charlie! Is there an address of the farm in the entry?”
“No, just that it was the Mitchel Gunn farm.”
There was silence on the line for a moment. “Farms usually stay in families, around here, for generations and generations. If the Gunn farm is close enough for Charlie to vet for, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down. I wouldn’t be surprised if Leathan answers the door once we find it, either.”
“Not if he sees us coming,” said Annie. “First, I’ll see if I can dig up any additional records with an address or phone number from Grandpa’s papers. If I can’t find anything, then before the club meeting on Tuesday, I’ll stop at the library and see if I can find out where the farm is located.” She paused, staring out the window as she thought. “Even if I do find the Gunns’ address, I think I’m going to wait a few weeks before I try to contact the family.”
“Why?” Alice sounded puzzled.
“You saw how Leathan reacted after seeing the photo of the sporran. If I show up so soon after that, assuming he is related to Mitchel and lives at the same farm, my chances of him talking to me are pretty much nil.”
A disappointed sigh came to Annie’s ear. “You’re right,” Alice muttered. “I shouldn’t complain. We’ve only been back from the Games one day, and already we have an additional lead. Not too shabby.”
“Not shabby at all,” her friend agreed. “And since we have accomplished so much today—and I have a horde of cucumbers to pickle tomorrow—I’m going to say goodnight and go to bed.”
“Sleep well, early bird,” Alice told her. “Let me know if you need any help tomorrow. I’ve left the day completely unscheduled.”
A smile touched Annie’s lips. “I will, and I’ll try not to need help too early.”
Alice chuckled. “It took a while, but I’ve finally got you trained. Have good dreams.”
“You too—when you finally tumble into bed.” The friends ended their call.
Standing at the foot of her bed, Annie scratched her cat under the chin before getting ready to climb into bed. “It’s the end of an exciting weekend, Boots. What will the coming week bring?”
The cat’s mouth opened in a wide yawn. Whatever was coming, Boots wasn’t going to face it without plenty of sleep. Annie intended to follow her example.
16
A couple of weeks later, Annie stood in front of her stove stirring a concoction of two different kinds of vinegar, sugar, mustard seeds, turmeric, cloves, garlic, and some dried chopped cayenne peppers in a saucepan. As she waited for it to boil over the high heat, she turned to check the view from the window. The landscape was still gray with fog. Although Maine was known around the country for its nor’easters, Annie had been reacquainted during the summer with the “smoky sou’westers” she had experienced during her childhood visits at Stony Point. Those were days when a friendly southwestern wind pushed the morning fog off the coast and onto the outer banks. Having planned to go into town with Alice for lunch at The Cup & Saucer, she hoped the fog would burn off—or blow out—by noon. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t.
The sound of the mixture bubbling into a boil directed Annie’s attention back to her pickling. This week she was making a sweet and spicy recipe. Annie reduced the heat under the saucepan and reached for the bowl of sliced onions and cucumbers which she had already soaked for a couple of hours and drained. She shook the vegetables into the pan and gently stirred them into the mixture with a wooden spoon. Humming, she waited until the contents of the saucepan were simmering and then removed it from the heat, switching off the burner with the quick flip of her hand.
Since the day of the Highland Games, Annie had kept busy in her garden. She now had a small army of jars filled with dill pickles, relish, and summer squash decorating the shelves of her bakers rack. Earlier in the morning, as she had circled a date on her calendar, the day on which she planned to mail the garden goodies to her family, she realized how much time had passed since delivering those handwritten messages to Mr. MacTavish and the others. It was looking more and more like she’d have to use the information Grace had helped her find at the library if she was ever to discover the story behind the sporran and ferrules. But with the fog, she wasn’t going to head out to unknown roads just yet. She’d be pleased simply to be able to find the diner in town instead of ending up in the harbor.