Gunns & Roses (4 page)

Ian pondered the bird and rose and shook his head. “No, I don’t remember seeing anything like this.” Breck sidled up to the table and slid the plate containing an egg sandwich in front of Ian. “Thanks, Breck.” The young man gave the barest hint of a nod, which more resembled a muscle spasm, before turning aside to another table.

“I’m thinking of checking at the library for Scottish clan information, in case the connection is to Gram’s family. Any ideas for other places where I might find some expert help?” Ian had often helped Annie solve the mysteries she so regularly stumbled upon—sometimes literally.

“Now let me think on it a minute,” said Ian.

Annie smiled. “Eat your sandwich. Maybe the nourishment will spark an idea.”

In response, Ian took a hearty bite, chewing thoroughly as he considered possibilities. His eyes brightened, and then he swallowed. “Hey, have you heard of the Maine Highland Games?” he asked. “It’s held every August at the Topsham Fairgrounds. All kinds of vendors and demonstrators fill the lanes. You’ll find a good deal of Scottish knowledge in one place.”

“August? Do you know when in August?” asked Annie. “I might just cry if it was this past weekend.”

Ian finished wiping his mouth with his napkin. “No tears needed. It’s always on the third Saturday of August. Are you free that weekend?”

“I’m pretty sure I am,” Annie answered, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything on her calendar at home. “How far is Topsham from here?”

“Right next door in Sagadahoc County,” Ian said, setting his coffee cup down. “I’d be glad to take you. They have the best sheepdog trials around these parts, and I haven’t had the chance to go the last few years.”

“Are you thinking of breaking Tartan into another career?” Annie grinned.

“Now, that would be sure to give everyone some entertainment!” Ian laughed. “So, how about it?”

“I’d love to, just let me check my calendar to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. May I call you later to confirm?” Annie sipped the last few drops of her iced coffee, refreshed by both the beverage and the conversation.

“Of course you can,” said Ian. His voice slipped into his “official” voice. “As mayor, I’m always pleased to hear from my constituents, especially when said constituent is a pretty Texas transplant with a penchant for mysteries and a talent for cooking.”

A few minutes later the couple said goodbye and departed to go their separate ways, one to City Hall and the other back to Grey Gables.

4

“I can’t believe you refused to get up early enough for us to walk downtown.” Annie glanced sideways at Alice from the driver’s seat of her car on Tuesday morning. “It won’t be long before this perfect weather is just a memory.”

“I told you August is my semi-vacation month,” Alice argued, with a chuckle hiding behind her words. “Early rising would totally ruin the whole concept. I promise to take a good long jaunt after the meeting, if it will make you happy.”

Annie turned left from Oak Lane to Main Street, slowing to look for a parking space near A Stitch in Time, Stony Point’s needlecraft shop and meeting place for the Hook and Needle Club. “Early rising? The meeting’s at eleven o’clock! Are you sure you want to go with Ian and me to the Highland Games? We’re leaving at eight o’clock in the morning, sharp. It might ruin your semi-vacation month.”

As usual, Stella Brickson had already arrived, her white Lincoln parked right in front of the shop door with her driver, Jason, standing beside it. He waved as Annie pulled into the parking space behind him.

As she opened her door, Alice answered her friend. “I think an event that I’ve never attended and that happens only once a year is sufficient motivation for getting up so horribly early.”

“Well, thank the Lord for
that
,” Annie said. She grinned at Alice and exited the car. “Good morning, Jason.”

“Hello, Annie. Alice.” Seven years of life in Maine had done nothing to alter the man’s strong New York accent. Annie supposed after seven years, she would still have plenty of the Lone Star state in her voice. “Great baseball weather we’re having.”

“Shall we tell Stella you’ll be at the Yankees game, should she need you?” Alice asked, batting her eyelashes outrageously at him.

Jason pointed a curled-up sports section of the
New York Times
at her. “Don’t tempt me, Alice. Don’t tempt me.”

At that, Alice opened the door of the shop and Annie followed her inside so they wouldn’t miss the start of the meeting.

A Stitch in Time had grown a reputation in the nearby counties for being a place filled with inspiration and the supplies to make those inspirations real. More and more customers had found their way there, and it was particularly busy during tourist season when folks were looking for something to occupy themselves during long rides, whether in a car, plane, or train. But Annie still found herself a little surprised to see several people she’d never seen on a Tuesday morning.

The owner, Mary Beth Brock, stood behind the cash register ringing up a pile of yarns and pattern books. Excusing herself to the customer, she called out. “Hi, Annie and Alice! I’ll be there in just a few minutes. Please let the others know.”

“We will, Mary Beth,” said Annie. “Don’t rush; we all have plenty to work on, I’m sure.” She turned to Alice as they walked to the familiar circle of chairs where the Hook and Needle Club meetings took place.

“Or a mystery to talk about,” Alice whispered. “You did bring the sporran, didn’t you?”

Annie nodded before addressing the other members of the club. “Good morning, Stella and Gwen. Oh, and Kate,” she added the last as the door to the back storage room opened to reveal the Mary Beth’s shop assistant and crocheter extraordinaire.

“Hi, everyone,” Kate greeted them. “I’m going to go relieve Mary Beth from helping customers so she can get the meeting started. I’m close enough that I won’t miss much.”

“Good,” said Alice. “You always come up with such fun designs. Even though I don’t crochet, I’m still inspired by them.”

“Thanks, Alice.” Kate paused on her way to take over for Mary Beth. “Even if the shop stays too busy, you’ll get to see an example of my latest design. Mary Beth will be showing it to everyone.”

“I’m going to miss seeing Peggy today,” said Gwendolyn Palmer, wife of the president of Stony Point Savings Bank and an avid knitter.

“Well now, you don’t have to go doing that, Gwen.” Peggy sashayed into the meeting, her right hand bandaged tightly and her daughter Emily by her side. “Em and I would go bonkers sitting around home all day with Wally working extra hours this week.”

Stella looked up from her knitting, her fingers not slowing at all, and gifted Peggy’s young daughter with a smile. “Emily, you are old enough to begin learning a needlecraft. Do you have a favorite type?”

Unlike a fair amount of adults who were faced with Stella’s scrutiny, Emily was comfortable conversing with the octogenarian widow. “I don’t know, Mrs. Brickson. I kinda like them all.”

“Perhaps, then, your goal should be to decide which one to learn first,” said Stella.

“Maybe you can teach me to knit,” Emily said. “Can—I mean—may I sit next to you and watch you today, Mrs. Brickson?” Emily stood at the seat next to Stella, while the ladies around the room kept their smiles restricted to their minds.

Stella fixed her eyes on the eight-year-old, who bobbed up and down from toe to heel, heel to toe, as she waited for the answer. “You may sit and watch, Emily, but no touching, mind you. This delicate, light yarn will show the smallest of smudges.”

Emily held up both hands, as if in surrender. “No touching, I promise. I’ll sit on my hands if I have to.”

“Good thing you’re not the one who tripped on the dock,” Peggy said with a wry grin as she took a seat between Gwen and Alice. Her daughter laughed and plopped herself down next to Stella.

Mary Beth strode past the group. “I’ll be right there!” she explained as she continued to the shop’s small office. A short minute later she re-emerged with something colorful in her left hand. “Before we share our individual projects today, I have a request to pass on from Carla Calloway at the animal shelter. She needs some immediate help.”

“What’s up?” Alice asked, couching a line of tiny dark gray stitches over a curve of metallic silver thread. The other women, and Emily, looked up from their work to give the shop owner their full attention.

“The animal shelter has a challenge on its hands. There is a battery chicken house outside of town and inspectors found the hens to be horribly malnourished. Over a hundred hens have been rescued. They have lost most of their feathers and keep pecking at the few they have left.”

Emily stuck out her bottom lip. “Did the police get the bad guys who were so mean to those chickens?”

“Yes. I did hear those involved with the farm have all been charged with animal cruelty,” answered Mary Beth, “and Carla is trying very hard to help the hens heal. But she needs the help of Stony Point knitters and crocheters.” She unfolded the crocheted piece in her hand, revealing a small sweater. “Kate worked with Carla to design a sweater for the hens to protect the remaining feathers until the others have grown back. I also have a knitting pattern to share.” She handed the sweater to Annie to pass around the circle.

“I saw a news report on something like this,” Alice interjected. “In England, a knitting club made sweaters for battery hens from a similar farm there.”

“Why are they called battery hens, Alice?” Annie asked.

“Because they are placed in very small cages—some so small the hens can’t even turn around,” Alice explained. “They are then put in long rows—called batteries—because that produces the most eggs for the least amount of space and chicken feed. It’s not illegal in the United States—as far as I know—but it sure sounds inhumane to me.”

“If I
had
to hurt my hand, I guess this was a good time,” said Peggy. “Quilting doesn’t really work for chicken sweaters. So I’ll just cheer the rest of you on.”

Annie turned the sweater over in her hands, noting the stitch types used. “We should be able to knock these out pretty fast. Kate’s design looks simple yet effective. I’ll get started right away. I’m not making anything that can’t be set aside for a little while.” She passed the sweater over to Gwen.

“My needles are yours, Mary Beth, for as long as it takes,” said Gwen, setting her needles and scarf in her lap and examining the sweater. “I’m thankful the authorities put a stop to it. The people of Stony Point will not put up with animal abuse in our community!”

Stella nodded as her hands continued to churn out stitches. “I have a few friends who are knitters and crocheters, but who aren’t able to attend our meetings. Do you have extra copies of the patterns, Mary Beth? I’d be glad to recruit more help.”

“I knew I could count on all of you,” said Mary Beth. “There are plenty of copies to share.”

“What can I do?” Emily asked. “I can’t knit or crochet yet.”

The earnest look on the young girl’s face tugged at the shop owner’s heart. “Emily, as you probably saw when you and your mother came in, business is hopping. I could really use help in collecting and keeping count of the completed sweaters. Would you be willing to take that important job off my hands?”

Emily bounced in her seat. “I can do it, Miss Mary Beth!”

“Wonderful, Emily. I’ve got something for you.” Mary Beth walked over to the storage room and disappeared for a moment, returning with a large red fabric bag emblazoned with
A Stitch in Time
. “When this is filled with sweaters, return it to me along with the number of sweaters inside it, and I will take them to Miss Calloway.”

Emily took the bag and hugged it to her chest. “You can count on me.”

“Hmmm.” Alice’s eyes narrowed in mock concentration. “Emily’s in charge of sweater inventory; Peggy’s the project cheerleader. What is this cross-stitcher going to do?” She paused, a mischievous smile began in her eyes and spread. “Besides helping Annie with her new mystery, that is.”

Everyone sat up a little straighter and heads swiveled in unison like a parade band commanded to “dress center”—the center being Annie.

“Now, don’t just sit there,” Peggy said, waving her bandaged hand. “Spill it! And please tell us you brought something besides yarn in your bag?”

Annie chuckled as everyone leaned toward her and nodded their agreement with Peggy. Even Stella appeared interested, although the speedy clicking of her needles never slowed. “Good thing for me my discovery doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds,” Annie said. She reached into her project bag and drew out the sporran. “I thought mice had invaded my attic again … but it turned out to be a sporran instead.”

“What’s a sporran?” asked Emily.

“A sporran is a pouch that serves like a pocket for a kilt,” Stella answered her young friend.

Alice anticipated Emily’s next question. “And a kilt is a traditional Scottish garment for men and boys. It looks like a knee-length pleated skirt.”

“I don’t think my daddy would want to be Scottish and wear a skirt.” Emily shook her head slowly.

“Annie, some of your family was from Scotland, if I remember correctly,” said Gwen. “How is the sporran a mystery?”

Annie smiled at her friend whose knowledge of Stony Point’s family lines was quite extensive. “Yes, you’re right, Gwen. Gram’s family
was
from Scotland. But you know what storytellers my grandparents were. They were always telling me one yarn or another about our ancestors and showing me family heirlooms. Not once during my childhood did they show me this or any other sporran. I find that odd enough to be intrigued.”

“Show them what’s inside,” Alice prompted.

Annie opened the clasp and took out the ferrules. “These ferrules are from bagpipes. Does anyone remember ever seeing my grandparents with a bagpipe?” She walked around the circle with the ferrules on the palm of her right hand, offering everyone a closer look. Aware that Stella had known Annie’s grandparents since her teens, Annie was particularly interested in her reaction.

The group was quiet for a moment as each person besides Annie and Alice examined the engravings on the ferrules. Then Emily whispered, “This is soooo cool!”

Stella handed a ferrule back to Annie. “Obviously, the engraver is a master silversmith. This is truly elegant work. I must say, I do not remember Charles or Betsy ever displaying or playing a bagpipe. Of course, I did live in New York for all those years.”

Gwen jumped in, “But I was in town during those years, Stella, and I never saw Annie’s grandparents with a set of bagpipes.” She smiled in remembrance. “Like Annie, I can’t imagine them not sharing them with the community, if they had them. They shared everything else—their cross-stitch, woodworking, gardening wisdom, animal knowledge, humor, baking, and stories. I understand, Annie.”

“Annie and I searched around Grey Gables for hours looking for a kilt to go with the sporran,” added Alice. “Not a single thread of kilt did we find.”

Peggy rolled a ferrule between the thumb and index finger of her uninjured hand, anticipation brightening her face. “So, what‘s the next move?”

“The mayor gave me a good idea,” Annie answered. “He suggested I might find some helpful information at the Maine Highland Games. And I only have to wait until the eighteenth!”

“Ah yes,” Alice said, “Ian was good enough to offer the fair maiden a hand, drive her all the way there and spend a day in her company.” Alice faked a martyr’s sigh. “And I only have to lose hours of beauty sleep to go with her and keep her and Ian out of trouble.”

“Thankfully, you have some beauty to spare,” quipped Annie, blushing a bit about Alice’s references to Ian. “Does anyone else want to come with us?”

Peggy fidgeted in her chair, reminding the others of her daughter. “I went to the Games once years ago. It’s so much fun. And the dancing!”

Emily popped out of her chair and went to her mother. “Can we go? Please? I want to see the dancers!” Besides her parents, Emily loved dancing more than anything else in her young life. She stared at Peggy, pleading with her eyes.

“I’ll talk to Daddy about it,” Peggy promised her little ballerina. “It sure would be nice to have a fun family day, as long as it’s not too expensive.”

“There’s no entrance fee,” Annie told her, “so I hope you will be able to join us.”

Gwen sighed and ran her hand lightly over her neat chignon. “I’ll be gone that weekend at some boring bank event.” She leaned toward her friends and lowered her voice. “They mean well, I’m sure, but some of these spouse events they plan are real snoozers.”