Gently, I take Mum’s hand and remove it from the pearls.

“You’ll break them,” I say. “Mum, please try to relax.”

“Come on, Jane.” Janice takes Mum’s arm soothingly. “Let’s sit down and have something to eat. It’s ‘bottomless coffee’ here, you know,” she adds as they head off. “They come round with a pot and refill your cup whenever you like! No limit! Such a good system. So much better than all those lattes and grandaccinos….”

As she and Mum disappear, I grab Minnie’s hand and continue toward the back of the diner. As soon as I step outside I feel better, despite the scorching sun. I needed to get away. Everyone’s so tense and irritable. What I’d really like to do is sit down with Suze and talk to her properly, but I can’t with Alicia there—

Ooh, look.

I’ve stopped dead. Not at the “barnyard,” which consists of three mangy goats in a pen, but at a sign reading LOCAL CRAFT SALE. Maybe I should go and buy something to cheer myself up. Give myself a little lift and support the local economy at the same time. Yes. I’ll do that.

There are about six stalls, with crafts and clothes and artifacts. I can see a skinny girl in high-heeled suede boots filling a basket with necklaces, exclaiming to the stall holder, “I love these! This is all my Christmas shopping done, right here!”

As I get near, a grizzled old lady appears from behind one stall, and I jump. She looks as if she’s a handcrafted artifact herself. Her skin is so brown and lined, it could be some ancient grained wood, or hand-beaten hide. She’s wearing a leather hat with a cord under her chin, she has a tooth missing, and her plaid skirt looks about a hundred years old.

“You on vacation?” she inquires, as I start looking at leather bags.

“Kind of…Well, not really,” I say honestly. “I’m on a trip. We’re searching for someone, actually. Trying to track them down.”

“Manhunt.” She nods matter-of-factly. “My granddaddy used to be a bounty hunter.”

A bounty hunter? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Imagine being a bounty hunter! I can’t help visualizing a business card, perhaps with a little cowboy hat printed in the corner:

REBECCA BRANDON, BOUNTY HUNTER.

“I suppose I’m a kind of bounty hunter too,” I hear myself saying nonchalantly. “You know. In a way.”

Which is sort of true. After all, I’m hunting for people, aren’t I? And that makes me a bounty hunter, surely? “So, can you give me any tips?” I add.

“I can give you plenty,” she says hoarsely. “My granddaddy used to say, ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em.’ ”

“ ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em’?” I echo. “What does that mean?”

“It means be smart. Don’t go running after a moving target. Look for the friends. Look for the family.” She suddenly produces a bundle of deep-brown leather. “Do you a fine holster, ma’am. Hand-stitched.”