Page 31 of The Witch's Orchard
My mouth had dropped open in surprise, and he’d laughed. The first time I ever heard his laugh.
The crow caws again.
I stare up at the crow, watch him stretch his wings in slow, rhythmic motions. Watch him lift into the air with athwip-thwip-thwipand disappear into the trees.
“Okay, Honey,” I say. “Time to get back to work.”
TEN
BACK IN TOWN, Istop at a gas station and buy myself a Coke from the back of the fridge before heading to the pump and pushing the button for premium gas. I stand against Honey’s fender, watching the cost tick up while both of us take long, thirsty drinks.
When we’re done, I look at the address Mandy gave me for Dwight and Elaine Hoyle and, realizing it’s not too far, start in that direction. A few minutes later I arrive at a little blue house on a twisty lane crammed with other houses. There’s no vehicle in the drive but I get out anyway and try my luck at the door. I bang a few times but there’s no answer, and when I start trying to peer into the window, I’m interrupted by the sound of throat clearing behind me.
Turning, I find a woman in her sixties with arms as big as a bear’s crossed over her chest.
“You here to buy soap?” she asks.
“What?”
“Elaine’s damn soap business. She said she’s gonna sell at the farmers market, but I’ve yet to see her down there.”
“She’s making soap?” I ask.
“Oh sure,” the woman says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Says she’s making holiday soaps for the Christmas season, but if you ask me thewhole place smells like a reindeer fart. If you’re not here to buy soap then who the hell are you?”
I tell her who I am, what I’m doing there.
“Well, it’s pretty clear they ain’t home,” she says, taking my card. “So maybe you can take this ruckus elsewhere.”
“You know when they’ll be back?”
“Not one idea,” she says. “They ain’t hardly ever here since they come back. Except for soap-making time. That’s every Sunday so far, right when I’m trying to get ready for church.”
“Well, if they turn up, would you give them my card? Or call me?”
She gives me a long look, her lips pursed to the side, then clicks her teeth and nods.
“Thanks,” I say. And then she stands there and waits for me to get in my car and leave. I’d forgotten how territorial people are here. How much neighbors look out for one another, even if they don’t care much for them.
We pull away from Dwight and Elaine’s place and back toward the highway. I’m already exhausted, but, I think, it’s worth it to talk to everyone on my list before word of my activity spreads all the way around town and people start getting their hackles up. It’s always better to catch people off guard.
“Come on, Honey,” I say as I rev her engine. “One more and then we’ll pack it in.”
Deena Drake, Max’s former piano teacher, lives up a road named Lilac Overlook Lane. It’s paved and the asphalt runs like a gray ribbon up and up and up under arched branches colored gold and red. After several minutes of twists and turns, between thick clusters of mountain laurel, I finally break into open land on a cleared mountaintop with a two-story, glass-fronted luxury log cabin at the center of a still-green lawn.
I park beside an older but still solid-looking Range Rover, get out, and wander up the cedar steps to the front door. But just as I’m about to knock, there’s a voice beside me.
“Hello,” a woman says. I turn and the woman’s standing in the grass next to the porch. In spite of the gardening hat, apron, and gloves, sheis—in every way—prim. Her blond bob, brushed with silver, is sleek and perfectly straight and grazes her sharp chin. Her dark blue eyes—almost lavender in the half-light—look at me with open curiosity from under the sun hat.
“Deena Drake?” I guess.
“That’s right.”
I tell her who I am.
“Max Andrews hired me,” I say, coming down the steps and around the porch to close the distance. “I’m looking for the girls who disappeared ten years ago.”
She eyes me for a long moment, reading something in my face. I look back at her and try to appear as amiable as possible.
