Page 33 of The Witch's Orchard
“Guilty?”
“Yes,” she says. She closes her eyes briefly and puts her bare fingertips to her forehead as if the guilt is a sharp pain above her eyebrows.
When she opens her eyes, she says, “I didn’t check to see that Janice Andrews was still in the house. She usually was, you see. Or, if she went out, she took the children with her. I didn’t understand that she’d gone to the garden alone. I had another appointment almost immediately after, so, when the lesson was complete, I gathered my things, shouted goodbye to Janice—whom I thought was still in the house somewhere—and then went on my way. I ran into a man on the way out. A plumber, I think.”
“Do you remember his name?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “But it must be in a file somewhere at the station because of course they questioned me later. Anyway, the plumber had come to the house after me and parked behind me and I remember thinking I’d have to ask him to move, but he was leaving as well.” She pauses to let out a long sigh and then says, “It wasn’t until the next day that I heard about it.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That little Molly had been taken, just like the other girls.”
“Jessica and Olivia.”
“Yes.”
“And that an applehead doll was left in her place,” I say.
“Yes. I did hear about that. Ghastly looking things. I’d never heard of them before that summer.”
“Where are you from?” I ask. Deena’s accent lacks the hard twang of her neighbors, and her open, genteel bearing is a lot more Deep South than high holler.
“Georgia, originally,” Deena says. “Savannah.”
“Oh,” I say. “Pretty.”
She nods and puts her glove back on, and I watch her carefully bury another bulb.
“What brought you here?” I ask.
“My husband. He was from here originally and he owned a couple of mills and factories in the region, including one in town.”
“The one that closed the year the girls were kidnapped,” I say.
“Yes. That’s actually… Well, that’s a bit my fault.”
“How so?”
“My husband passed earlier in the year. Harvey had already been having trouble keeping the business afloat, and once he died I simply had no idea what to do with it. I sold it off as soon as I could, and the new owners moved operations out of town.”
“Hmm,” I say. I watch her pull another bulb from the bag, then ask, “Do you attend First Baptist?”
The change in direction doesn’t seem to faze her. She smiles at the bulb as she buries it and says, “Yes. Brother Bob performed Harvey and my wedding ceremony. He and Rebecca were a great comfort when Harvey passed.”
She stands and faces me. She looks like the kind of woman who’s had a nine-step nightly skin-care routine from birth and has never missed a day.
“What did you think of the Andrews family?” I ask.
She sighs and takes off her sun hat for the first time.
“They seemed a very nice couple. The wife was quiet. The husband was intelligent. I was very sad to hear of Janice Andrews’s passing.”
The word “passing,” I think, isn’t right. It’s too quiet. Too soft. Too nice a word to describe the way Janice Andrews left this world.
We turn back toward the house and as we pass it, with the sun setting to the west, I look out from the high vantage of Lilac Overlook. Quartz Creek and all its lower hills and valleys spread out below. From here, I can see the little Main Street. Closer, there are acres and acres of hilly farmland. It’s a lovely patchwork of autumnal color spread out like a quilt, prepared for the coming winter.
“It’s beautiful up here,” I say.
