Page 59 of The Witch's Orchard
“That’s right,” she says. “The very same. Odette came often enough, poor thing, before she died. And she’s the one who first brought Mandy.”
Susan looks away from me for a moment and then back, a deep sadness in her eyes. Sadness, I assume, that follows Mandy around.
“Did Mandy come a lot?” I ask.
“Not regular or anything but, a lot of times, when she was at the end of her tether. That happens a lot. No therapists around here, you know. No psychologist to sit you down on a sofa and listen to your woes, write you a prescription for Xanax. They come to me, tell me about their worst day, and ask when it’s gonna get better. But, for some of them, it never does. Never will. All I can do is advise the best I can. Help where I can.”
“Sounds like it’s as hard on you as it is on them.”
She shrugs.
“Did Kathleen Jacobs ever visit? Olivia’s mother?”
Susan rolls her eyes and says, “Hell, no. Those Jacobses are too churchy for all this.” She waves her hands to acknowledge the interior of the small, shabby cabin and all that it contains, including us.
“I’m guessing Bob and Rebecca Ziegler would also be considered ‘too churchy’?”
“Well, almost,” she says, giving me a knowing eye. “I opened my door one morning stunned as anything to see Rebecca Ziegler standing there. Good Lord, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather.”
“What did she want?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I invited her in and offered her some tea and sat her down. Same as anyone—I’m never going to turn away a woman in need, am I? And then I waited for her to say something—which I could tell she wanted to do—you know, ask me for a reading or for advice or for medicine. Some women come up here wanting birth control, off the record. And some want the opposite. Well, I waited and waited, but then suddenly Rebecca just stood up and said coming here was a mistake and she turned around and walked out.”
“And that was it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You never found out what she wanted?”
“No, and I wish like anything I had. I’ve seen her around town over the years and she’s never spoken to me once.”
“What about Deena Drake? Do you know her?”
“Up on the mountain? Sure. I pay her for the rose hips I collect on her land.”
“Rose hips?”
“I make tea and oil, sell it at farmers markets.Rosa Rugosais my favorite to use but it won’t grow down here. Too dark under the canopy and too cluttered up with mountain laurel. Deena Drake grows some of the best roses in the state, and she knows it. Every year, I hoof it up the mountain after the first soft frost and take those rose hips.”
“And she knows about it?”
“She better. I pay her a decent enough wad of cash for it. Don’t letthat miss-priss attitude fool you. The woman knows her plantsandshe knows how to drive a bargain. But is this really what you want to know about? Herbal remedies and where to procure them? Ain’t you here for some more pressing reason?”
“Molly Andrews,” I say.
“That’s right,” she says. “Poor little lamb. You know her brother came to me.”
“Max? He wanted his fortune told?”
“Yes. About one year back.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him what I saw. That he would find help. A warrior from another mountain would put his heart to rest, put an end to his suffering.”
I snort at the hokeyness, the vague imagery.
“Well, you’re here, ain’t ya?”
