Page 1 of The Witch's Orchard
For Scott
ONE
ROXANNE’S HAS A SMELLthat is somewhere between bacon grease, burnt coffee, and sticky-sweet pecan pie. The linoleum on the floor hasn’t been replaced since the fifties but the proprietor changes about every season. A lot of people have tried to keep Roxanne’s going, only to realize what bad shape the building’s in and how being here all the time means that you also have a smell somewhere between bacon grease, burnt coffee, and sticky-sweet pecan pie.
That smell is part of the reason I’m meeting Max Andrews downstairs in Roxanne’s instead of up in my diner-scented office. The other part is that I’m hungry and my client, driving all the way up from North Carolina to meet me, seemed like the kind of client who’d be buying. The kind of client I need now, since I pawned my watch (not for the first time) to pay my bills only a couple days ago. I’m hoping that Max will offer the kind of payday that’ll get me out of my current hole.
But, when I see him, that hope evaporates into the greasy air.
“Thanks again for meeting me,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.
He’s lanky and fine-boned under the layer of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, and I realize the kid can’t be more than twenty. His face is completely smooth, and his skin has the honey-brown remnants of a summer spent outdoors.
“No problem,” I say, as he sits down across from me.
His mouth turns up into a soft smile and there’s something quiet around the eyes, sad and sensitive. I think he’s probably the kind of guy who always reads while he’s eating.
The kind of guy I’ve always been friends with.
As if proving my point, we’ve barely ordered and sat down before Max pulls out a tattered old book. He’s about to open it when Tonya approaches, carrying his biscuits and fresh fruit. Reluctantly, Max pushes the book aside to make way for the food, and Tonya gives me a half side-eye before sliding the heavy platter of sausage, biscuits and gravy, fried apples, and two over-easy eggs in front of me.
“You came a long way,” I say, once Tonya’s gone. “What’s the drive from down there?”
“Not bad. About six hours.”
There’s a pause before he says, “I wanted to meet you in person.”
I take a big bite of sausage and gravy and watch as the poor kid looks back and forth between the book and his breakfast. He spears an apple slice on his fork and bites half of it off, gives me a weak smile, folds his hands together under the table like he’s a little boy waiting to be dismissed from dinner. He stares at me for a few seconds while I guzzle coffee.
“Not what you pictured?” I ask him.
There is no photograph on my website, and I’ve noticed that I—a short, skinny, freckled woman in her early thirties with no makeup and dishwater blond hair pulled into a ponytail so often it retains the shape when let down—am not what they’ve expected when they’ve seen the résumé. The Air Force service, the degrees, the brief stint in private security, the amateur Muay Thai fights.
He gives me an apologetic shrug that I feel pretty sure means, “I thought you’d look older and wiser and not have mustard stains on your shirt.” Or, perhaps, “I thought you’d be a man. A big one with a mean scowl and a gun.”
The website just says, “A. Gore: Private Investigator.”
Though, to my credit, I do have a mean scowl. And a gun.
“Okay,” I say, wiping some gravy from my mouth. “Tell me why you’re here.”
He looks relieved, pushes the plate toward the corner of the table, slides the book in front of him, turns it around so it’s oriented for my reading pleasure, and swings it open to a marked page.
This isn’t a regular book. It’s a scrapbook.
The heavy paper is plastered with an 8-by-10 picture of a little girl. This isn’t really what I expected. Guys like Max usually want me to find an ex-girlfriend or maybe find out what an ex-girlfriend did with their savings. Guys like Max don’t usually pull out Sears portraits of sweet-looking little girls, and I know, glancing down at the kid and then back up to Max’s intense gaze, that this is not a regular job. This is a sad job. Nobody shows a PI a picture of a kid because everything is going just great.
I sigh and study the photo. The girl looks like a little princess with her delicate, Cupid’s bow mouth, glossy waves of honey-brown hair, and big hazel eyes. She’s wearing a pink dress with a white Peter Pan collar, and though she’s smiling straight at the camera, it’s a soft, timid smile. Eager to please. The resemblance is clear.
“My sister,” Max says. “Molly Andrews.”
He turns the page. Now there’s another picture and my heart plummets, inexplicably, at the sight.
“An applehead doll,” I say.
He lets out a silent laugh and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes. “You know what they are?”
“I’m not from Louisville,” I say. “I grew up in a dinky holler in Southern Kentucky. My granny used to make those things.”
