Page 20 of The Witch’s Orchard

“How long have you and Brother Bob been married?” I ask.

“Oh,” she says, straightening, as if she had expected a different question. “Since ’78.”

“So, after he left the Army?”

“That’s right,” she says, confirming my assumption. She starts to say more but then eases off, shifts her weight, clasps her hands in front of her. I know I won’t be getting anything else out of her. Not here, not today.

“Okay,” I say. “Call if you think of anything. I’m going to be sticking around town for a while.”

She nods, silently, and I leave the room and maneuver past a couple of sweaty kids and out to the parking lot. When I get to the car, I take out my phone and call Leo’s number. As I expected, I get his voicemail.

“Hey,” I say. “I don’t know if you’ve still got contacts in the Army these days or what, but if you do, could you help me find out about a Bob or… maybe Robert Ziegler? Probably served in the seventies. Thanks.”

I open the list of names and go down them, calling every number Rebecca’s provided. Beside a few of them, she’s written “Deceased,” so I don’t call those. It’s a reminder that it’s been ten years and people pass away or leave town.

For most of them, I get a woman who politely answers my call and then politely tells me she remembers very little about the day Jessica was taken.

Their recollections are very similar to Rebecca’s.

They arrived at the church to plan activities for Vacation Bible School and then Mandy burst in, screaming.

They all recall looking for the girl. Some remember the sheriff checking their cars.

I ask about the church picnic from which Olivia Jacobs was taken, if they were there, what they remember.

Those who were there remember Olivia’s mom, Kathleen, screaming.

They remember looking under all the tables, in all the cars, in the park bathrooms. One remembers how good Mrs. Lawrence’s potato salad was and how sad it is that she’s dead now.

One tries to turn the tables and pump me for information about Molly’s death.

“Was she really half eaten by crows?” she asks. “The whole town’s talking about it.”

I hang up.

I leave a few voicemails, a message with a granddaughter.

Toward the bottom of the list is Deena Drake’s name and the word “Piano” beside it. I call her and she answers on the second ring, a violin sonata playing in the background, which she turns off. I ask her about whether she was at the church the day Jessica was taken.

“Yes,” she says. “I wanted to practice my piece for the following Sunday—the piano at First Baptist is a little different from my own and I always like to hear the pieces on the instrument beforehand.”

“Were you there when Mandy realized Jessica was gone?”

“Yes,” she says. “We all looked for her. I helped the sheriff look through the cars. We checked everyone’s.”

“Even yours?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “Of course.”

“Do you remember anything else from that day?”

“I remember feeling very bad for Mandy Hoyle. But that’s all.

When it seemed clear there was no more use searching, I went home.

I think we all thought she’d turn up within a few hours, probably wandered into some corner of the church we couldn’t get to and fell asleep.

That’s what we thought. Things like that happen all the time, don’t they? ”

It’s not really a question and so I don’t answer. Instead I say, “Were you at the church picnic the day Olivia was taken?”

“Yes,” she says. “But only to drop off some hors d’oeuvres.”

My mouth breaks into a smile and I barely suppress a snort. I’ve never in my life heard of someone bringing grub to a church picnic and having the audacity to refer to it as “hors d’oeuvres.”

I manage to recover enough to say, “So you weren’t there long?”

“Probably not more than twenty minutes. I wasn’t there when Olivia was taken or else I’d have helped look for her. I didn’t hear about it until the next day.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I draw a line through her name the same as everyone else’s.

Janice Andrews’s name is on this list. Kathleen Jacobs’s is not.

I call one more name.

A very elderly woman answers and talks to me for fifteen minutes about the church and the committees in general and how lovely Rebecca and Bob were when her Earl passed and how she wishes she could get her grandkids to go but you know how young people are, think they have all the time in the world.

As she talks, I watch the descending fog swirl around the playground and picture Jessica sitting there on the swing set.

There one minute. Gone the next. I think, for a moment, that I can hear the chains on the swing creak and squeak, but no, it’s only a crow, perched on top of the slide.

His head tilts as he watches me, the setting sun casting an orange hue on the tips of his wings.

“Are you saved?” the woman asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But that’s between me and Jesus.”

I hang up, let my head fall back against the headrest, and groan as the mess of information I’ve just received sorts itself into piles inside my head. After a while, I sit forward and grip Honey’s steering wheel.

“I think it’s time to pay another visit to Olivia’s mom,” I say to Honey. “She’s gonna be thrilled to see me again.”