Page 34 of The Witch’s Orchard

TWENTY-SEVEN

T HE PARKING LOT OF First Baptist is so full, I have to circle twice before I find a spot.

The doors to the church are open and a few adults linger there, talking.

But the festival proper is going full swing in the big side yard.

The field is interspersed with tall, old oaks, and between them children run from booth to booth in costume.

“Wow,” I say as a kid scoots past me in a squishy-muscled Batman suit. Far across the crowd, I spot Brother Bob standing beside the grab bag table talking to a group of older adults all wrapped up in sweaters and nice coats like this is just another church service.

“Hey!” Shiloh shouts, waving me over from the cakewalk booth. Reluctantly, I push my way through a throng of families and kids with buckets and pillowcases full of candy and make my way to her booth.

“Hey,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were actually working this thing too. I thought you were just baking cakes.”

She rolls her eyes, hands on her hips, “Yeah, I know. But Betsy Hopewell’s kid got into the candy early.

She’s been hurling Reese’s cups into the bushes for the last half hour so my mom took over Betsy’s booth.

I wouldn’t trade her. It’s a DIY candied apple booth.

God, so many apples are going to be stuck in so much hair tomorrow. ”

I laugh, and she hands me a cupcake and I feel like this is her superpower—handing people delicious baked goods that seem to appear from nowhere. I eat the magic cupcake and ask, around a mouthful of rich chocolate cake and caramel buttercream, “You haven’t seen Rebecca, have you?”

Shiloh squints out at the crowd and says, “Well, I thought she was here but… gosh, I don’t see her.”

“Oh well,” I say. “It’s Bob I really need to talk to anyway.”

I turn and push through the crowd to the grab bag table and approach Bob.

“Good evening,” Bob says, breaking away from his parishioners to face me.

A kid approaches with his mom and they both take a grab bag from a nearby table, wave at Bob, and walk away.

“Where’s Mrs. Ziegler tonight?” I ask, seeing the empty chair behind the table and assuming that it should belong to her.

He glances around, searching, and then an answer seems to dawn on him.

“Oh, that’s right,” he says. “We needed an extension cord for one of the heaters. We thought it was here, but I think she ran home to get it. She’ll be back soon.”

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions in the meantime.”

“All right.”

“You visited the Andrews house on the morning of Molly’s disappearance.”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you remember why?”

“Rebecca and I both went, I believe. But the matter was private.”

“Private? It’s been ten years.”

“Miss Gore, counseling sessions are always private.”

“Counseling? Were the Andrewses having trouble?”

He looks down, and I follow his gaze. He’s wearing knit gloves and rubbing his hands together. When he catches me looking, he says, “Arthritis. I’m afraid I’m not as immune to the cold as I once was. What were you asking?”

“The Andrews—” I start. But my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I check it and see AJ’s number.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I just got off duty. Wanted to see if you’d like me to come by tonight?”

“You’re all done with the goats?”

“We can only hope. Sheriff took off early tonight and I decided to stick around the station to see if I can find any more of the old files. My God, you’d think this entire place burned down after Sheriff Kerridge died.

The whole system from that time is a wreck.

Between that and the stuff that was cross-filed with the FBI, I’m still not sure I’ve got everything.

But I’m happy to bring by whatever I can.

Have you eaten? There’s a place in town that does some great fried catfish. ”

“You really know the way to my heart. How about—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of shouting.

Shiloh, I realize. It’s Shiloh’s voice.

“Gotta go.”

I turn and, amid the crowd of festivalgoers, I see her shouting at someone.

There is a heavy, sick feeling in the bottom of my gut, and I feel myself being pulled to the sound of Shiloh’s voice.

I push through the throng of princesses and superheroes and cowboys and ponies and the sugar-scented air and the vibrating murmur of questioning while Shiloh’s voice booms out above the rest.

“Lucy!” she shouts. She draws the word out so it’s long and it carries and only barely wavers at the end.

“Shiloh, what’s going on?”

She’s standing beside two people who can only be her parents. The woman on her left is slightly shorter than Shiloh with the same good looks. The dad is a beanpole with salt-and-pepper hair and his hands shoved into the pockets of his thick barn coat.

“Lucy,” she breathes. “Lucy is gone. We can’t find her. She was with my mom.”

I look to the woman beside her.

“What happened?”

Big, thick tears roll down Shiloh’s mother’s cheeks as she blubbers something about turning away for a minute and then Lucy being gone.

“Keep looking,” I tell Shiloh. Shiloh takes her dad and they grab other members from the church, who begin to spread out and search.

“Lucy,” they shout. “Lucy!”

The name rings out like disparate, off-tempo bells as word spreads that a little girl is missing.

“Where?” I say to Shiloh’s mom. “Where? Show me the booth.”

The woman leads me to her booth. Close to the church and situated right under a huge oak, her table is littered with apples and a vintage fondue pot full of melted caramel.

There are a couple bowls of nuts and chocolate sprinkles and marshmallows and a big tray of apples, already driven through with sticks.

On the back of her plastic folding chair is her coat, and behind that a little blanket strewn with toys.

“This is where she was?”

Shiloh’s mom nods and I watch as she pulls herself together enough to talk to me.

“She was right there, ” she says. “I told her that as soon as her pepaw came back from running the hayride he’d take her around the festival.

She said okay. She was playing with her toys.

I gave her some marshmallows and then I got up to talk to my friend Lisa.

I only stepped away for a minute. She was right there. ”

“Okay,” I say. I kneel down before the blanket and stare at the scene. There’s a plush little dog and a couple of storybooks and a heavily rubberized tablet with a game still playing. There’s a doll, too, lying face down.

It’s an old doll.

The doll’s delicate arms and legs hang out from its fancy lavender dress, trimmed with ruffles and lace.

I reach for the doll, then hesitate, suddenly very aware that this is likely a crime scene.

Still, I have to know. We all have to know.

And it has to be now. I pull a pen out of my pocket and use the base of it to gently turn the doll onto its back.

Its head is an applehead. The shriveled flesh is wrinkled and grainy, and the hair fastened to the top of it with glue and pins is exactly the same hue and texture as that of Molly Andrews.

“Oh…” I breathe. “Oh no.”