Page 58 of The Witch’s Orchard

“But the practicality of it was beside the point,” Susan says. “Iwouldn’tgo around kidnapping little girls, and Donald Kerridge knew that.”

“So, what happened?”

She frowns, clicks her teeth against her tongue.

“Donald died. It was just after Olivia Jacobs was taken. I remember because there was some question about whether Cole Jacobs should really take his place, what with his own niece missing. But what other choice did we have? He was the most senior deputy and everyone in town knew him.”

“How did Sheriff Kerridge die?”

“He’d had heart problems for years, just like his daddy. He was running himself ragged with the case. People want to say the cops didn’t listen to Mandy when she reported Jessica missing, but I know for a fact that Donald Kerridge was at his wit’s end worried about it. Eaten up with it. And then after Olivia was taken? I think it pushed him right over the edge. He had a heart attack right on his kitchen floor. I found him the next morning. It was an awful blow. For the town. For me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Plowing forward as if she didn’t hear me, she says, “Next thing I knew, Olivia was returned, fine as you please. It got quiet for a couple weeks and then, Molly Andrews went missing just like Olivia and Jessica. And it was right after that, early one morning, the FBI were beating down my door, wanting to see inside my house.”

“Did they say why?”

“Anonymous tip is all I ever heard.”

“Why did they hold you?”

“The applehead dolls,” she says. “They found a couple of old applehead dolls in my bedroom on the shelf. Had ’em for years. A lot of folks around here used to, but I guess they figured mine must have special witch powers or something.”

“What happened?”

“I told them to charge me or let me go. But I knew there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest me. I’d never had a one of those girls in this house. Well, except Jessica once. Her mama brought her in tow when she was just a tot, and she nearly got her finger bit off by one of my chickens. I told Mandy if she was going to bring the girl, she’d have to train her better.”

“Did Mandy visit you often?”

“Well, yes, she came to me,” Susan says. “More than once.”

“Before or after the girls were taken?”

“Both.”

“Recently?”

“Oh, it’s been a couple years back now, I’d say. I think it’s awful painful for her.”

“You tell her fortune?”

She shakes her head and says, “I read her cards, that’s all. I told her what I saw in them. I told her that, if she saved, she would—someday—take a long journey. That she would prosper. I told her she would be reunited with someone she loved but… that might’ve been a mistake.”

“Why’s that?”

She sighs, and her gaze drifts toward the small window to her left.Outside, I see a few hens in a pen, pecking at the muddy earth, grubbing for worms.

“Because,” Susan says, “if I’d left off that last part, she might’ve left town a long time ago. I hate to see a woman beat up like that. A girl sharp as her, too. She could’ve gone to college.”

“How long have you known her?”

“She came here as a teenager. They often do. She and her friends showed up at my door one night asking about silly things that young people pay heed to. Mandy was poor, she said, couldn’t pay me. She was saving her money for college books. Odette said she was going to school on a big scholarship and Mandy blushed pink as a petunia. They were kinda poking fun, but good-natured. I told her nothing comes for free and she said okay. But then, you know what she did? She came back the next day and said she’d noticed my house needed dusting and, if she cleaned it, would I do her cards.”

“Did you?”

“Sure enough.”

“You said Odette was there? You mean Odette Hoyle? Tommy’s little sister?’