26
Mandy began to understand the Baird sisters’ debate about neighborly geography as she wound her way higher up the mountain in search of Isla McLean’s house. At this altitude, the heavy clouds were already releasing swirling bursts of snow, turning the night into a veritable snow globe.
She had to slow down considerably. Even then, she passed the turn onto the property and had to backtrack. To be fair, the dark ribbon of driveway was barely wider than an ATV trail. As she bounced along its rutted length, she thought it felt like one, too.
She arrived in a small clearing, her headlights illuminating a weathered gray cabin that was plunked down awkwardly amid soaring pines.
The porch sagged dangerously in one corner.
A pile of milk crates was wedged underneath as if to provide support.
Not a single rocking chair, table, or planter decorated the dilapidated deck.
Nor was there any vehicle in sight. Mandy could’ve driven by this structure a dozen times and never guessed it was occupied.
An old hunting cabin, built for emergency shelter during the deep winter, sure. But an actual full-time abode…
You had to be hardy to live in a place like this. Or, as the Baird sisters had put it, someone who truly valued her privacy.
Mandy was grateful she’d already donned her orange traffic vest. To be on the safe side, she opened her door and belted out, “Hello? Chief Grady here. Just conducting a neighborly wellness check before the storm hits.”
She paused, foot extended halfway out, a fresh gust of icy particles blasting her face.
Nothing. But with a bit of squinting, she could discern a faint glow around the edges of the tightly drawn curtains, as well as the smell of wood smoke wafting from the chimney.
Mandy grabbed the hastily assembled gift basket and got to it.
She used her cellphone’s flashlight to pick her way to the house. She stepped gingerly across the sagging porch, wincing as several boards groaned ominously.
Just as she arrived at the door, she felt a cold, prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and not just from the blustery conditions. Instinctively, she shifted the hostess basket to her left hand, allowing her right to rest on the butt of her sidearm.
The woods were thick out here, the trees woven together so tightly it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. All sorts of creatures could hide behind such a dense screen. Hunkered down out of sight, sheltered from the whipping snow.
“Chief Mandy Grady,” she called out steadily. “Show yourself.”
But no figure emerged from the snow-dusted trees.
Instead, a loud creak came from behind her as the front door opened, and Mandy nearly tumbled backward into an inferno.
It took a few seconds for Mandy to right herself. Another to belatedly thrust out the gift. And about two more for her to realize she was already sweating in the stifling, overheated space.
She unzipped her jacket while taking in the surprisingly petite woman before her, who had yet to say a word.
“Isla McLean?”
A single nod.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
“I brought—”
“I know Lydia’s cinnamon rolls when I smell them.”
All right then. So far the Witch of the Woods was living up to her reputation.
She certainly looked the part. A wild mane of thick black hair, sporting a single silver streak near her left temple.
Nearly ageless, fine-boned features, set with a pair of dark, boring eyes.
Even with the ancient woodstove cranking out waves of heat, the woman wore several layers of clothing: gray leggings topped by a heavy wool skirt; a man’s blue flannel shirt adorned with a black knitted scarf; a moth-eaten green-and-black tartan draped over it all.
Her clan colors? Nothing would surprise Mandy anymore.
She heard a faint thumping behind the woman. Isla shifted silently, revealing an old dog with cloudy eyes and lumpy features. The dog lifted its square head in Mandy’s direction, once more wagging its tail against the floor.
Since it was obvious it couldn’t come to her, Mandy crossed to it, giving the senior canine a gentle pat atop its head. The dog closed its eyes in appreciation.
“Lovey Three,” Isla said by way of introduction.
Mandy glanced up. “Three?”
“As in the third.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Loyal, obedient, kind.”
“Sounds like a good dog to me.”
“She’ll be gone by year’s end. There will be no Lovey Four.”
Okay, then. Mandy gazed surreptitiously around the one-room cabin.
She made out piles of books, books, and more books.
Plus, along one wall, what appeared to be an old farmer’s sink.
Above it were wooden shelves holding an assortment of pots, pans, dishes.
Beside it, a small pine table boasting a hot pot and teakettle.
The room offered a single upholstered seating option.
The battered chair-and-a-half was overstuffed, covered in an assortment of blankets, and came with an equally well-used ottoman.
The kind of lounging option meant to sink down into for hours at a time.
Perfect for reading, if the stack of books was anything to go by.
Mandy tried to make out some of the titles.
She had an overall impression of randomness—treaties on philosophy piled among epic historical sagas, sandwiched between scientific tomes set atop glossy field guides on birds, trees, and medicinal plants.
Apparently, the witch was an expansive thinker.
What she didn’t see in the cluttered space: a TV, bathroom, or bed. Hardy indeed.
Belatedly, Mandy gestured toward the basket still clutched in Isla’s hands. “In addition to the cinnamon rolls, I included a heavy-duty flashlight and hand-crank radio—you know, in case of emergency.”
Isla nodded. It took all of three steps for her to set it on the table, next to the teapot.
“Where do you make the soap?” Mandy asked. “I don’t see any equipment, dried herbs, that kind of thing.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you here?”
So much for small talk. Mandy shrugged, keeping her tone casual as she continued to scan the space. “The storm for starters. Sounds like it’ll be a proper nor’easter, dumping over a foot of snow, if not two.”
There. In the jumble of shoes next to the front door—a single, worn-out boot she recognized immediately. So Raquel hadn’t spotted a young girl yesterday afternoon, but a slightly built woman.
Isla followed her line of sight, seemed to grasp the implication. “You want to know if I’ve spent any time on the Collins property, checking out the new happy couple.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity. Isn’t that why everyone else has dropped by?”
“But they visited. Delivered welcome gifts of food, flowers, wine. You could’ve brought soap.”
“I could’ve,” Isla agreed.
“You spied on the homeowners instead.”
“Outsiders who purchased a notorious crime scene that borders my property. Warrants some checking out, don’t you think?”
“And the stray dog now hanging out with the Collinses?” Mandy’s long-shot question, hoping to catch this enigmatic woman in…anything.
Isla regarded her expressionlessly. “Lovey Three is too old for walks.”
“I’m talking about a much younger dog, who, come to think of it, is similar in color and size to Lovey the third. Some kind of English Lab mix?”
“My family bred English Labs for generations. My father in particular wasn’t so discriminating about who purchased the pups. From time to time, some of them reappear. Maybe they remember this cabin. You would have to ask them.”
“The owners?”
“No. The dogs.”
Mandy crossed her arms over her chest. It already seemed to her that Isla could play most mysterious woman of the woods all day long.
Mandy, on the other hand, didn’t have time for such theatrics.
She decided to up the ante: “According to the Baird sisters, your family was once as large and prominent as the Dixons.”
Shrug.
“And now this is all that’s left. A single”—Mandy waved her hand around—“shed.”
“Everything I need, nothing I don’t.”
“You don’t miss the family homestead? That was the place just down the road, right?
With the sprawling wraparound porch and fantastic view of mountain-framed pastures.
I can just imagine sitting out there, end of day, knowing your parents and grandparents had occupied the same porch, gazing upon the same view going back generations.
Except now it’s gone, leaving you with this.
While your neighbors, the Dixons, built an even larger home, expanded the family tree, and continued to herald their place in the community.
That doesn’t make you the teensiest bit jealous? ”
“Their life isn’t my concern.”
“Not buying it. Not when I know for a fact”—Mandy pointed at the lone boot—“that you’re prone to wandering the woods between your place and theirs.
I mean, driving between the two properties—that’s a solid two, three miles of switchbacks.
Whereas heading straight through the woods, maybe a thirty-minute walk? An easy morning’s outing.”
“As I said, they’re my neighbors.”
“Except you do more than just watch.” Mandy had spotted yet another article of interest. “That easel in the corner. You’re an artist. A good one, to judge by the paintings on the wall.
I’ve seen work like this before. Took me a few moments to place it, but now I got it—the murals in the kids’ bedrooms. Teddy bears, roses, forest creatures.
You did those. You don’t just roam the property. You roam the house itself.”
The woman met Mandy’s accusing stare with an inscrutable look of her own. Several seconds passed in tense silence. Then:
“I knew them. The kids. They used to visit me.”
“The Dixon kids? They came here to see you?”
“They were on a mission to kill a witch. Fortunately, they decided to play with Lovey instead.”
“Thirty years ago? They played with your dog?” Mandy eyed the ancient mutt, now snoring before the woodstove.
“Back then, I had Lovey One. The youngest Dixon, what was his name?”
“William.”