24
Lydia and Lana were the stuff of local legend.
Known as the Baird girls—though they had to be pushing ninety these days—they’d spent their entire lives on their family farm and were walking advertisements for Yankee ingenuity.
Lydia probably could’ve been a NASA engineer, but instead excelled at the art of coaxing ancient tractors and combines into one more pass of the pasture, while Lana could grow, tend, and heal just about any life-form, from lettuce to llamas.
They lived on a sprawling hundred acres in the original farmhouse, which, much like the sisters, showed no signs of quitting anytime soon.
Their wraparound porch was frequent home to any number of critters, from three-legged dogs to blind roosters to orphaned squirrels.
There was also a washer and dryer planted front and center. Mandy didn’t even want to know.
Given the twins’ deep roots in the community, they knew just about everyone.
Not to mention they were also renowned for their practical charity.
All summer long, they kept a little stand at the end of their driveway stocked with everything from fresh veggies to eggs to mini bouquets of wildflowers.
Locals were welcome to grab whatever they wanted for whatever they felt capable of paying.
When Lydia was in a baking mood, the selection often included homemade pies and cookies.
Mandy knew for a fact her father had been a regular.
Possibly because the first time she’d snagged one of the oversized molasses treats, Lydia had cackled, “Like father, like daughter.” Mandy had been too busy blissfully chewing to argue.
Basically, if you wanted to get a bead on life outside of Shereford’s relentlessly Norman Rockwell main street, the Baird sisters were the ones to ask.
Now Mandy carefully navigated her way up the dirt drive, allowing plenty of time for various life-forms to scamper out of the way. The sky was growing dark and leaden above her, heavy with the promise of coming snow.
Yet another sleepless night, she thought. Given the forecasted size of the storm—twelve to eighteen inches—it would be all hands on deck for her and her officers.
She did her best not to sigh heavily. One thing at a time. Which, in this moment, was gathering community intel.
Lana was seated on the front porch, a heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders while two cats covered her lap. Lydia, on the other hand, came walking around the house as Mandy pulled up. The woman was carrying a large, rust-covered wrench. But of course.
“Howdy, Chief,” the sisters called out in unison.
Mandy exited her SUV, zipping up her heavy coat.
A small terrier mix came trotting over, paralyzed hind end supported in a harnessed cart with wheels.
Mandy gave the scruffy little guy a scratch behind the ears.
In return, she received two licks on the hand.
Greetings established, she moved on to the sisters.
“Coffee?” Lana asked.
“Tea, hot chocolate?” Lydia expanded. “Go with the cocoa. I just finished a batch of homemade marshmallows.”
Mandy couldn’t argue with that. She followed the ladies into their house, where a woodstove was pumping out furious amounts of heat to the delight of yet more furry charges.
She’d already noted the stacked rows of firewood on the front porch.
Now she added to that the large cast-iron ring piled high with kindling.
As police chief, she liked to know what’s what with her citizens.
Looked like there was still no need to worry about the Baird sisters.
On that note, she quite happily accepted a large mug of cocoa, with a square marshmallow plopped on top, smelling of vanilla and cinnamon.
She glanced around the living area, where the blanket-covered furniture was already fully occupied. For hot chocolate this good, she could stand.
She opened with the usual niceties. The sisters answered patiently, while exchanging grins.
“We met the new neighbors,” Lana offered up.
“Theo and Raquel Collins,” Lydia added.
“Hotties! Both of them. Whoo hee, I don’t remember the new kids ever looking so good.”
“You know anything about a stray, pale-colored Lab mix?” Mandy hastily interjected.
“A stray dog?”
“We don’t get many of those.”
“Did you call the humane society?”
“Is it chipped?”
“I understand the dog isn’t chipped, hasn’t been listed as missing, and as long as we’re at it, I’m not sure it’s homeless.”
Those exchanged looks again.
“Where do you think it belongs?” Lydia asked.
“That’s my question to you.”
Swear to God, the twins truly did have some kind of telepathic connection. A pause, where Mandy could practically see them communicating through thin air, then:
“We can ask around.” Lana, sounding suspiciously chipper.
Okay, Mandy was going to need another tactic. Fine, whether dealing with hardened criminals or local busybodies, pay to play remained a time-honored approach.
“You heard about the recently discovered well on the Dixon property?” she began.
“A historic find. With a historic skeleton!”
“And mysterious pottery.”
“Mason is beside himself.”
“Where do you think the baby bones came from?”
“Macabre.”
Okay, once again the town grapevine was better informed than even Mandy. Honestly, those city cops policing total strangers didn’t know how good they had it.
“Let’s talk witches,” she decided.
“I believe the proper term is Wiccan.”
“I wanted to be one.”
“Oh, I love the way you think. You be good witch, I’ll be bad witch.”
“But I want to be—”
“So,” Mandy interrupted again. “You’re both familiar with the local legend.”
“Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well,” Lydia agreed.
“You think this might lend credence to that story?” Mandy asked.
“Oh, honey.” Lana smiled indulgently. “I know we’re older than dirt, but that dirt’s even older than our grandparents’ dirt.”
Well said, Mandy decided. All right, time to dial direct.
“Do you know of someone who might have reason to be hanging around the Dixons’ property? Or, I guess, now the Collinses’ property? Female. Maybe on the young side? Lost one worn-out boot fleeing the premises.”
This finally garnered the sisters’ full attention. After a suspended moment, Lana resumed stroking the ginger tabby on her lap. She regarded her sister. Lydia nodded thoughtfully in reply.
Mandy sipped her cocoa. Waited.
“Well,” Lydia stated at last. “There is the witch of the woods. Is she young, though?”
“Compared to us, most certainly,” Lana supplied.
“Wait, the homemade soaps and lotions sold in the deli, wrapped with labels that say Witch of the Woods. I assumed that was a company name, as in marketing. But you’re saying that’s an actual person?”
“Isla McLean. Of the McLean clan. Goodness, once that family had to be nearly the size of the Dixons, if not larger.”
“Proper rivals,” Lana added.
“And rogues! Cattle rustlers, bootleggers. Story goes they’d steal a man’s cow, then return for his wife. Red-haired firebrands each and every one.”
“Hang on.” Mandy held up another hand to allow a moment to process. “I know the McLeans are one of the original five families, but my understanding is that none of them are left. Old Man McLean died years ago, the original homestead was sold, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Not exactly,” Lydia supplied. “Isla’s the granddaughter.
Her father died in a car crash, goodness, well before you were born, and her mother was never part of the picture.
Afterward, Isla was raised by her grandfather—Old Man McLean in youngster vernacular.
When he passed, she had to sell the property to pay his debts.
But Isla’s still around, holed up in a tiny shed-slash-cabin, which is all that was left of the original family farm. ”
“Then why haven’t I ever met her?”
”Because she’s not a fan of well…anyone.”
“Proper hermit, that one. And resourceful. Doesn’t need anything or anyone.”
“You can ask Genn at the deli. I believe Genn heads up once a month to pick up a fresh batch of soaps and drop off some staples in return.”
“So, not a young woman?” Mandy attempted.
“By our standards…” A shared giggle.
Lydia did the honors. “She’d already moved into the cabin and set up her business when the Dixons were around. I suppose that’d make her at least older than fifty.”
Mandy did her best to summarize the new and startling information. “So Isla’s a middle-aged reclusive female. The last living McLean makes soaps, lives off the land, and she’s Wiccan. Do you know why she’d be snooping around the Dixon property?”
“Hasn’t the entire town snooped around that property? What’s the point of having a local haunted house if you can’t check it out?”
“Plus, they’d be neighbors of a sort. Close enough as the crow flies.”
“True,” Lydia agreed. “Cutting a path straight through the woods, she’d be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“You should check with Mason,” Lana suggested. “I bet there are some juicy personal accounts of nefarious McLean deeds in the historical society records.”
“Steal your cattle and your wife,” Lydia reminded. She added in a stage whisper, “There’s been at least one redhead in the Dixon family ever since their property lines adjoined.” She nodded sagely.
“Umm, thanks. Guess I’ll be paying Isla McLean a visit.”
“Not in that uniform,” Lydia stated immediately. “Isla’s not a fan of law enforcement.”
Mandy shrugged. “I’ll wear my orange safety vest. I’m assuming she knows better than to shoot at patches of orange moving through the woods?”
Lydia and Lana honestly had to take a moment to consider the matter.
“I think she’d at least aim the first shot over your head,” Lydia said, while Lana declared: “You should arrive bearing gifts. Lydia made some cinnamon rolls earlier. We’ll put together a basket.”
“I can manage a welcome basket,” Mandy declared in exasperation. “I’ll assemble a storm kit, with a heavy-duty flashlight, extra batteries, and an emergency radio. That’s a decent enough excuse for stopping by, especially this time of year.”
Those twin stares again.
“Fine, I’ll include your cinnamon rolls and add a rotisserie chicken.”
Finally, nods of approval. Dear Lord, Mandy thought. They were making it sound like it’d be easier for her to confront a crazed poacher or a serial killer. A lone hermit in the woods…She could handle this.
She was the town police chief, after all.
Though she did have one final question.
“Can you tell me how to get to her house?”