Page 74 of You'll Be Sorry

“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 suspendedmoment, 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.”