We followed him past the formal sitting room with its collection of photographs in unique frames and out the kitchen door to the rear portion of the wraparound porch. Clifford and Abigail were in their rocking chairs. Rose occupied a third.
“Hello, Calliope.” Age and hard physical labor had shrunk Clifford Pearmain. He wasn’t as hale and hearty as he’d appeared at the anniversary celebration in May, but his cheeks had better color compared to the last time I saw him.
I embraced the still-imposing farmer in a quick hug and turned my attention to the more frail Abigail, whose shaking fingers picked at a tissue. I crouched on the floor near her rocking chair. “Hello, Abi. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, dear. Who’s the handsome fellow you’ve brought?” A bit of preening accompanied Abigail’s question. The hand at her temple patting flyaway gray hairs hinted she had her wits about her. Plus, Tanner was hard to miss.
He bent to offer his hand and took hers gently. “Ma’am. Tanner Marechal. I was here on Tuesday when Calliope found you.”
“Pull up a chair and sit awhile, Tanner. It’s a lovely day, and River’s made us lunch.”
I eyed the platter of tea sandwiches, noted the absence of deli meats, and reached for a small triangle for politeness’s sake. Cucumbers and fresh dill with a mayonnaise-based spread. A perky, optimistic energy zipped from my tongue to my belly. River or Rose had added a little something extra to the food—and Leilani would find at least one ally with a similar gift in our new circle of magical contacts.
I turned my attention to the small talk, now peppered with comments about the summer weather and other perennial farming topics. Once the sandwich plate was emptied, River brought out butter cookies and a pitcher of iced herbal tea.
I reached into my backpack for my cell phone, a notebook, and a pen. “Abi, Cliff, do you two feel up to answering some questions?”
They exchanged glances, Abi’s worried and Cliff’s more settled resignation.
He patted his wife’s knotted fingers and brushed at the front of his short-sleeved shirt. “We are.”
I prepared to record the conversation, placing my cell phone next to the plate of cookies and positioning the table between Clifford and Abigail’s legs. “Do either of you remember anything about this past Tuesday, July twenty-fourth. Or even Monday the twenty-third?” Faltering, I waved both my hands. “Let me rephrase that. Did you have any appointments scheduled on Monday or Tuesday here at the house or the orchard? Were there any unexpected visitors?”
Abigail signaled she would speak first. “Sundays we go to church. And we have a late lunch. It’s a day of rest, Saturday being the Farmer’s Market, and you know how exhausting that can be, Calliope.”
I agreed. “So, there was nothing unusual this past Sunday. What about Monday?”
“Now, wait a minute, Calliope,” Clifford interjected. “We didn’t say there was nothing unusual. I like to have a walk in the evening, helps with my digestion.”
Abigail nodded at her husband and continued her slow rocking.
“I checked on the new stock,” he continued, pointing over my shoulder. “Those trees we planted earlier in the spring, and I would have walked back to the house but I felt like stretching my legs a little farther. So I went the long way ’round to the oldest section of the orchard.” He gripped the curved ends of the armrests and peered at me, his wild, steel-gray eyebrows lifting. “You familiar with that section, Calliope? Those trees might look like they’re done an’ ready to be chopped down and hauled off for firewood, but there’s life left in ’em yet. They’re kind of like old friends you just can’t get rid of. Know what I mean?”
Everyone on the porch hung on Clifford’s recitation, and everyone nodded at his question.
“So, I went around the back, just stood there, looking at those old trees. Thought about their lives and my life and everything this land has seen.” His rheumy eyes stared past the crowded porch toward his beloved orchard. “Something told me it was time to make amends.”
“Amends for what, Cliff?” I asked, leaning into the moment.
He kept rocking, his gaze on the hidden horizon. My question hung in the air unanswered.
Tanner went into the house and returned with a handful of framed pictures. “Clifford. Abigail, we need to ask you about these.”
“Those are family pictures, Agent,” Cliff said. His hands gripped the armrests and relaxed. “Been around for years and years.”
“It’s not the photographs. It’s the frames,” Tanner specified. He handed one to Abi and one to Cliff. “These are hand-carved.”
“Yes, they are.”
“There are faces in the corners. We think they’re the hidden folk, perhaps a type of garden troll.”
“You would be correct in your assumption,” said Clifford, his lower jaw trembling. “When my ancestors arrived on this island, these hectares were seen to by trolls, and they didn’t take kindly to newcomers showing up and imposing their will on the land. Took both sides an entire generation to figure out how to share. And then it took my great-grandmother falling in love with one for it all to fall apart.” He smoothed his fingers over the carved faces. “Abi and I been tryin’ to set things right. The two grandsons who’re taking over? Their troll ancestry has reasserted, and we’re thinking this might be the best way to protect them and keep the two sides who love this land united.”
Tanner cleared his throat and pressed on. “Trolls are magical beings. Your story affirms local legend that says they have an affinity for orchards. But legend can’t explain why we found two severed
