Micanopy in Shadow (10 page)

Brandy wondered if Caleb Stark Sr. had a taste for Edgar Allan Poe.

Suddenly the old man looked up. “One more thing, young lady. I recollect a man was here years ago, asking a lot of questions.” His voice swelled. “Wrote a dad-blamed story for a Florida magazine about this town that caused us a passel of trouble. Bad publicity.”

“What was the name of the magazine, Mr. Stark?”

“Don’t recollect, but it ain’t published no more. Just remember, folks here like their privacy.” With that final comment he picked up his book and did not glance at Brandy again.

She did not want to make an enemy. She smiled again and walked back toward the entrance. Midway she passed the half-open door of a storeroom. Inside were taped boxes marked as merchandise and a dusty, four-drawer metal file cabinet. Ada had borrowed the first Caleb’s telephone. Was this the original office? She wished she could delve into its files. When she stopped to stare into the small room, the young pharmacist came out from behind his counter and closed the door. He had a fuller face than his grandfather’s, more attractive, but he had the same prominent nose and pale blue eyes.

“Do you know if any of the store’s records go back to the 1920s?” Brandy asked. He didn’t answer, but nodded at her and followed her to the front. “Need to get away from that heater, know what I mean? Beats me how these old people feel cold all the time.” He glanced back at the storeroom door. “Looked into that cabinet once. Nothing of interest there. I think my granddaddy’s forgotten about it.”

He paused at the entrance. “Heard you talking to granddaddy. Not surprised he feels like he does. People try to protect their family name, you know.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweaty cheek and neck.

Brandy paused and asked pleasantly, “And why would the Stark family name need protecting?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard about the main occupation in all these little towns in the twenties.” His grin widened. “Bootlegging. Moonshine. My great-granddaddy’s specialty. And half the male population’s.” He pushed open the door with one muscular arm and breathed in fresh air.

Brandy made a mental note to add Micanopy bootlegging to her Ada Losteman file.

Under a sky still overcast, she crossed the street and hurried up the stairs to the apartment. Kyra met her, Brad in her arms. Shesahuna sat quietly on the couch, textbook and notebook in her lap. Once again Brandy had the curious feeling the girl was observing her closely.

“Talked to my boyfriend,” Kyra said, her voice eager. “You’ve got, like, the appointment.”

Brandy reached for the toddler, who was stretching his arms toward her and beginning to whimper. “Great. When?”

“Grant will meet you at the gate tomorrow afternoon. Like at 2:00, Paynes Prairie, of course. He’s a ranger. He’ll be in uniform.”

Brandy has seen the State Preserve on a Florida map between Micanopy and Gainesville. “And his grandfather?”

“Grant will, like, take you to his grandfather’s house. The other side of the Preserve.”

Brandy smiled. She was making progress.

* * *

After supper, John flipped through the latest
Time
and then listened to a Chopin étude. Brandy knew better than to talk. He prided himself on the large speakers he’d carefully moved from Tampa. The sound was exquisite, and he did not like interruptions. She took her seat at the computer and Googled doll web-sites.

After paging through dolls of the twenties, she finally narrowed her search to the cloth dolls of Martha Chase in the February 1997 edition of
Doll Collector
. She scanned the pages and suddenly drew in her breath. The doll in a photograph matched Ada’s—the same jointed arms and legs under a long yellow and white print dress, the same varnished head with oil-painted features. Both were as large as a real infant. According to the magazine, it had realistic cavities, like a living infant would. Brandy hadn’t noticed them, but they made the doll useful as a hospital training mannequin. It made sense for a nurse—either Ada or her mother—to give it to Hope because it also functioned as a child’s toy. She printed a two-page article, eager to show her finding to Shot Hunter. His father didn’t have the advantage of the internet.

She dialed Hunter’s number. “I’ll be there in the morning,” she said when he answered. “My sitter should be here by 9:00.” For drama she paused. “Mr. Hunter, I think someone got away with murdering Ada Losterman.”

He didn’t react with surprise. Instead he said, “I may have something for you. I’ve had a promising response. I’ll explain what my dad was working on when you’re here.”

Hunter still wasn’t giving anything away.

* * *

At 8:00 A.M. the fog hadn’t yet burned off. A mockingbird pecking at the grass below the breakfast room window was a gray blur. John took his last spoonful of Wheaties, sliced banana, and milk. “Do you think Montgomery’s Irons’s wife is as flaky as she seems?” he asked. “She gets in my hair almost every time I’m at the house. She drives the contractors crazy with questions and suggestions.”

“Lily Lou Irons finds it profitable to seem like a little girl. But she may not actually be one, and she’s bored with such a small town.”

Brad was making satisfied noises from his crib, entertained for the moment by his full tummy, the elephant mobile rotating above him, and a cloth book. Brandy glanced up as John set his bowl on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got an appointment this morning with the retired sheriff’s e detective.”

John lifted his briefcase from the coffee table and strode back into the kitchen. Brandy knew that look. It started with one hand rubbing his forehead and ended with the elevated left eyebrow. “You know what sometimes happens when you’re over-zealous—and over-confident. Just be careful.” He leaned over to kiss her lips, as if to take the sting our of his remark.

“Not to worry. I’m just setting up a few interviews.” A slight frown still creased his forehead when he closed the door. This constant surveillance annoyed her. But better to have a concerned husband than one who didn’t care.

As soon as Kyra rang the doorbell at 9:00, Brandy picked up her notepad and canvas bag. Today was her first chance to return Ada’s few possessions. Fortunately, her grandmother was an early riser. Brandy could stop by and still make her appointment.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Grant this afternoon,” she said. Then she hurried down to her car.

At her grandmother’s cottage, she opened the unlocked front door and brushed by the cat, sitting its customary watch at the front window. Her grandmother was in the kitchen, preparing birdseed for her back yard feeder.

“I’m worried about the store,” Hope said. She set the box of birdseed back into the cupboard. “Dealer next door called me yesterday. He’d like to buy our place and consolidate the two. But Snug always says he won’t sell.”

Brandy’s cousin, Snug Haven, that is. His parents must have thought the name amusing, which surprised Brandy. From the photographs she’d seen, they looked like the humorless couple in
American Gothic.

“I’ll talk to him.” Brandy handed her grandmother the Adele Marco tape, along with the prayer book and brooch. “Any chance you remember what you wore that last day?” Adele Marco had sensed a child in blue.

Hope looked away. “I don’t remember my mother clearly, let alone my clothes.” She tapped her lips with her index finger, as she often did when she mentioned her foster mother and spoke with a hint of bitterness. “Mother Haven got rid of my old clothes. She wanted me to wear the new things she’d bought for the daughter who died.” She set down the box of birdseed with a thump. “I don’t know what dress I wore then. But I’ve told you.…” She gave Brandy her school teacher glare. “Everything that’s ever happened is still in the loaf of time—including my mother’s death. Adele Marco cut through to it.”

Brandy nodded. Maybe so. But she still preferred a flesh and blood source.

* * *

Tendrils of fog and the keen scent of wet undergrowth lingered above the pines and oaks beside Shot Hunter’s property. His white house with its narrow green shutters seemed to rise out of the mist. The neighborhood was unnaturally quiet. Nothing stirred. There was no car this time in the vacant lot down the street. One cottage’s kitchen in the next block burned a light, but she could see no light in Hunter’s. Brandy cut her engine and checked her watch. Ten o’clock.

The door to his house stood open, which surprised her. She didn’t see Shot. Not at first.

And then she did. He lay on his side, head toward the living room, legs curled between the wall and the open screen door, one arm outstretched. A dressing gown twisted around his body. One black bedroom slipper lay on the front step.

He was still, much too still.

SEVEN
 

Brandy stumbled out of her car, heart thudding, and plunged up Hunter’s walkway. As she knelt on the steps, she saw the small, bloody hole in the front of his robe. The wound no longer bled. Hunter’s face was turned to one side, the eye she could see open and glazed. She crawled forward and laid trembling fingertips against the radial bone of his exposed wrist. Nothing. Brandy withdrew her hand. She could not identify the odor, but it wasn’t pleasant. Still kneeling, she fumbled in her bag for her cell and dialed 9-1-1.

Brandy knew she must touch nothing else, and yet her knees felt too weak to hold her upright. She slumped beside the body, her back against the upper step, and watched the road. She scarcely noticed the splintered sections of cardboard lying next to Hunter’s legs. No one passed. In the fog a block away the nearest house sat silent. She remembered to look at her watch. Time would be essential. It was now 10:10. She must’ve found him fewer than five minutes ago.

She heard the purr of the deputy’s engine first, then a white and dark green Crown Victoria slid to a stop at the curb, the gold star on the door a welcome sight. Brandy hauled herself up, limp with relief, and waved the Patrol Division officer toward the house. He was a lean young man, the brim of his gray Stetson smartly cocked and the pants of his olive green uniform sharply creased. As soon as he spotted her, he strode up the walk and halted before her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and his jaw tense. His gaze swept over Hunter’s corpse. Then he also knelt and felt for the pulse in the wrist and on the temple. Then he placed his hand under Hunter’s accessible armpit.

“Dead when you got here, M’am?”

Brandy still felt tottery. Shock, she thought. “Yes. I felt for a pulse. He hadn’t any and he wasn’t breathing. His wrist is all I touched.”

“I think the ME will find he’s only been dead a short time.” He pulled out a pen and notepad. “Deputy Phil Walker, ACSO, M’am.” He looked down. “God, looks like Captain Hunter. I heard he moved down here.”

“We had an appointment at 10 A.M.”

“And you found him when?”

“A few minutes before 10:00. I spoke to him last night.”

Walker scribbled a few notes in a pad, then turned to his patrol car. “I’ve got to call Dispatch.” He nodded toward Brandy’s Prius. “That your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Wait in it. We won’t go into the house until the techs have gone over everything. Dispatch will send someone to take your statement.”

Brandy welcomed the chance to sit. While he hurried back to his cruiser, she followed and slid into her passenger seat.

She had a difficult time adjusting to the fact of Hunter’s death. Was she responsible? He was following up his father’s information about Ada because Brandy asked him to. He said he had a promising contact.

While the deputy returned to the scene, still jotting in a notepad, Brandy took out her cell again and dialed John. He should be in the office now, or inspecting the fire station restoration job, but she could reach him. Her eyes filled as soon as she heard his calm voice. The cell phone shook in her hand.

“John, something terrible—Shot Hunter’s been killed. I found the body.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Bran. It must’ve been an awful shock.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get home. Will you call Kyra? Ask her to stay until one of us gets home?” With all her heart, she wished John were with her.

“Sure.” He paused and sighed. “Here we go again.” He didn’t need to elaborate.

“You want me to come?”

He could do nothing but hold her hand and stop its quivering. “No. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Fifteen minutes later a white unmarked Sheriff’s car pulled up behind Deputy Walker’s. Two detectives climbed out, a short stocky man in brown slacks and a female officer in an ivory blouse with a blue scarf at the neck.

In the next block a woman opened her front door, walked out into the yard, and looked toward the officers. The neighborhood, scattered as it was, had become aware of the law’s arrival.

When Brandy stepped out of her car, the male officer extended his hand. “Sergeant Hamilton Noble, Alachua County Sheriff’s Office. The detective looked about fifty, his body solid rather than plump. A shock of gray hair angled above shrewd blue eyes. Brandy shook his hand, noticing the clean, neatly clipped nails. His grip was firm but not bruising. “Brandy O’Bannon,” she said.

“You the lady who found Hunter?”

“I’m afraid so, Sergeant. I’m still upset. I only met him once but I liked him.”