Micanopy in Shadow (22 page)

Irons rocked back on his heels and clasped his hands before him. “None of them would have had their portraits painted. But there would be other records, of course, like in the Sheriff’s Office. They keep some records for a very long time, although Caleb Stark Sr. was pretty small fry.”

He took Lily Lou’s arm and looked toward the door. “Your good husband’s correcting some remodeling my mother did after daddy died. A lot of local fellows worked on the job. Caleb Stark’s father was one of them.” He shook his ponderous head. “Of course, not many people still know it, but Old Caleb and the murdered revenue agent had another relationship. It involved property, not moonshine. At least, that’s what my grandfather said.” He took a long stride toward the entrance hall, Lily Lou clattering along beside him, then paused. “You might also have discovered that Zeke Wilson wasn’t the saint people make him out to be. But I’ve said enough.”

He faced Brandy again. “I gave your husband my best recommendation. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

FOURTEEN
 

After John left for work the following morning, Brandy called her grandmother, hoping to catch her before she went out to feed the birds. On the fourth ring Hope puffed into the phone, out-of-breath. She’d been out already. She’d go again in the evening.

“I hate to remind you,” Brandy began, “but we’ve got to confront Snug.”

Hope paused. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of him.”

“I want to go with you.” Brandy checked her watch. Brad was beginning to bang his blocks around, bored. “Kyra had something else to do today. I’ll bundle Brad into his stroller and meet you at the store in half an hour.”

Hope gave an extravagant sigh. “If you must come along, give me an extra thirty minutes.”

“Then I’ll stop in the Stark Drug Store first and meet you later
.
”

Brandy stepped out onto the porch and shivered in the suddenly chill October air. According to a newscast, a temporary cold spell had pushed down the peninsula from Georgia. She changed Brad into corduroy overalls and a long-sleeved shirt before stuffing his chubby arms into a jacket and pulling a baseball cap over his head.

As soon as he realized they were going out he chirped, “Go out,” delighted.

Brandy wrestled the folded stroller out of the closet and bumped it, riser after riser, down the stairs. Until she hurried back, wails followed her. She settled him on one hip, descended to the sidewalk, and plunked him into his padded seat for the ride across the street.

The Stark Drug Store lay steeped in the same stifling time warp. She scanned the same dusty shelves, saw the same space heater humming in the corner, and the same aging proprietor hunched over his book. As the door closed, a bell tinkled and he looked up, scowled a warning at Brad, and resumed reading. Caleb’s burly young grandson was staring at her from his pharmacy counter. She ventured closer. When they first met, he’d been friendly and open with information.

This time he frowned. A wide band-aid covered much of his right cheek. “You want a prescription filled?” he asked. “Otherwise, I’ve got nothing to say.”

Brandy paused, concerned. “Sorry if I somehow offended you.” She edged nearer. “Looks like you hurt yourself.”

“Had your own problems up in Paynes Prairie, I hear.” He glanced at her left arm. She still favored it as she pushed the stroller. “As for me, lots of lifting in a drug store, lady. It’s no concern of yours.” He leaned across the counter, lines in his forehead deepening. “I didn’t know you were out to cause trouble for my granddad. He says you’re raking up old gossip about his father, insinuating he committed murder, and I don’t know what all. I told you, I’ve got nothing more to say. You newspaper people are all alike.”

He sounded like Grant’s Aunt Liz. There would be no dissuading him. Brandy pushed the stroller on down the aisle to a nearby display, handed Brad a cloth book from her canvas bag, and showed him how to turn the pages. Then she searched for and found baby aspirin, Tums, hand soap and tissues. As she dropped them into a wire basket, an aging female clerk at the cosmetics counter came slowly toward the cash register. Maybe she was supplementing her social security. Apparently Caleb Stark himself did not wait on customers.

As the clerk rang up her purchases, Brandy said, “I haven’t seen you here before. Been in Micanopy long?”

Enlarged blue eyes looked back through dense lenses. “Been here forever. I’m Caleb’s sister.” Her reedy voice took on an edge. “He wants me to come in when he needs someone to help out.” She went on in an injured tone, “Daddy thought only his son could run the store.”

Brandy noted the rift. “In that generation a lot of men didn’t think women could run a business, or do much else.” She gave Caleb’s sister an understanding smile. “Things are different now. I’m a writer, researching the history of Micanopy. Maybe we could talk later.”

She paid the bill, pushed the stroller to the back of the store, and hesitated beside old Caleb, always interested in what he was reading. This time it was a collection of Poe’s short stories. By leaning over, she could make out the title of the current one, “The Purloined Letter.” She remembered its theme: something valuable hidden in plain sight.

A clue to Ada’s fate stood in the cemetery in plain sight—the lines from “Lenore.” Brandy had been attacked before she could identify the “fiends below”—or at least one of them.

While she waited silently for Caleb to speak, she retrieved the cloth book Brad had flung to the floor and substituted his big-eyed glowworm. The old man finally spoke.

“Heard you was in a fracas the other day.” His stained fingers reached for the cigarette stub smoldering in an ashtray at his elbow. From his lisp and the shriveled look of his mouth, Brandy supposed he’d removed his false teeth. He gave Brad a tart glance. “A drug store ain’t no place for a young ‘un his age.”

Brandy knelt, waving away a plume of smoke. “Just picking up a few items. And yes indeed, I was attacked a few days ago.” The expression in his narrow eyes was not sympathetic, but she plunged on. “No more investigating. I promised my husband. People’s secrets will now be safe. But …” she paused, searching for the right terms. “I’m still interested in Micanopy’s past. I won’t be around much longer—only until my husband finishes working on the Irons homestead.” With a pang, she knew it was true. They’d be leaving soon.

Caleb didn’t reply directly, but the look on his angular features was self-satisfied. His sharp chin lifted. “Ought not do all that blamed work on an old place like that. Ought to left it where it stood, instead of moving it to the lakeshore. A fool thing to do. Wait ’til the next big storm blows through.”

But snippets of information came her way when least expected. One had come only yesterday from Montgomery Irons. She intended to pursue it with Caleb, and he had given her an opening. “I understand your father worked on renovations to the Irons homestead. Mr. Irons says his mother made changes then.” Caleb’s father would be past retirement age then, old to be working a construction job. “You remember hearing about that?”

The shrunken lips twitched. “He was still spry even then, liked to keep busy. I had the store then.” His moist blue eyes traveled again to the open book.

Brad dropped his stuffed glowworm and began squirming. Brandy lifted him clumsily onto her hip. “I saw a couple of portraits made in the 1920s of the Irons couple, and there was a photo of your father in the archives building. I’ve never heard you mention your mother.”

“Nothin’ to tell. My folks separated when I was a little tyke. My sister and me, we stayed with her. She was a good Christian woman and no concern of yours.”

“I’d appreciate your telling me more about your family history.”

“Short answer is ‘no.’ Now, skidaddle. I’ve answered two questions and that is
enough
.”

Brandy was reminded of Lewis Carroll’s “Old Father William.” and thought of quoting it to him:
“I have answered three questions and that is enough, Said the father, ‘Don’t give yourself airs; Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs.
’” She decided Caleb might be offended. He might be having his own little joke. He did read.

Brandy took his not-too-subtle hint and pushed the stroller toward the front door, her mind turning back to the stocky pharmacist. She remembered the feel of a heavy body behind her, the band pulled tight around her neck, the large rock hurled at the bison. Young Stark was sturdy enough to fill the bill. He also knew family history.

Caleb’s sister, too. Brandy halted at the cash register again, where the temporary clerk had finished ringing up another sale.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Brandy said casually, taking a copy of the
Gainesville Sun
from a stack on the counter and digging in her bag for a quarter.

“Tilly.” The older woman raised her gaze defensively. “Tilly Turner. Short for Matilda. Old-fashioned, I reckon.”

“I’m looking for local color about the town, especially its past.”

Behind their thick lenses, Tilly’s eyes brightened. Writers always intrigued people, unaware of the drudgery and numbing research it involved. She warmed to the topic. “A couple of movies were filmed here, you know.”

Brandy leaned closer. “Your nephew told me about old files stuck away in a back room here. He said the cabinet holds lots of records about old times. Your father always meant to write the store’s history. They’d be a helpful resource.”

Tilly glanced back at the pharmacy counter and at Caleb, lost again in Poe’s stories. The pharmacist stood in an alcove, restocking shelves, his back turned.

“Sure, I know about Daddy’s old metal cabinet. No one goes back there anymore.”

Not too different from traffic in the rest of the store. “Caleb is so secretive about everything,” Brandy said. “But you’re part owner. Do you think I could take a look in it some time soon? I won’t be in town much longer.”

Tilly’s head tilted to one side, considering the request. “Caleb always cuts me out of everything but chores,” she said finally. “Then it’s, ‘Tilly, come in, take care of the filing or do the inventory.’ Sure, I could call you when I’m ready to start the inventory. Should be in a day or two.”

“Thanks,” Brandy said. She scribbled her apartment and cell phone numbers on her card and handed it to Tilly. “That could help with local color.”

On the sidewalk again, she pulled her jacket around her, tucked Brad firmly back into his seat, and brushed past a few shoppers toward her grandmother’s antique shop. The window display looked the same—the same Depression glass on the top shelf and the same dirty, ruby-colored goblets. The short shelf below was still crowded, but near the door she spotted two wicker rockers that she hadn’t seen before. They might interest buyers.

A pickup rattled into a parking space before the shop, and Hope’s long legs swung out the door. She wore charcoal-gray slacks and a knobby gray sweater she’d probably knitted herself. She didn’t move with the briskness Brandy had come to expect, but her eyes were fierce and her mouth compressed.

“Let’s have at it,” she said, and started in. The store was empty of customers. Snug advanced in a languid stroll from behind the cash register. As Brandy followed, she heard a car start up in the alley and pull out. Snug faced them, his pale forehead creased. One thin hand pushed back his lank hair. He reminded Brandy of actors in old fifties movies, loose-jointed men who smoked and used studied gestures and thought they looked cool.

He rocked on the balls of his feet and addressed Hope, plainly ignoring Brandy. “So, regular delegation,” he said. Brandy wondered if he would mention the attack. “You ought to like my new acquisitions. Went to an estate sale in Ocala last week.” He pointed to a Windsor chair with four spindles near the front counter. Brandy suspected he’d been using it to sit in. “Nice, simple design,” he boasted.

Hope surveyed it and shook her head. “I suppose you checked before you bought it. More than four spindles would mean it was older and more valuable. These posts aren’t decorated with turnings.”

He frowned and gestured again at the chair. “Notice the rung across the front of the chair that joins the legs. Old.”

Hope didn’t bother to bend down and examine it. “It’s only there for added strength. A rung doesn’t indicate age. How old did the salesman tell you the chair is?”

“Eighteenth century, and it’s lacquered, too. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Brandy was temporarily diverted when Brad stood up in his stroller and reached for the tassels on a musty smelling black shawl draped over a counter. A single tug could send a pink luster-ware tea set and an 1890s mustache cup spiraling to the floor. These items her grandmother especially valued. Brandy picked Brad up again and set him firmly on one hip.

Hope was responding to Snug’s boast about the Windsor chair. She did not look pleased. “Read the antique dealer’s manuals,” she said dryly. “This chair is nineteenth century, at the earliest. Wait a minute.” She stepped into the restroom at the rear of the store, moistened a handkerchief, and dampened the rung. Then she took a quarter from her purse and rubbed the coin’s edge against the finish. Snug bent to watch as she lifted it back up and showed him a brown smudge. “This chair, I’m sad to say, can’t be earlier than about 1925.” She shook her head. “I do wish you’d studied the books I gave you before you went out to buy something.”