Micanopy in Shadow (33 page)

“Goodness, no. No time. Kyra Gibbons sent me directly here.”

Brandy leaned forward. “Did Kyra tell you why I was at Shands?”

Lily Lou’s golden head drooped. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She said Brandy’s grandmother had been strangled—that she might not live.” She looked up, for the first time, her eyes wet.

“I guess the carpenter’s helper told Monty I took the box to Mrs. O’Bannon.” She fumbled for the handkerchief again and pressed it to her eyes. “Well,” she breathed, “I can’t let Monty go about strangling old ladies, now can I?”

She sat quite still while the detective removed several copies of
Field & Stream
from a small round table in front of the couch, and spread the papers out one by one. The first was a marriage license, issued i
n Jacksonville, Florida, to Adrian Irons of Micanopy, FL, and Ada Losterman of Atlanta, GA., July 6, 1917.

Brandy let out a long sigh and glanced out the window. The night had grown black. A half moon, white and cold, hung between the branches of a live oak. Her watch said 10:00. “Montgomery Irons had to be the one who attacked me at Payne’s Prairie,” she said slowly. “He mentioned to John the note left for me at the toll booth. But that day no one but the attacker knew about that note.

“And he was the only person besides Grant and Kyra who knew I went to see Mattie Washington. He asked why I had listened to people in the ‘colored’ community. Someone followed Grant and me there. It must’ve been Montgomery.”

Gingerly, Noble pulled out another sheet. “You can examine the papers,” he said, “but I don’t want anyone to touch them. Fingerprints.”

He kept reading. The next document turned out to be a birth certificate issued in Augusta, Georgia. It read “
Hope Ann Irons, date of birth May 26, 1918; full name of mother Mrs. Ada Losterman Irons, 19, birthplace Atlanta, Georgia; father, Lieutenant Adrian Irons, 23, birthplace, Gainesville, Florida.
”

A tiny leather bag came out next. It yielded a woman’s diamond ring and a platinum wedding band. Brandy’s eyes brightened. “Someone removed Ada’s ring.”

The detective reached back into the box. He spread a letter with Adrian Irons’ Micanopy letterhead on the table, dated October 5, 1921. Brandy recognized the jagged, masculine hand from the letter fragment Ada had carried. He began to read:

“To Whom It May concern: These papers prove the girl known as Ada Losterman is my legal daughter. During the campaign to take the French village of Cantigny, the 2
nd
Brigade I served with was heavily attacked by enemy artillery on May 27, 1918. Two men with me were killed and their bodies unrecognizable. I was badly wounded and unconscious for days. When my buddies asked about me, a nurse at the dressing station confused my identity tags with one of the dead men’s. A sergeant wrote my wife and sent her everything of mine that wasn’t burned up. But I lived. I stayed unconscious off and on for weeks and was months in the hospital, first in France, then in the states.

“I asked a nurse to write Ada, but the letter was returned. After the doctors released me, I couldn’t find her. She was no longer in Atlanta. The hospital where her mother worked told me both her parents had died of the Spanish flu. Her mother caught it at Camp Hancock. The nurse said Ada had been gravely ill, too, and not expected to live. I couldn’t find her and thought she died as well. I never knew I had a daughter. I later married Sybil.

The detective shook his head a bit sadly and continued:
“After her parents’ deaths, Ada wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Irons, General Delivery, in Micanopy. She wanted to meet them and show them their granddaughter. I received the letter. What a shock! We didn’t let her know yet that I was still alive, or re-married. We decided to tell her in person. Sybil wrote back as if she were my mother and told her to come to Micanopy and call us.

“I had to think of my newborn son, and Sybil was frantic. She picked Ada up in town and drove her to our house. There was a terrible scene. Sybil gave her a brandy to revive her, but Ada left by herself to walk back to the hotel.”

“Why hide these papers?” Noble asked. “If later his family didn’t want anyone to know Adrian had married during the war, why not destroy them?”

Brandy peered at the underside of the last page. “There’s more,” she said.

The detective resumed
: “I will build a monument to honor Ada, my legal wife. For the rest of my life, I will make contributions to my daughter’s well being. When I am gone, I expect my son to do the same. I will make sure he gives me his solemn promise. She has a loving home now. My son will reveal the truth after Sybil and I are gone.”
The letter ended with Adrian’s firm signature.

Brandy turned to the detective. “Remember, Adrian’s son didn’t build the closet that concealed the panel. He died suddenly when Montgomery was still a teenager. After his death, his wife remodeled the library and hallway. He hadn’t disclosed the truth to anyone but Montgomery, or even told Montgomery where the papers were.”

One document remained: a copy of Adrian’s will. Noble skimmed it quickly, then more carefully. He glanced up. “The gist of the will provides that after his wife’s death, Adrian’s children are to inherit his estate. In the 1920s that probably meant his legitimate children. He was never legally married to Sybil. Hope O’Bannon should have inherited.”

“He doesn’t refer to Ada’s death at all,” Brandy said, surprised. “Of course, it’s implied.”

Lily Lou had been listening quietly, her expression shifting from fascination to concern. Now she spoke. “Ada Losterman was declared a suicide. Goodness, he wouldn’t want to stress that fact. She must have killed herself because of him.”

Noble said cryptically, “He could have had a worse reason.”

TWENTY
-ONE
 

Brandy turned to Lily Lou, sitting more rigidly now in the hospital conference room. “You were right about the box,” she said. “It held at least a vital piece of the puzzle, but it creates a mess that an attorney will have to straighten out.”

Lily Lou smoothed a wrinkle in her spandex pants suit. “Whatever’s fair,” she said.

Noble stood and pulled his notepad out of his pocket. “Where do you think your husband will go?” he asked.

Lily Lou looked up at him with a pained expression. “I’ve no idea.”

Brandy clutched the strap of her bag, eyes suddenly wide. “If you’re going to have him picked up, check our apartment first. He doesn’t know Grandmother’s still alive. He might try to silence me next, or he’ll look for Lily Lou there. Either way, he’ll cause trouble for Kyra and Brad.”

If only John had hurried home!

“Wait,” the detective said, and stepped outside the room. Brandy and Lily sat, transfixed, Lily Lou drained, Brandy tense with anxiety.

In a few minutes he came back into the room. “Deputies are on their way,” he said. “They’ll find Irons, bring him in for questioning. You both can go now, get some rest.” He faced Lily Lou. “Where will you go, Mrs. Irons? You shouldn’t return to either of your homes.”

Lily Lou stood and began pulling on her raincoat, her lips oddly twisted. “I’m afraid you’re right, Sergeant,” she said. “He’ll look for me. I have family in Gainesville. I’ll be there.” He handed her his card, and she scribbled a phone number on the back.

Brandy took her cell out of her bag and called her apartment. When Kyra answered, she said, “Sorry, if I woke you up.” She paused, tapping her fingers on the table while she listened. “Watching television is fine. Brad’s asleep? No, don’t wake him. His dad is on the way home now, and I’ll be arriving soon.” Her voice dropped, became urgent. “Don’t let anyone in except Sheriff’s deputies or John himself. No one else. This is important!”

Noble had begun putting on his jacket. “You’ve completed your private investigation, Mrs. Able,” he said, his voice sharp with the disrespect most lawmen felt for amateurs. “Leave the rest to professionals.” Brandy wasn’t surprised. He’d been unusually cooperative tonight, in spite of her being a journalist. She and Lily Lou had the box and information he needed. She was not inclined to take his advice.

“I suppose you can connect Irons with Hunter’s murder now, can’t you?” she asked. “Irons lived in Tampa in the ’70s, and you thought the murderer copied a killing there in ’75. Irons could tell Hunter he’d bring the Losterman documents. That’s why Hunter wouldn’t be suspicious of a box held out to him. Montgomery knew there were such papers. He just didn’t know where they were.”

“Yeah.” Noble zipped up his jacket. “A cardboard box concealed the handgun, same as in the Cloud killing. We’ll be searching the Irons’ properties—especially the back yard of the larger house, near the barrel. If we find the gun, we can match the slugs.”

Brandy had been focused so narrowly on the papers in the box that she scarcely heard the normal sounds of the hospital—people walking in the lobby, a phone ringing, a car horn in the street outside. After Noble left, she turned to Lily Lou and slowly got to her feet. “But we still don’t have answers to Ada’s drowning. Something you said several days ago.…” She hesitated. How much did she want to reveal? As she opened the door to the lobby, she glanced back out the window. The moon had disappeared, and the night pressed down from an overcast sky, black and starless.

“I need to check something out,” she said. “I may know the full story tomorrow.”

* * *

Brandy concentrated on driving carefully over the slick roads, but anxious about what might be happening in her apartment. Where had Montgomery Irons gone? The rain had stopped, but clouds still blotted out the night sky and the air felt oppressive. How long would it take him to search for his wife and the box, give up, and turn to Brandy? His entire inheritance was in jeopardy. He had believed his wife was a scatterbrain, a delightful toy. But today Lily Lou proved she could stand up to him. Brandy had met the proverbial Southern steel magnolia.

The tragic story of the Irons’ family swirled through her head. Adrian’s letter stipulated that Montgomery’s father was to support Hope and disclose the truth after both his parents were gone. But Montgomery’s father died unexpectedly. He had told the boy there was proof of the facts, but Montgomery never felt the same obligation. If he had known about the hidden panel, he would have destroyed the papers.

When Brandy drew up to the curb in front of her building, she was relieved to see John’s car. Yet he left the hospital before he knew about the documents. A Mercedes was parked further down the block. She slammed her Prius into park, switched off the engine with shaky fingers, and flung herself up the stairs. At the front door she paused and listened. No angry voices. Her heart stopped thudding. Irons would be looking for his wife and the box. John might just politely send him away. Irons would not know Brandy had learned his secret. She opened the door, forcing a smile.

John came forward, concerned, while a disheveled Montgomery in dripping jacket and slacks paced around the living room, peering behind table lamps, a radio on the desk, a stack of magazines on a sideboard. “Mr. Irons is missing a valuable box that belongs to his family,” John said anxiously. “One of the carpenters gave it to Mrs. Irons. He can’t find her or the box.” He rubbed his forehead. “At the hospital, you said Hope mumbled something about a box.”

Kyra came quickly in from the bedroom, carrying a rain slicker and her copy of
Statistics for Social Work,
ready to leave. “Oh, I can, like, help you there,” she said brightly.

Brandy scowled at her over John’s shoulder, trying to signal her to be quiet—but Kyra plunged on, eager to be useful. “Mrs. Irons came by here to see Mrs. Able a couple of hours ago, and I told her she’d gone to Shands hospital to check on her grandmother.” Seeing Brandy’s stricken expression, Kyra finished almost in a whisper. “I told him his wife should be there.”

Irons’ fleshy face seemed to expand as he faced Brandy. The ponderous voice boomed. “And, my dear, did you see Lily Lou there? Did she have the box?” He stepped closer. Puzzled, John looked from one to the other.

Suddenly, Brandy felt reckless. Irons was the helpless one now. Lily Lou was safely with family, the box in law enforcement custody. “Your wife has left town.” Brandy forced her voice to be calm and direct. “A Sheriff’s detective has the box. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

John moved toward her and took her arm. “You’ve got to fill me in.”

Irons reddened. His words rolled out, low and menacing. “I can fill you in, John. Your wife’s damned snooping finally tore it! Her grandmother may be dead, and my family ruined. I’ve got to have the papers in that box, and I’ve got to have them now.”

Brandy backed away, tripped on the rug, and recovered. In the confusion, Kyra slipped out the door. Her footsteps echoed down the stairs. Brandy glanced wildly out the front window. Where were the deputies?

If Irons noticed that Kyra was gone, he didn’t comment. Instead he thundered, “There’s
one
way to get my family’s papers back!” He swung around and blundered into the bedroom.

Brandy clutched John, then rushed after Irons. “Brad!” she gasped. If only Kyra had taken him with her. Brad—a hostage!

John followed, alarmed now and insistent. “What’s going on?”

Irons was leaning over the crib and thrusting his broad hands under the sleeping child. The little boy began to whimper, his eyes wide and frightened.