by Ann Cook
Brandy O’Bannon mysteries
Trace Their Shadows Shadow over Cedar Key Homosassa Shadows
Micanopy in Shadow
A Brandy O’Bannon Mystery Ann Turner Cook
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Bloomington Shanghai
Micanopy in Shadow
Brandy O’Bannon Mystery
Copyright © 2008 by Ann Turner Cook
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
iUniverse 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.iuniverse.com 1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover art by Frank Bolock, artist and instructor of Bolock Enterprises, Temple Terrace, Florida
ISBN: 978-0-595-46301-5 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-595-90596-6 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Preface
Micanopy—1921
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
Epilogue
To Bob, who is here, and Jim. who is gone.
Accidents of Birth
… as luck would have it, and inching over the same little segment of earth-ball, in the same little eon, to meet in a room, alive in our skins, and the whole galaxy gaping there and the centuries whining like gnats—you, to teach me to see it, to see it with you, and to offer somebody uncomprehending, impudent thanks.
with permission from poet
William Meredith January 9, 1919—
Preface
I recognized the perfect setting for my fourth Florida mystery two years ago when I drove down wide Cholokka Boulevard in tiny Micanopy (Mick-can-óh-pee) and walked along its two blocks of book and antique shops. The late nineteenth and early twentieth century town square serves a current population of only 653, augmented by tourists. The town’s website identifies it as Florida’s oldest inland settlement, the second oldest settlement in the state.
Micanopy lies among oaks and pines near Lake Tuscawilla, only a mile east of busy Interstate 75 and twelve miles south of the university town of Gainesville. Place names here reflect an Indian past, and area history stretches far back into the tragic record of Florida’s indigenous peoples. In the eighteenth century many forces drove the Indians who became Seminoles into Florida.
In 1835 the town’s namesake, Chief Micanopy, headed the Alachua band that ambushed Major Francis Dade’s command. The ensuing battle, called a “massacre” by the United States Army, began the Second Seminole War.
The town itself wasn’t incorporated until 1880. The population then was about what it is today. During the nineteenth century Micanopy thrived as a center for timber and vegetable farming, exploiting Payne’s Prairie a few miles to the north, now a 17,346 acre state preserve.
Builders are not permitted to impose condos or cookie-cutter developments on this timeless community. Instead Micanopy includes early twentieth century craftsman cottages, an impressive Queen Anne house with a turret, a bed-and-breakfast in a reputedly haunted nineteenth century mansion, and a sprinkling of small churches along its narrow, shady streets.
I stood in Micanopy’s historic cemetery among tombstones dating from 1826. Under moss-shrouded oaks in its center stands a five foot tall monument of an angel. It reminded me of a similar marker in an historic Tallahassee cemetery I visited years ago. An excerpt from an Edgar Allan Poe poem on its base had memorialized a young woman.
The story of Ada Losterman came to me then.
In the story that follows, the settings are as accurate as I can make them, although there is no drugstore or pharmacy currently in the town. All the characters are fictitious with one exception—the domestic long-haired cat, Patches. She helped supervise the writing of this book and is proud to play an important role.
I am grateful to many people for their indispensable assistance in my research. In chronological order, they are: Patti Woods, for the germ of the idea from her own biography that drove the story; Mark L. Greenberg, Ph.D. University of South Florida, Director, Florida Studies Center & Special Collections Department; Paul E. Camp, Librarian, Special Collections, Library System; Kimberly A. Constantine, Director, Development, Library System, and the university’s Hampton Dunn collection of Florida history.
Attorney Bob Amos for information about legal issues; Diana Cohen, Micanopy Historical Society archivist who showed me the fatal pond, among other sites, and explained the activities of the Ku-Klux-Klan in the 1920s; Lynn Parrish, who assisted in archives research and drove us along the route from Micanopy to the spiritualist center of Cassadaga; Gwen Anderson for the February1997 issue of Doll Reader magazine; Anna Scott for a copy of the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer that her father, John Flanigen, carried in his breast pocket during World War I and also for information about Atlanta’s Grady Memorial Hospital School of Nursing; Grant and Diana Wilson for two tours of Payne’s Prairie and visits to Micanopy, as well as for the name of the story’s baby sitter and for letting me appropriate Grant’s name for the Payne’s Prairie ranger; the Prairie’s rangers for information about their duties and the Preserve; Edie Klein for her books on antiques; Ann Tennis for information about the operation of an antique store; Martha Sherman, Tampa architect and specialist in restoring historic properties for her advice; to Suzanne DeWees, Ph.D. of Cassadaga for her kindly and enlightened expertise on readings; Ashley Cook for sharing knowledge of child development and the social work study program at Florida State University, and as always, to retired Hillsborough County Sheriff Walter C. Heinrich for information about the 1975 Richard Cloud murder case in Tampa, solved by the Sheriff’s Office.
In addition, I was helped by Caroline Barr Watkins’ book, The Story of Micanopy, Alachua County Historical Commission, 1975, Gainesville, Florida; Payne’s Prairie, the Great Savanna: A History and Guide, Second Edition, 2004, Lars Andersen, Pineapple Press, Inc, Sarasota, Florida; and writer, editor, and consultant Fred W. Wright, Jr.; creative writing instructor Rebecca Johnson, and gifted daughter, Jan Cook, journalist and speech writer, for their helpful critiques.
Micanopy—1921
Ada turned her young face toward the unfamiliar dirt road. It stretched straight before her in the chill October afternoon. After a quarter of a mile, it curved to the right. Two hours ago its oak canopy seemed protective. Now in the fading light, the branches arched above her, darker and more sinister. The only sound was the murmur of leaves. She clenched her fists, stifled a final sob, and strode forward.
She’d never been so angry or so hurt. I have to tell someone. But first, get back to the hotel. Hope would be waiting, standing on chubby little legs at a window, clutching her cloth doll, eyes bright, blonde hair curling above her forehead. Hope is most important.
Ada herself had insisted she would walk back. For a second she heard the purr of a car’s engine. Maybe he’s come for me. But the low noise stopped. He was letting her leave after all. Thank God, Mama and Papa didn’t live to see this day.
At the turn in the road, her pace slowed, and she looked around. Such a small town, so many oaks and palmettos. She looked behind her. As far as she could see, no one followed. She hurried on.
To the east the modest business district lay under an overcast sky—dry goods store, telephone exchange, and the apothecary building she visited earlier that day. A Model T and a mule-drawn wagon had rattled along the paved main street. Further to the east the Atlantic Coastline train depot would be empty. Was it only noon that I’d passed through there? Her heart lurched. She’d so looked forward to the trip.
She tramped on, felt a growing weakness, a strange numbness. Must be the shot of brandy. She’d never had one before. Her heart felt like an iron weight. She pulled her mother’s embroidered shawl closer and leaned into the rising wind. That morning she’d combed her hair into a fashionable bob, set the new hat with the ribbons so carefully on her head. Now her hair flew loose. The hat had blown off.
How far to the hotel? She couldn’t remember. She had left Hope there—and she didn’t even know the owner. A toddler not yet three can’t walk far. I’ll only be gone a short time. Tears clouded her eyes. I should have accepted the ride. I should not have marched away.
In a few minutes Ada could scarcely lift her feet. Her thoughts splintered. A mist drifted across her eyes. The ankle length black skirt kept snagging in sandspurs. She shook her head and pushed on, past the white bulk of the small Smith Street Baptist Church. Its tall, rectangular steeple lifted into growing darkness.
Inside, a thin-faced pastor lit a lamp and peered out his study window. He saw the figure stumble past, and for a moment was curious. Another town drunk, he supposed.
Across the road Ada saw more houses, indistinct in the half-light, silent behind fences and long expanses of grass. After she passed one next to the church, she no longer could move her legs. Sit down, just for a few minutes. Let the fuzziness in my head clear. A grassy area beside the road broadened and sloped toward a pond. Thickets of spike moss and briars ringed the duckweed on its surface. From it came the sour smell of stagnant water.
In the church the pastor bent again over his papers, thinking of next Sunday’s sermon. He patted the top pocket of his black suit and found his pen. In a careful hand he wrote, “Be Your Brother’s Keeper.” He looked out the window again, searching for a way to extend the alliteration, and glimpsed the square shape of an automobile. It passed. Light from its protruding headlamps flared briefly. He added another sentence to the sermon and settled back in his chair, a slight smile on his lips, satisfied.
Ada heard the dim drone of the engine. She connected the sound with nothing. She sagged, knees collapsing. Wet grass pressed against her legs, the grit of the roadbed against her outstretched hand. Briers dragged her shawl from her shoulders. She crawled.
Across the street at the rear of a large frame house a door opened. An acetylene light threw a white glare over the backyard. Fifteen-year old Rosebud Washington trudged down the back steps, listened, and stared over at the road and the pond. For a few seconds she paused, dark eyes wide. Then she ducked her head, tugged on her ragged sweater, and spun toward the back gate. The doings of white folks were none of her business. It was safer not to look.
Rosebud knew how to stoop outdoors over a galvanized washtub and scrub white folks’ clothes, how to hang wet wash on a line, how to iron the mister’s shirts. To know more was dangerous. Only last week the Klan from Williston tore through Micanopy in their Model T’s—demons in peaked white hoods, shouting threats, burning a cross in her cousin’s front yard. Rosebud hurried on down the path into the next street and turned toward home. Only a short distance away stood the tiny cement block jail where her father spent more than one terror-filled night. Klansmen lived in this town, too. Rosebud made herself small, invisible, and quiet. She would tell no one but her family what she saw.
Ada felt hands on her shoulders. Someone come to help? But she was dragged. The skin on her legs stung. A sudden rush of cold water jolted her awake. Rank odor, then water, filled her nostrils. She lifted her head, struggled to breathe, gasped. Her scream became a strangled cough. She shuddered, strained upward. A stronger force pressed her down, held her under. Ada fought fee-bly—too weak, mind too clogged. Her skirt and blouse billowed about her, filling with water, drawing her into a world of blackness.
As she dropped below the surface scum, she flung out one arm. Her fingers snatched fabric, closed around a flimsy chain and something hard and round. She forgot what it was, forgot everything. It sank with her.
The last sound she heard was the nasal call of a low-flying nighthawk. The last image was of her small daughter’s face.
ONE
2003
Brandy had been having a cup of tea when her grandmother first asked for her help. She had pinned Brandy with those fierce gray eyes, set down her cup, and said, “You’re my last chance. No one else cares anymore. I’m the only one. At my age how much more time do I have?”
How could she turn her grandmother down? The woman was eighty-three.
When she told Brandy about the home restoration job in Micanopy, Brandy called her husband’s boss and suggested it was made to order for John. She had engineered the couple’s move from Tampa to an apartment near her grandmother’s home. That was why a month later she found herself rocketing out of her grandmother’s driveway in the passenger seat of the 1985 Ford pickup. They were on a mission.
It was one of those early fall days in Florida. The sun was no longer hot, but the chill had not yet arrived. The little truck swerved around in the narrow street in front of her grandmother’s cottage and rattled on down the block.
“Cold cases are solved all the time now,” Brandy said. “No reason this one can’t be.” She knew she was being rash, but in the past she had inserted herself into three unsolved cases and been successful. Brandy decided not to mention that in those cases Sheriff’s Office detectives had been essential. They would not be involved this time, not after all these years.
In the bed of the pickup a toolbox clanked against a metal ladder. Brandy suspected her grandmother still climbed it to paint trim or repair gutters. Brandy avoided looking at the curb as it whirled past.
Her grandmother, in firm control of the wheel, looked over at Brandy. “Before I die, I want to know why my mother drowned on her one—her only—day in Micanopy.”
“An eighty-one year old cold case—it’s got to be a record.”
Hope O’Bannon let up on the gas, the muscles of her face taut. “I’d about given up after all these years, and that’s the truth, what with my teaching and your granddad’s illnesses, but I’ve got time now. Something drove my mother to leave me. The coroner’s jury thought she killed herself.” She turned back to the road and headed for downtown Micanopy. “I’ve always had my doubts. We’ll begin by re-tracing my mother’s steps.” The aging Ford clattered around a corner of Cholokka Boulevard and gathered speed.
Brandy admired the sharp planes and high cheekbones of Hope’s face. Her own she thought too round—yet she had the same prominent bones and the same fair skin, the same sprinkle of freckles that went with red hair. As Brandy neared thirty, her hair had become darker. Hope’s turned to silver years ago. The old lady pulled it back and tied it with a scarf that fell over the collar of her white shirt. She wore pants long before they were fashionable, long before women routinely went about in jeans.
&n
bsp; She eased off on the gas again and shot Brandy a fiery look. “Someone in this town knows what happened—that I’m sure of. Somebody knows who she was and why she died. The monument in the cemetery proves that.”
Brandy reached into her canvas bag for her notepad and pencil, then ducked her head a little and looked up at her grandmother with a grin. It was a habit when she was about to solicit a favor or spring an idea, especially one that might be troubling. “I’ve pitched a story about this case to the St. Pete Times. An account of what happened to Ada Losterman would make a great feature.” She gave the notepad a firm tap. “Royalties from my Seminole Indian book give me free time for a while. An account of Micanopy with emphasis on Ada Losterman might make another book.”
Brandy couldn’t tell if going public with the story bothered her. Hope was silent as the old truck clattered on down the boulevard. “I ought to warn you,” she said at last. “People here don’t like airing their dirty linen to strangers. My mother’s death always stuck in their craw. A blot on the town, to tell the truth.”
“I’ll try not to step on any toes.”
Brandy was ashamed that she hadn’t already researched her own great-grandmother’s fate. Newspaper reporting had taken her time, and she had to consider her husband, too. Then came the baby. It hadn’t been easy even now, when Brad was two. But Brandy had managed. When a prominent resident decided to restore his family home, Brandy made a few calls and the prospect asked John’s Gainesville office for a bid. She knew he’d be tapped. Although he was working at the time in his firm’s Tampa office, his specialty was in historic houses. Now John was renovating the century old home at the edge of Micanopy and bidding on other jobs in the area.
The pickup ground to a stop again, the third time in a few blocks that Hope slowed from the speed limit to a crawl or halted. Brandy hoped no one was behind them.