Micanopy in Shadow

by Ann Cook

  “First door to your right, toward the rear on this side,” she said, and went back to her task.

  Brandy found the door unlocked and stepped inside the small enclosure that once functioned as an office. Old newspapers and dust littered the desk. The one high window had not been cleaned in so long she could hardly see out. Only a dim light filtered through from an alley, but a long cord hung from the ceiling and the bulb still worked. The four-drawer metal file looked abandoned as well. When she pulled open the top drawer, out drifted the moldy odor of old papers in a damp climate. The file folders had become limp, their tops curled over.

  Carefully, Brandy began sorting through them. The first drawer came from the original business, the dry goods store, and was arranged in chronological order, which helped. The earliest dated from 1920—receipts for merchandise like patent medicines, towels and dresses, kitchenware, harnesses, even horse collars. The store had, after all, supplied most of the small community’s needs. The few letters dealt with bill collecting and Caleb’s negotiations with suppliers. Within half an hour she was sweaty and discouraged. Nothing here. How did Caleb Sr. ever think he could write a lively memoir with this material? She debated leaving. She would only go through 1921.

  But when she reached October, she hit pay dirt—a bill of sale featuring the name Isaiah Sash, the murdered revenue agent. As she removed the paper, her spirit mounted. He dabbled in real estate, Irons had said, and Stark owned property in the area. Caleb had actually purchased the one-story building from Sash, making only a token down payment. The total amount for that era, two-thousand dollars, was substantial. Eagerly, she turned the form over. Maybe Caleb could not keep his part of the bargain. Maybe the unpaid bill gave Caleb a motive for murder. But when she turned it over, her hopes sagged. On the back a heavy hand had written “Paid in full,” dated October 1, 1921. Isaiah Sash himself had scrawled his signature, although his hand quivered. Had he been ill? He was not an old man. But so much for that clue. Apparently the unfortunate man accepted the full payment on the last day he was seen alive.

  Still, Ada drowned the same day. Could be a coincidence, but Brandy pulled out the camera, focused on the receipt and took pictures front and back, glad that John had bought a digital that would take detail. It might not be evidence in a court of law, probably, but it might help her figure out the truth. She scrabbled back through a few previous files and found a dunning letter from Sash. Caleb had been in arrears for several months. She took a photograph of that one, too. Nothing else that year interested her.

  She found Tilly standing beside a shelf of out-of-date cosmetics, jotting names and figures on her clipboard. “I’ll be glad to tell Caleb I let you in,” she said with another sly smile. “Serves him right for shoving all the boring work off on me.”

  Brandy thanked her again and crossed the street to send Kyra home before Grant called back.

  “Checked Zeke’s files an hour ago,” he said then. “Not much to report. He mentions Sylvester Haven a couple of times, nothing earth-shaking. He worked on truck farms and helped run the hotel. He also worked in a turpentine plant until his employer reported him for drunk and disorderly. In 1920 he was employed at a lumberyard and got into trouble pilfering from the till. The result was a fine and the loss of his job.” Grant paused, as if turning a page. “Zeke noted the pilfering charge and investigated it as a misdemeanor. A newspaper followed up with a brief story, giving his earlier occupations, but I don’t see that Haven ever spent any time in the Micanopy jail.”

  Brandy was pleased to hear it, remembering the squat concrete block jail on Seminary Street. But even as she replaced the phone, she reminded herself that she didn’t know what Grant actually saw in those folders. She examined the ones he handed her and accepted whatever he told her. He could discard information he didn’t want to share. John often told her she was too trusting.

  She sighed. Not much she could do about the problem now. While she waited for John, she skimmed through her notes on Ada. She’d summarized all her research, however trivial. Something she had seen and heard only recently struck her. By the time she finished re-reading her notes and re-examined her scanty collection of exhibits, she glanced up, startled. She had overlooked at least two possible clues. She needed to repeat one visit, and take a second look at Ada’s treasures. She also must make sure neither Grant nor Kyra had discussed her search with the wrong people. But if her developing theory was correct—as she had told Lily Lou—a vital key was still be missing: motive.

  When John came through the door at 4:35, he set down his brief case and gave her a hug—finally. He seldom stayed angry long. If he did, their marriage would have been in serious trouble long ago.

  “It’s been a good day,” he said. He surveyed the room with a pleased nod and hung up his jacket. “While I was in Gainesville, the crew took down the closet that protruded into the main hall. The painter started patching the plaster and spackling a few holes in the ceiling. Tomorrow an electrician checks the switches. A new paint job, and the hall will be finished.”

  How much more time did she have in Micanopy? “What else still has to be done?”

  “An antique floor specialist comes in last to restore the heart pine flooring. We’ll need some boards for a few patches, and he knows where to locate old salvage. An early twentieth century factory’s being demolished in Ocala.” Brandy loved the rich butterscotch look of heart pine, rare now but common in the early twentieth century.

  “I learned something new myself today,” Brandy said. “Caleb Stark’s sister let me check some of the old store files. The murdered revenue agent had sold the building to Caleb, and he still owned almost the full price.” She shrugged. “But the bill of sale is dated the day he was last seen in the store. So I lost a possible motive for murder.”

  His raised his left eyebrow. “Don’t see why. Who knows? The man might’ve been coerced to sign, then killed, and the money taken back.” Brandy cocked her head to one side, considering the possibility.

  Then she remembered her grocery shopping, snatched up her bag and list, and pulled her jacket out of the closet. “Got to go to the store,” she said, giving him a quick kiss. “Brad’s about out of his favorite food and, most important, his pull-ups. I want to get something special for our supper, too.”

  She hurried down the stairs, pulling her collar up around her neck and bending forward against the rush of cool, damp air. She had not seen her grandmother in two days. She glanced at her watch—a few minutes after 5:00. Maybe she had time to stop for a moment. She turned into Hope’s street and slowed before reaching the classic Craftsman bungalow. She had started to brake when she realized it might take time to find lobster tails. Tonight she and John could enjoy a good dinner and a quiet evening of wine and Mozart—maybe even Chopin or Duke Ellington, if John felt frivolous. They would probably listen to the gentle patter of rain and begin to feel mellow. She would change into something filmy. Her anticipation rose. She could visit her grandmother tomorrow.

  But as Brandy began to pull away, she noticed something odd inside the house. Something white flashed and bounced against Hope’s front windowpane. As she peered closer, a few raindrops spattered her windshield. She switched the wiper blades on low and crept up to the curb. John had advised Hope to trim back the ligustrum hedges around the front so that no one could hide behind them. Even in the growing twilight, Brandy had a clear view across the porch to the front window.

  It was the cat. She usually lay sedately on the wide sill. Now she stretched her furry white vest and stomach against the glass, patted it, crouched down again, and repeated the performance, each time faster. Was Patches having some kind of a fit? Hope doted on that cat. Brandy remembered a news story about an Indiana cat that woke her family one night when the house was filling with carbon monoxide. She decided to check. Hope would be feeding the birds now, and Patches usually watched that procedure. Why wasn’t the cat ther
e now? Brandy felt the first tremor of fear.

  She wheeled into the driveway, out of habit grabbed her bag, and dashed up the porch steps, for once grateful her grandmother seldom locked her front door; otherwise, she would have to go around through the gate. Hope always claimed, “No burglars in Micanopy. You’re safe in a small town.”

  The doorknob turned. As soon as she stepped into the living room, Patches bounded down and became a black and white arrow aimed at the porch. Brandy trotted behind, now thoroughly alarmed. The darkened living room felt empty, the shadowy photographs and antiques abandoned. Both front rooms had the feel of an unoccupied house. In the kitchen she smelled no odor of cooking. By this time her grandmother usually had soup on the stove or a chicken or pot roast in the crock-pot. The only items on the table were two shopping bags, unopened, and a few envelopes, also unopened.

  Brandy banged open the back screen and hurried into the yard. Patches knew to remain on the porch, but the end of her tail flicked rapidly back and forth. Brandy was barely conscious of the fading hum of a car engine in the next block.

  At first she didn’t see Hope through the misty rain. The only light in the yard shone from a distant street lamp. But she heard the agitated chatter of birds in the pines. Then amid a scattering of seeds at the base of the bird feeder she saw the crumpled figure. Hope lay on her stomach, ashen face turned to one side, knees drawn up toward her chest, one arm under her body, the other flung out before her. Her fingers clutched the grass; her nails had dug into the soil. Her eyes were closed, her mouth twisted.

  In one frenzied glance, Brandy absorbed it all. She knelt beside the still figure.

  “My God!” she sobbed. “What happened?” The words tumbled out before she realized her grandmother could not respond, might not even hear her. She fumbled in her bag for her cell and dialed 9-1-1, then tried to examine Hope’s reddened neck.

  When a woman’s voice came on the phone, Brandy wailed, “Send help quick! Something terrible’s happened! It’s my grandmother!” She gasped the address and added, “In the back yard. Come through the gate off the driveway.”

  She could see angry marks around her grandmother’s throat, see her broken fingernails. Surely, another strangulation attempt. Did Hope still breathe? She laid her head next to Hope’s lips and heard a faint intake of breath. Her chest barely rose and fell. Brandy pulled off her jacket and spread it over her grandmother’s head and shoulders. She hated to leave her sprawled on the grass in the drizzle, but medics must move her. Sitting back on her heels, she laid one hand gently on her grandmother’s side and dialed John.

  Night falls quickly in Florida. In October, it falls early. As soon as he answered, Brandy felt reassured. John was good in an emergency. He always knew what to do, but even to her own ears she sounded frantic. “Come as soon as you can. Someone tried to kill Grandmother!” She choked back tears.

  As dusk grew, Brandy crouched on soggy ground, hair blowing around her face, shirt soaked. The medium’s warning came back to her: “You’ve put yourself in danger. And someone very close to you.”

  The wait seemed like hours, but within ten minutes she heard a siren, and the fire and rescue van roared into the driveway. She glanced at the gate. Someone had left it ajar. But if footprints remained on the wet grass, they were crushed as two medics in white coats dashed into the yard with the gurney. To Brandy, they were angels. Expertly, the men knelt beside the victim. Brandy stood and backed away. She saw the oxygen mask, saw one run experienced fingers lightly over Hope’s body, feeling for broken bones. Then they lifted her gently onto the litter and turned to Brandy.

  “Strangulation?” Brandy quavered

  “An attempt. She’s still breathing—only just.”

  At that moment John charged through the gate. His arms closed around Brandy. “I got Mrs. Gibbons downstairs to stay with Brad.”

  Brandy clung to him. “Thank God you’re here!” Now that her grandmother was in safe hands, she felt lightheaded, wobbly. Her knees began to buckle. She whispered, “Call the Sheriff’s Office.”

  John’s grasp tightened and he caught her under the arms. The medics had started out the gate when he called, “Might need to make room for one more.”

  “It’s just shock,” one said. “Stress. Happens all the time. Carry her inside and lay her down. Dry her off and keep her warm. She’ll be okay. A sip of brandy wouldn’t hurt. We’re going to Shands Hospital on Archer.”

  They hurried out of the yard with Hope, an oxygen mask still clamped over her nose. Before John could help Brandy into the enclosed porch, the rescue van’s engine blasted on, and it spurted out of the driveway. John laid her on the chaise lounge and went in search of a bath towel and light blanket. Patches stood on her hind legs and sniffed her, then spun around and raced to the front window to watch the van careen around the corner and out of sight.

  After John rubbed her as dry as he could and covered her, he glanced about the kitchen. It looked as if Hope had walked in, dropped her groceries and mail on the table, and gone into the yard.

  He checked the Alachua County Sheriff’s Office number, then dialed the kitchen phone. He was handed off to Detective Sergeant Hamilton Noble of the Crimes Against Persons Squad. The name sounded familiar. John gave Hope’s address.

  “Don’t touch a thing,” the detective said, emphasizing the last word. “Wait there.”

  John had Mrs. Gibbons on the line when Brandy began to stir. “We’ll be gone most of the night, probably,” he said. “See if Kyra could come and stay. She could make a bed on the couch.” He nodded, hung up, turned to Brandy, and knelt beside her. Her eyelids fluttered. “Feeling better?”

  She murmured, “I think so.”

  “Lie still,” he said. “We’ve got to wait for the detective, anyway.”

  “Call the emergency room at Shands. Ask if.…” Her voice trailed away.

  John located Hope’s small stash of liquors and rummaged through the few bottles to find a small one of brandy. “Looks like your grandmother enjoyed a snort or two on long evenings.” He pressed a brandy snifter to her lips.

  “Call!” Brandy repeated, tearing up.

  John found the phone book and punched in the hospital number. “I’m family,” he said tersely when an emergency room nurse answered, “We need to ask about Mrs. O’Bannon. My wife’s her only relative.”

  Brandy thought, there’s no reason John would mention Snug. Snug would be delighted if something happened to Hope. She’d threatened to report him to the Sheriff’s Office.

  Brandy clutched her blanket and waited. “Well, that’s something,” he said finally and patted his wife on the shoulder. “She’s still breathing. They don’t know yet how severely she was hurt, but it’s bad.”

  Within the half hour the doorbell rang. A plainclothes detective was standing on the porch when John opened the front door, his unmarked car at the curb.

  “Sergeant Ham Noble,” he said. He pulled a wallet-sized brown leather case from his pocket, flipped it open, and showed John his gold star emblazoned with Alachua County Sheriff’s Office.He

  wore a black rain slicker over an open-necked shirt and tan slacks and he spoke quietly, but with such authority that Patches jumped down from the windowsill and slunk under an overstuffed chair in the living room.

  “I met your wife recently.” The detective strode through both front rooms, casting a practiced eye on the floor and furniture. “In connection with the murder of Captain Hunter. Coincidence?”

  “My wife won’t think so.”

  The Sergeant didn’t respond. In the kitchen he reached the same conclusion John had. “Looks like the woman came home and just dropped her groceries and mail on the table.”

  He studied the floor, spotted a few grains of birdseed, and glanced out into the yard, now almost dark. “Looks like she went right out to that feeder.” He too
k a spiral notepad from his upper breast pocket and made a few notes, then pulled a small camera from a zippered raincoat pocket, snapped photographs of the rooms, and stepped out onto the porch.

  He turned to John. “That’s where you found her, by the bird-feeder?”

  Brandy, who had not chosen to interrupt, sat bolt upright. She recognized the oval face and strong features, the shock of gray hair angling across his forehead, the shrewd blue eyes. “I found her, Sergeant,” she said, stressing the I. “And yes, she was lying beside it, on her stomach.” She raised her voice. “If you remember, I thought Shot Hunter’s death was tied to my great-grandmother’s. You wouldn’t listen.”

  Noble wiped a large hand across his mouth. “We’ll look into that. Could be a coincidence.”

  Brandy swung her legs down from the lounge. “I don’t like coincidences.”

  Noble went on out into the wet back yard. “No tracks we can identify here. Too much traffic when the medics went in and out. Couldn’t be helped.” He raised his eyebrows and again looked at John. “The yard’s pretty muddy. I don’t find signs that anyone tracked through the front rooms, but you can see traces of grass and dirt in the kitchen and on the porch.”

  John frowned. “I had to carry my wife inside. After they removed her grandmother, she felt faint.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Can’t be helped.” He took a handkerchief from a pocket, held it over the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped out again into the rain to snap more shots. In a few minutes he came back in, shaking moisture off his raincoat. “Looks like a damned army marched through the yard and out the gate.” He glanced around again. “I’ll send the techs to dust for prints. We’ll need both of your prints and your grandmother’s, of course.”