Micanopy in Shadow (12 page)

The old man stirred. He didn’t like losing control of the interview. “Look for a clipping from the Gainesville paper. They run a picture when Papa got elected sheriff. That’d be 1928. ’Course he spent a few years as deputy and then captain at first.”

Grant flipped through several folders and pulled out one stuffed with newspaper articles. After more searching, he located the election story, preserved in a plastic sleeve, and handed it to Brandy. She scanned it quickly, staring hard at the disappointingly small photograph. It showed an imposing, full-length figure in uniform. The face was not clear, but she tried to recognize in it the pleasantly angular features of the great-grandson, now about the same age. She saw more resemblance to Grant than to the Marshall’s own son in the wheelchair. She realized she was searching for yet another likeness—that of her own grandmother. Could the Zeke Wilson have had a much earlier encounter with Ada and met her again that last day?

He admitted seeing her. Could he be the one she planned to meet all along? Was she an unwed mother, laying claim to her child’s father? World War I ended only three years before. Both Caleb Stark and Zeke Wilson had recently returned from the War. It could be the “peril” Ada referred to in the prayer book. Brandy would check their service records. She began to jot notes.

The possibility that she was related to either Caleb Stark or the man in the wheelchair was disturbing. She put the thought aside and handed back the story with the photo.

With an exultant smile, Grant brought forth a fat folder. Brandy was disappointed to find that any papers written in Zeke Wilson’s own hand had been re-typed, copied in an effort to preserve them. The originals would have been lost or destroyed. There was no way to compare the Marshall’s handwriting with that of the letter fragment.

The records included formal reports, written to the Sheriff’s Office. The case had, after all, become the responsibility of that office. The Marshall’s investigation was only preliminary. Much of his material was echoed in the newspaper account. Brandy zeroed in on two reports, accompanied by additional notes—the initial interview with Pastor Blunder and the one with Caleb Stark Sr.

“Grant, would you see if there’s anything in the files about moonshining in the Micanopy area?”

While Grant dug farther into the files, Brandy turned her attention to the information supplied by Pastor Blunder. The young woman he saw seemed to stagger. He was disgusted; thought she was drunk. He figured her condition contributed to her drowning. Later the Pastor recalled seeing a car pass. He heard the engine soon after Ada stumbled by, but he hadn’t paid attention and couldn’t identify its make. If he felt any responsibility for not helping her, he never voiced it. But he did remember something else. About the same time, he glimpsed the black girl who worked across the street. He was sure he saw her come out of the back door, pause, and look across the road and then leave. But again, he was writing his sermon and didn’t pay close attention.

Brandy tapped her finger on the page. Had Zeke Wilson followed up by talking to the servant?

Grant thrust another folder toward Brandy. “Moonshine notes.” Brandy flipped through the typed pages. The Marshall had noted how corn liquor was made from fermented corn mash; then distilled into “white lightning.” He gave the locations of several isolated pine woods stills near Micanopy, all broken up with axes by revenue agents. Most guilty men were fined and released then to set up their stills a few days later somewhere else.

When a federal revenue agent’s body was found October 7, 1921, in remote pine woods near Micanopy, Wilson had interviewed several area men. One of the names jumped out at Brandy—Caleb Stark. The agent was last seen in Stark’s dry goods store on October 1, the day Ada drowned. Could be coincidence, of course. Caleb told the deputy he knew nothing about the agent. Brandy made notes and handed the folder back. “I’m looking for information about an interview with a maid who might have been a witness to Ada’s drowning,” she said.

Grant leafed through more papers. “Here’s all I can find.” He gave her one half page. It referred to the Marshall’s interview with Rosebud Washington, aged fifteen. He gave the place and date of their conversation, and then logged the notation “nigger maid acts scared. Says she finished the ironing and went home as usual. Employers not home. Claims she saw nothing. Says she walked home the back way and never looked at the pond. Says she heard nothing.”

Would a black witness in 1921, especially a girl of fifteen, ever speak freely to a white law officer?

“Got to remember,” Grant said. “The Klan was powerful then. A lot of supposedly upstanding citizens belonged.” Brandy sat back as he returned the files and snapped shut the lid. She looked at Old Man Wilson and did the math. “You were about eleven years old when my great-grandmother died,” she said. “Do you have any memory of the case? It was pretty sensational.”

Savage Wilson flashed his crooked teeth in a wolfish grin, still a hint of rakishness in those darting blue eyes. He seemed to relish being included again in the conversation and unleashed a bombshell. “Papa said she was a real pretty gal. Said he spent time with her. Never said when. He was right smart upset when they pulled her body out of that water hole. Said she had a knockout figure. Every fool saw her, thought that.”

Zeke Wilson’s visit with Ada never made the papers—or Wilson’s report to the Sheriff’s Office. Did that incriminate the highly respected Marshall? He would advance to much higher offices.

EIGHT
 

Brandy had thrust her note pad back into her bag and was ready to leave when she glanced up and saw in the living room doorway a woman with arms thick as the branches of an oak. Her black oxfords were set wide apart and her head slightly lowered. She reminded Brandy of a bull spoiling for a fight. The woman could have been any age from fifty to seventy. Her grayish hair was pulled back and severely parted in the middle; her tiny eyes were those of her father’s.

Grant opened the screen door. “We’re just going, Aunt Liz,” he said. The little eyes cut around sharply at Brandy, but he didn’t introduce her.

“Reporters won’t get nothing here,” the woman said anyway. She barged into the room, seized her father’s chair, and wheeled him back into the house.

Grant guided Brandy quickly down the front steps. “Don’t mind Aunt Liz. She doesn’t want anything to spoil the school dedication.”

“Dedication?”

“New grade school. They’re naming it after my great-grandfather: Ezekiel Wilson Elementary School. Aunt Liz doesn’t want bad publicity about the family hero.

At the gate Brandy murmured, “But why didn’t the great town marshall report that he’d been with Ada?”

Grant remained silent.

Later, as she turned onto Route 441 for the drive home, she glanced in the rear view mirror. The small silver sedan behind her had begun to look familiar, but it was always too far away for her to see the driver. It was one of the most common colors for cars, of course. Her concern was momentary.

At 4:30 Brandy drew up at her apartment, still mentally processing the tidbits she gathered from Savage Wilson. Upstairs Sheshauna had joined Kyra. While Brandy paid the sitter, Sheshauna closed her notebook and picked up her statistics text.

Brandy turned to her. “Kyra probably told you already. I’m looking into my great-grandmother’s drowning in 1921.” Once again the dark eyes flickered. “At the time the Baptist pastor identified a possible witness, a young black girl named Rosebud Washington. Do you know if her family is still in the area?”

Sheshauna slipped into her jacket. Balancing book and notebook against one slim hip, she sucked in her lips and pondered the question. “Maybe,” she said finally. “I’ll ask around and call you.”

After they left, Brandy knelt beside Brad. He was pounding his blocks angrily on the floor. She handed him a puzzle. He dropped the blocks to consider one of the large, colorful puzzle pieces, turning it curiously in his fat little fingers. “Bwock?” he asked. She showed him how to fit them together.

While he was distracted, Brandy took her seat at the computer and checked her bank balance. Her publisher had deposited another sizable royalty. Next she dialed the number of the Micanopy Historical Society’s archivist. The woman who answered sounded efficient and eager to be helpful.

“I can see you promptly tomorrow at 2:00,” she said in a definite tone. “I need to get lunch first for my husband.”

Brandy was still at her desk, adding to her case notes, when John’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. The morning’s trauma flashed back. She dropped her pencil, closed the notebook, and rushed to the door. Wordlessly as he opened it, she encircled him in her arms and held tight. John was her anchor.

He set his briefcase on the floor and kissed her forehead. “What’s this all about?”

Brandy laid her face against his cheek. “Crime scenes are so awful! I wish you’d been with me.” She needed to describe the whole experience—Hunter’s white, startled face, the way he apparently slid to the floor, the slivers of cardboard, his pathetic lost slipper. John might be impatient with mediums and her grandmother’s theory about time, but he’d want to know about the murder of Shot Hunter.

* * *

After a leisurely supper of chicken salad and BLTs and a complete description of the crime scene and interrogation, Brandy cleaned the sink and stacked the dishwasher. “No pool tonight?” she asked.

“Not going to leave you tonight,” John said. “I’ll work on the final schedule for the Irons house. But first, I’ll bathe Brad and put him to bed tonight. You relax.”

“Thought I’d stop by the house myself tomorrow afternoon, if the Irons will be there. I have an appointment at 2:00, but it shouldn’t take long.”

“Montgomery plans to be there, I know. He’d be pleased.”

Brandy looked forward to a quiet evening, glad not to be alone. She did have facts to follow up. There was more research to do on the Internet. Ada also carried part of a letter. The writer said that her mother was in danger from the Spanish flu. A woman wasn’t likely to be a doctor then, but she might be a nurse. He had written, “the epidemic might come to Georgia.” Nurses would be vulnerable. When did the deadly disease hit Georgia?

In a few Google clicks Brandy learned that, although the flu had been worse on the eastern seaboard, it reached Atlanta in 1918. The city council closed all public gathering places. The flu struck Augusta’s Camp Hancock on October 1. By October 10 flu cases began to diminish, but the sick would linger in the hospital. Brandy made a note to contact Atlanta hospitals operating in the 1920s. Maybe she could identify Ada’s mother.

She turned to her notes on Zeke Wilson. He had been a hero in World War 1 and Stark had also served. Both were wounded in France. Were any other veterans of World War I from Micanopy? Service overseas could account for the travel reference in the letter, as well as the danger implied by the prayer book passages.

From a University of Florida website, Brandy learned that its library had a three-volume set of reference books that included documents by the Florida Department of Military Affairs. The books listed all Florida’s World War I Army veterans and gave their surname, serial number, race, town and county of residence, place of enlistment, place and date of birth, and the degree to which they were wounded. It also recorded the unit each served with, dates of their assignments, transfers, place of training, rank, and combat engagements.

Brandy felt overwhelmed by the data. A quick trip to Gainesville should net the names of Micanopy’s overseas World War I veterans and the details of their service.

Brandy listed two other tasks for tomorrow: find out more about the revenue agent’s murder, and follow up complaints about her cousin Snug at
Trinkets and Treasures
. She should examine both store records and the arrangement for joint ownership. If store operations seemed sloppy, Brandy might be able to persuade Snug to sell to the potential buyer next door.

She rose and looked in on Brad, asleep in his crib. Nothing looked sweeter than a sleeping child. She sighed. Hope had been only a little older than Brad when she last saw her mother. Brandy picked up her notebook and for a moment considered Hope’s foster parents. She knew little about the Havens, except that Abigail Haven longed to replace the daughter who died. Hunter had considered another possible motive—the money wealthy citizens contributed to the abandoned child’s upkeep.

Several years later Abigail finally bore a son—the boy reared as Hope’s little brother; therefore the muddle about ownership of the antique shop.

At 10:00 A.M. Brandy shut down the computer, closed her notebook, and chilled two glasses of Pinot Grigio. Time for a little togetherness. Time to listen to whatever CD John selected from his ample classical and jazz collection. She nestled close to him on the couch and concentrated on the resounding notes of the “Eroica.”

Later at bedtime, a final image haunted her—the ashen face and dead eyes of Shot Hunter. Her own grew moist. He’d bought a home here for his wife and looked forward to living in this quiet town—only to face betrayal, desertion, and death.

* * *

Wednesday morning smoky looking clouds began to mass again in the east. Brandy hurried across the street to beat the rain and paused before
Treasures and Trinkets.
She peered through one dusty window. On the top shelf were sets of Depression glass and four ruby red goblets. A stack of Fostoria bowls, a covered butter dish, a white creamer, and a set of cake plates with amber handles had all been crammed onto a short shelf below. Her grandmother would never arrange those crowded displays or ignore the condition of the plate glass. Outside, two scruffy looking young men parked their Harley Davidsons and ambled into
Trinkets and Treasures
.