Micanopy in Shadow (17 page)

“I located an old lady who comes from that family. Like, she knows a lot of family stories. Most of the Washingtons died out or moved away.”

A knowledgeable source, however distantly related to the young witness, was the best Brandy could hope for. “Where does she live and what’s her name?”

“Out in the country on a small farm near Evinton. You know the old post office?”

John and Brandy had driven through that area on their way to Marjorie Kennan Rawlings’ house on Cross Creek.

“Mattie Washington’s her name. She’s hasn’t got a phone. Just ask the postmistress how to find her place. I couldn’t tell you, not easily, but I went out and talked to her, and she said for you to come by.”

Brandy’s fingers tightened around the phone. “When can I visit?”

“She’s not going anywhere in the next few days, Mrs. Able.”

As John rose from the table and sauntered into the living room, she thought with sudden dread of the ferocious Aunt Liz. What if she ran into another such caretaker? “Does Mrs. Washington have somebody there to look after her?”

“Not really. Her son’s wife does a lot of her shopping and looks in on her. She’s nice. Mrs. Washington gets around with a cane, but she still drives.”

“I do appreciate this, Sheshauna.”

“It’s okay, but I hope you’ll share what you learn. I’ve always been curious myself. I think there was some secret about the lady who drowned all those years ago, I mean—you know, a secret among local black folks. I’ve seen them look away when the case was mentioned, or clam up around us kids.” Brandy had begun to realize that sharing her information might cause trouble. But she promised.

When Brandy joined John, he was inserting Chopin’s Nocturne in C Sharp Minor in the CD player. She poured two glasses of merlot, and stood on the porch, welcoming the clear, sweet notes of the piano, and glad he’d foregone his frequent favorite, Gustaf Mahler. She wasn’t in the mood for heavy emotion, no matter how moving. Cholokka Boulevard lay bathed in the soft glow of Florida’s brief twilight. Its buildings were still and quiet, as if they harbored the black community’s secret themselves. The hibiscus gradually turned darker in the advancing shadows. The phone trilled again.

This time the call came from Hope. Brandy heard both anxiety and excitement in her voice. “I’ve got something to show you,” she said. “Can you come over?”

“You mean, right now. Can’t you tell me about it on the phone?”

“You really need to see this yourself. I’m puzzled and I’m intrigued.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

The teacher edge sliced into her grandmother’s tone. “Please, listen. This concerns you and Mother’s death. It’s really a note for you. You have to decide what to do by tomorrow.”

Brandy faced John and lifted her free hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I’ll be there directly,” she said.

* * *

As Brandy opened her grandmother’s unlocked front door and stooped to scratch under the cat’s chin, her gaze traveled beyond the living and dining rooms to the kitchen. Hope was hanging up the kitchen phone. Brandy shed her sweater and set her bag on a chair. She could smell freshly baked cookies, but they could be for Hope’s church circle.

“That was Snug,” Hope said. “I called him myself. I told him what you said to me about his record keeping and the way he’s managing the store. Said I intended to change how things were being done or he was gone.” Hope moved to the stove and started the teakettle for tea.

“And how did he react?”

“Oh, he said I couldn’t change things, I couldn’t make him sell the store,” She jerked her head up, her tone fierce. “I said I’d hire an attorney and we’d find a way. I said you’d help me.”

Brandy wished Hope had not threatened Snug, at least not yet. Now he would be alert.

When Hope set teacups on the table, Brandy was relieved to see the cookie jar opened. “Let me get the tea first, and I’ll fetch the note.” Her grandmother poured steaming water into their cups, laid a cookie on the edge of each saucer—perhaps a peace offer-ing—and left the room with her usual determined stride. In a few minutes she sailed back and sank down at the table, the muscles of her forehead and cheeks tense, but her gray eyes glowing. “I want you to read this yourself. See what you think.”

She thrust toward Brandy a sheet of ordinary white computer paper, printed with a letter three-quarters of a page long. “This could be the break we’re waiting for.”

ELEVEN
 

“The letter is addressed to me, but it’s really for you,” Hope said. “See what you think. It must’ve been hand-delivered after 4:00, while I was shopping. That’s when the mail came, and it was on top of the letters.”

The single sheet was typed in a regular font and lacked a date. Brandy scanned it, then read it aloud.

“Dear Mrs. O’Bannon,

You may not remember me, but my wife and I were birders with you and your husband years ago, although we weren’t regulars. We once saw the sandhill cranes migrate in around Thanksgiving together.

I’m connected to one of the families your granddaughter contacted. Over the years I’ve overheard information about your mother’s drowning that might be helpful, but my family is very secretive about it.

If your granddaughter is interested, I’ll be at Paynes Prairie tomorrow, Saturday.

I won’t know until I talk to a ranger in the morning which trail will be the best for a sighting of the sedge wren, but I’ll leave word at the entrance. I’ll be there about 3:30. Your granddaughter can find me by the tripod I’ll set up near the trail. Please destroy this letter and don’t share this information with anyone else. I hope I can be helpful.

Robert B. Steadly.

That afternoon Brandy had heard the surname. She checked her notes to be certain—Cora Mae Stark’s maiden name—and felt a surge of excitement. “What do you think, Grandmother? Does this seem logical?”

The older woman sat for a moment, silent, her bent fingers turning the cup back and forth in its saucer. A slight frown creased her high forehead, and she sucked in her cheeks, making their bones more prominent. “I don’t remember Steadly,” she said at last. “That’s the truth. But your grandfather and I went there with groups many times. We did see the sandhill cranes come in more than once. The sedge wrens migrate to Payne’s Prarie in early October. He knows his birds.”

Hope took a small sip of tea. It must be cold now. Brandy looked up. “Where’s the envelope?”

Her grandmother reached for a legal-sized one lying on the kitchen counter. The name “Hope O’Bannon” had been typed on the front. It gave no return address.

“Cora Mae Stark is the sister-in-law of the current Caleb Stark.” Brandy’s voice rose. “Maybe Ada saw a murder commit-ted—or at least saw a body at the Stark Dry Goods Store when she went into a back office to use the phone.” Brandy had almost forgotten her half-eaten cinnamon cookie. She took a reflective bite. “I told Cora Mae about my interest. She’s already passed the information on to her family. In fact, I knew she would.”

Brandy slipped the letter back into the envelope. “I plan to attend the memorial service in Gainesville tomorrow morning for Detective Hunter, but my afternoon’s free. Even if he’s just a busybody or a crank, I don’t see any harm in going to see him. Anyway, I’m curious to see Paynes Prairie.” She dropped the envelope into her bag. “But I don’t plan to destroy the letter. I’ll give it back to him when I see him.”

Brandy looked past the back porch. Outside had grown dark. Brandy could scarcely make out the shape of the turkey oak in her grandmother’s yard. Only a sliver of silver highlighted the closest branch. Tomorrow the slice of moon would be even thinner. “I wish we were meeting a little earlier. It gets dark so quickly now.”

But Hope could not restrain her eagerness. Her eyes shone and the tightness around her lips relaxed. She almost whispered again, “This could be our big break.”

Brandy stood. “I hope so.” Her gaze was still on the twisted limb, a moving shadow in the slight wind.

John would not like the Paynes Prairie appointment. Of that, she was certain. When she arrived home, she found that she was right. He lifted his left eyebrow and pronounced the writer a crackpot. Otherwise, he’d divulge his information—if he had any—in the open. He urged caution. Brandy listened, but she had made up her mind. She’d never find out anything if she took his advice.

She had noted two other appointments on her desk calendar. She and her grandmother must confront Cousin Snug. And she must make time for a meeting with the woman in Evinston. From her, Brandy might finally hear the rumors about Ada’s death circulating for years in the black community.

In bed that night she couldn’t find a comfortable position, couldn’t fall asleep, troubled about her disagreement with John and anxious about what lay ahead. Rain that had begun quietly soon beat against the roof and wind whined around the corners of the house. She finally gave up and went into the kitchen for a small bowl of cereal and milk, then crawled back into bed and finally slept.

Brandy awoke in the morning, still tired, and almost sorry she had slept at all. In a nightmare, she had lain in darkness, helpless, staring up into glittering black eyes. She shivered and wondered which of the three upcoming interviews her subconscious dreaded.

* * *

Before John left for work the next morning, he stood at the door for a minute, the familiar concerned look in his eyes. “I’d feel better if you took someone with you. The guy could be setting you up.”

“I can’t. Smeadly’s very particular about secrecy. But I’ll carry my cell. The park’s well staffed with rangers, and it even has its own police.” She continued setting breakfast dishes in the sink. “Paynes Prairie closes at sunset, which is about 7:00. I hope I can leave earlier. I’ll call you. I’ll do my sight-seeing before he gets there.”

As John reached for the doorknob, his parting shot was predictable. “You never listen. It’ll be a wild goose chase—or worse.”

What kind of an investigative journalist would she be if she feared every challenge? She finished tidying up the kitchen and turned to her other morning chore before leaving for the memorial service. At the computer she Googled Atlanta’s Grady Memorial Hospital, then called the telephone number. Several politely puzzled clerks passed her from one to the other, until someone in the accounting office told her no lists still existed of nurses there as early as 1921. After hearing the distress in Brandy’s voice, a woman in Human Resources finally volunteered to help. She knew the mother of a long retired nurse. Both mother and daughter had once worked at Grady Memorial and had connections there as far back as World War I. The employee would ask if either could remember anyone by the name Losterman. Brandy said she would call back in a day or two.

Kyra arrived alone at 9:00, carrying
Introduction to Work Practice
, another textbook for next semester. If the weather cleared, she planned to take Brad outside to bask in the cooler air of early October. If not, she’d read his
Mother Goose
book again.

Brandy kissed him on the forehead and drove to her grandmother’s house before leaving for the memorial service. She would go directly to Paynes Prairie from the funeral home and she might as well join the birder. She needed to borrow Hope’s binoculars, her
Peterson’s Field Guide to Eastern Birds,
and her bird checklist for Paynes Prairie.

Hope pulled a small, blue-and-white hardback from a bookcase on the porch. Brandy added the reference book to her canvas bag, along with a pair of medium-sized binoculars and her notepad and cell phone. “At least, I’m prepared,” she said.

* * *

The memorial service was held in the chapel of a funeral home. Interment would be south of Micanopy at the National Cemetery in Bushnell. Hunter had served in Viet Nam in the final year of the war. The casket was closed in compliance with Hunter’s instructions. An almost cloying fragrance rose from dozens of baskets of flowers. With a pang, Brandy wondered, did he think no one would be there who cared to see his body? She looked about but couldn’t identify his estranged wife.

Brandy had never seen so many officers in one place, most in uniform, some in plain clothes. It didn’t seem to matter that Shot Hunter’s superiors had criticized him while he served in the department. Brandy knew, and admired, the way law enforcement personnel closed around fellow officer in a crisis. The murder of a cop would bring down the full force of the law on the shooter. The Sheriff spoke, followed by a lieutenant and a captain. Near the rear of the chapel, Brandy spotted Sergeant Tennis. As soon as the service concluded with a final prayer, she walked over to the officer. She was rising to leave.

“How are you, Sergeant?” Brandy asked. “Sad occasion.”

Cool gray eyes surveyed her, then the officer nodded. Today she wore a white scarf knotted at the neck, a simple white blouse, and black slacks.

“Respectful turnout. Is the estranged wife here?” Brandy added.

Tennis gestured toward a plump woman of about fifty, her expression suitably solemn, standing to one side and occasionally exchanging a few words with one of the officers or their wives. None seemed pleased to see her. Beside her slouched an uncomfortable looking man of about the same age in a brown business suit, his white hair in a pompadour, his fingers fidgeting with the program. Clearly, the boyfriend would rather be anyplace else. The officers would have looked closely at him.