Micanopy in Shadow

by Ann Cook

  No woman would write in such a jagged, masculine hand. The first words on the page ended a previous sentence. “… worry about you. I hear about the Spanish flu in the northern states and fear it will come to Georgia. Tell your mother she will be in danger. I hear it spreads quickly and easily. I’ve been transferred again and will likely find it harder to mail letters. Do keep writing, though, dear girl. I will get your letters eventually. I will have lots to tell you, soon I hope.”

  The bottom of the page had been ripped off, and its outer edges singed. Brandy sighed.

  Hope set her cup down. Her voice was subdued. “If my mother’s own mother came from Georgia, she probably did, too. We don’t know from where in the state. Her mother must have been around flu victims, though.” She looked disapprovingly at the piece of a page, as if it were deliberately concealing information. “The truth is, I think the letter has something to do with what happened in Micanopy, but there’s no real evidence of that. My mother could’ve carried it to Micanopy for other reasons. This page could’ve been separated from the rest of the letter, and she took the rest with her.”

  Brandy made a few more notes. What was Ada’s relationship to this correspondent? He showed concern for her, true, but not enough to explain it. Brandy edged the letter fragment back into the envelope. “At least he sounds literate. But how did the paper get wet and burned? Maybe during the war. The letter had to be significant for her to keep it.”

  Hope’s long fingers curled firmly around her cup. “The fact is, I keep thinking my father might’ve written it. Of course, that could be wishful thinking.”

  “Identifying him is almost as important as identifying your mother.” Brandy feared the answer would not be comforting, considering the outcome for Ada. She didn’t voice her concern.

  Brandy opened the much larger manila envelope, also clearly not old. Inside were four folded newspapers. The first Gainesville Daily Sun was dated October 3, 1921, the next ones on the 5th and the 11th. The final one had appeared October 26. As she settled back to read, the cat sauntered into the kitchen, stretched each hind leg again with care, surveyed Brandy with ears laid back, and leapt into the chair next to Hope. After she settled down with a display of fluffy, white vest, Hope reached over and stroked her black, silky back. She must have read the articles over so often that she knew them by heart.

  Brandy had worked as a reporter at the Gainesville paper and found its predecessor of interest. The style and news selections didn’t differ much, although as she flipped through the pages, she saw this earlier paper featured far more society news and farm market reports. National news in the same issue covered California’s notorious Fatty Arbuckle murder trial and Babe Ruth’s fifty-ninth home run.

  A number of stories made clear the hard life of black citizens in the 1920s. A lead story in the October 3 paper involved Negroes who had been rushed by deputies to Macon just ahead of a lynch mob. A coroner’s jury determined they had killed a white man. On page 2 Brandy found the one with a Micanopy date line about Ada Losterman. The head told the story:

  Unknown Woman Found Drowned

  Town marshall Zeke Wilson reported finding the body of an unknown woman floating in a pond off Smith Street late yesterday. It was first spotted at sunset by two boys gigging frogs. Nearby residents denied hearing any unusual noise or seeing any disturbance in the area. The woman appears to be blonde and in her early twenties. She wore a white blouse and black skirt, and an embroidered shawl was found nearby. She carried no identification. The body appeared to have been in the water at least 24 hours.

  Wilson asks anyone who has knowledge of the woman to notify him or the Alachua County Sheriff’s Office in Gainesville.

  The October 5 paper featured an on-going trial in Atlanta of the Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. The first page also carried an announcement that President Harding would commemorate the Unknown Soldier in Washington. One story referred to the June murder of a County Deputy Sheriff in Micanopy. He attempted to make an arrest on a concealed weapons charge. Four months later the killer had been caught and hanged. Brandy frowned. Swift justice, indeed. She recalled the dark, cramped cinder block jail she had spotted on the west side of town.

  She noticed a story about a loss of electricity on the night of October 2 that plunged Gainesville, and presumably Micanopy, into absolute darkness. At last she found the item she was looking for:

  Mystery Woman in Micanopy Only One Day, Leaves Child

  Sheriff Arletta of the Alachua County Sheriff’s Office announced today that the woman whose body was found October 2 had stopped at the Haven Hotel October 1, but had not yet registered. She left her little girl, who appears to be about three, and her luggage with the owner, Abigail Haven, promising to return shortly. Arletta asks anyone who has knowledge of the woman to notify the Sheriff’s Office in Gainesville. Materials in her luggage do not identify her, except to give her first name as “Ada.” She wore no wedding ring.

  On the afternoon of October 1 merchant Caleb Stark saw her at his dry goods store on Cholokka Boulevard. Stark said she asked him about employment, saying she might stay in town.

  Town marshall Ezekiel Wilson said he thought he saw the woman, but did not speak to her. No one else who saw her has come forward, although Mr. Stark said he thought someone picked her up in a motorcar. Handyman Jacob Hall, who works at the dry goods store, confirmed the fact. He told the town marshall that she walked to the corner and stepped into a car, but he could not describe the vehicle.

  The minister of the Baptist Church on Smith Street, Pastor Wilmont Blunder, saw her pass the church on foot late that afternoon.

  Mrs. Haven notified Wilson when the woman did not return to the hotel by nightfall. He and volunteers searched for her that night without success.

  The only items authorities found was a doll the child had been playing with and a few articles of clothing, a letter fragment, and a prayer book in the woman’s luggage. A gold and black brooch pendant of a woman’s profile had been clutched in her hand when she drowned. Further inquiries are being made. In a few days Coroner Joseph Johnson will submit his report.

  At this time Abigail and Sylvester Haven have permission from county authorities to take care of the child, who says her name is “Hope.” Anyone who has information about mother or child is urged to contact the Sheriff’s Office.

  On October 11 the paper reported on a Confederate solders’ reunion in Chattanooga and on the Armistice Day parade planned in Micanopy on November 11 to commemorate the end of the Great War. A one-column photo showed a Micanopy soldier in uniform. He had enlisted in 1917 in Company D-4 of the Florida Home Guard. Brandy knew that in 1921 World War I would still be fresh in people’s minds.

  Crime news featured a special agent on the Atlanta Coastline Railroad who shot an unauthorized passenger. The Losterman story on page 3 was brief.

  Mystery Woman Still Unidentified Coroner to Report

  The Sheriff’s Office has learned nothing further to help identify the woman’s body found earlier this month in Micanopy in the pond off Smith Street. No missing persons have been reported who match her description. The child is too young to give coherent facts, but seems to say that her full name is “Hope Losterman.” Mrs. Haven quoted the child as repeating, ‘I’m Hope. I’m Hope.’ Then she added ‘Losterrnan.’ The Sheriff’s Office is making efforts to locate her family. The Coroner who examined the body has appointed a jury that will make a report on October 25, allowing time for additional facts to emerge.

  If anyone has further information, please notify Town mar-shall Zeke Wilson or the Alachua County Sheriff’s Office.

  Brandy turned to the final paper, October 26. The coroner’s report appeared on page 3.

  Mystery Woman Judged Suicide

  The case of the woman who drowned in Micanopy October 1 was settled yesterday by the Coroner’s Jury at 2 P.M. in the Cou
nty Courthouse As no further evidence was brought forward, Coroner Joseph Johnson reported the jury found the twenty-two or twenty-three year old unknown female committed suicide by drowning in the pond near Smith Street and Division. Her effects will be kept for the foreseeable future by the Alachua County Sheriff’s Office in the hope that information may later identify her. If not, her effects will be turned over to her daughter when she is of age.

  If the family fails to come forward, the Sylvester Havens have petitioned to adopt the child. Two years ago they lost their own two-year-old daughter tragically to diphtheria.

  The Micanopy Women’s Club will solicit funds to cover burial costs. The president of the newly formed Chamber of Commerce. Richard Carlson, volunteered that his organization would also contribute. If others wish to, they may contact Sybil Irons, President of the Women’s Club, at her home on Whiting Street or Attorney Carlson at his office on Cholokka Boulevard.

  “May I take these stories home and make copies?” Brandy asked. Her grandmother nodded and cleared away the cups and saucers. Brandy noticed the news story reported that Ada had no wedding ring. In the 1920s, the Women’s Club was unusually generous to fund the burial of an unmarried mother. John said the Irons family flourished in Micanopy for several generations. If Sybil Irons took an interest in 1921 in the case, perhaps her descendents would as well. Asking Mr. Irons what he knew was worth a shot. The town marshall of that day had firsthand information, but he would have died years ago. His relatives might know something. Someone in town knew who she was in 1921.

  “What have you learned about the monument?” Brandy asked.

  Her grandmother slumped in her chair. On moments like this, when she wasn’t starting some vigorous enterprise, her face looked gaunt. “Virtually nothing. According to the sheriff’s office then, the order was specific and anonymous—and paid for in cash. For several years after Ada’s death, someone left flowers on her grave. In the 1940s the company that made the monument was sold, and that company went out of business in the 1950s. Cemetery records only show the location of the plot and the name of the deceased.”

  “That leaves the jewelry,” Brandy said, glancing down at the box.

  Her grandmother ran her fingers tenderly across the narrow surface. “The truth is, this is the object I care most about. It’s something my mother must’ve worn when she drowned. I bought the box to keep it in.” Her eyes turned gravely to Brandy. “The town marshall said she held it at the last, like she was trying to save it. It had to mean a lot to her.”

  She opened the slim box and held it up. “I probably showed it to you when you were younger.” Brandy peered down at an oval cameo shell with a gold frame. A broken chain hung from a loop on a swivel at the top. “I’ve had it identified. It’s a 14 karat Victorian brooch or pendant. The portrait on the cameo is a lady in the Etruscan period. Unfortunately, it was a popular piece in the 1920s and not traceable.”

  Brandy had seen it when she was a college student, but she had not been as interested in her great-grandmother’s story then. The profile was in ivory, the upper bust draped in a tunic, and the background a golden orange. A leaf rested on the visible shoulder, and grapes and leaves decorated her upswept hair. Her features were classic: straight nose, large eyes, prominent chin. Brandy estimated the piece at about two inches by an inch and a half.

  Her grandmother sighed and closed the box. “We had it cleaned, of course. It was a pretty expensive piece at the time, but not uncommon.”

  Again, Brandy made notes. “I’ll get out my copy of the monument poem. A suitably tragic one, of course. Must have a deeper meaning, some relationship to Ada’s own story.” She gathered up the envelopes and laid them with care in her canvas bag. “A few leads here, maybe. But it’s been a long time. Even considering today’s computerized records, clues grow cold and witnesses die. Has anyone else looked at this case?”

  She didn’t expect the answer. “Oh, yes,” Hope said. “When I was little, for years a sheriff’s detective kept after it. But it wasn’t a high priority for the Sheriff.” She let her shoulders rise and fall. “He died several years ago. The detective, I mean. Sheriff, too, for that matter.”

  “Anyone recently, in the last few years? Someone I could interview?”

  Hope’s response sounded impatient. “The detective’s son made captain in the same division. He talked to me several times. He tried to follow up his father’s few leads. It was almost an obsession, finding out who Mother was, why she would kill herself. But suicide’s not a crime. They never called her death ‘murder.’”

  “Is the captain still around?”

  “He retired last year. S. L. Hunter. People call him ‘Shot.’ He might go over the facts with you. He never learned much. I didn’t hear from him in over a year. Then he moved to Micanopy and bought a house a few streets away. He called to give me his new phone number.” She reached for a pencil and pad on the kitchen counter and a small directory. “He won’t be in the phone book yet. I’ll jot it down.” She handed Brandy the slip.

  Then she straightened her back, clasped her hands together, and looked hard at Brandy. “We’ll never find a living informant, but I have an answer to that. Promise you’ll listen. I’ve been reading laymen’s books about physics—trying to learn more about this strange universe.”

  Brandy stirred, puzzled. What was the connection? “I’ve got to leave soon, Grandmother. Brad will need his supper and I need to relieve the sitter. When Brandy mentioned her son, she made a connection of her own. Brad was two, almost three—the same age as the abandoned Hope.

  “Hear me out. Did you know that Brian Greene—a physicist who won a Pulitzer Prize—says that past, present, and future are illusions? The fact is, Einstein agreed. I’ll show you.”

  Brandy slung the straps of her bag over her shoulder, but stayed seated and watched as her grandmother rose and picked up a paperback on the counter. Brandy could read the title above a filmy green band on the cover, The Fabric of the Cosmos. Hope flipped to a page with a bookmark and read aloud, “Reality encompasses all of the events in spacetime.” She laid the page open before Brandy and pointed to a diagram. Her eyes were lively now. “We all exist in space and time, of course. They’re inseparable. Greene explains that spacetime’s like a loaf of bread; each person’s every moment is an ultra thin slice. The loaf is always there. Every event that has ever happened is still there.”

  Brandy began to glimpse where this topic was leading. Her grandmother must believe that Ada’s drowning still existed somewhere in the continuum of spacetime. “But where does that get us in this investigation?”

  “Don’t you see?” Once again Hope was a teacher, Brandy a slow student. “Spacetime doesn’t appear and disappear. It doesn’t really flow at all.”

  The cat leaped down from the chair, flattened her shiny black ears to the sides, and crept under the table. Apparently she didn’t like to hear that time didn’t flow.

  Hope leaned forward, her voice earnest. “We cannot go back in time. Physicists haven’t worked out the equations to explain why.

  But events that seem gone forever still exist. We just can’t access them.”

  Brandy smiled and cocked her head at Hope. “I’m impressed that you spend your retirement reading physics instead of playing bingo, Grandmother. But dead end there, if there’s no way to access the past.” She stood to go. It was 4:00 and the bird clock poured forth the mournful call of the loon.

  Her grandmother did not concede. “Not at all.” Her steely expression reminded Brandy of the defiant stone face in the cemetery. “Because we can’t access events in the past doesn’t mean no one can. That’s exactly what really good mediums do.”

  With a triumphant flourish, she took a note card from her pocket and showed it to Brandy. “Here’s the name of an excellent one in Cassadaga. I saw her once. She held a ring of your grandfather’s and astounded me w
ith a message from him. And about him. Well, the truth is, both were right on target. This woman may help us find out what happened to Ada.”

  Brandy stiffened. She’d heard about Cassadaga, the oldest spiritualist center in the Southeast. She also knew what John would say. Mediums know only what their customers know. They deduce their apparent knowledge from cues. Hope was listening to New Age science. The leap was huge between Einstein’s theory of time and the claims of mediums.

  But Hope was continuing. “I don’t feel up to the long drive there yet. You’re more gifted, intuitively, anyway.” Brandy saw the demand coming. Hope had this request in mind when she first asked for Brandy’s help.

  Hope dropped the card into Brandy’s bag. “I want you to take this brooch of Ada’s and see the medium. I asked the library to hold a few books for you on the subject.” Her fingers caressed the long thin box, then handed it to Brandy. “You’ll take care of it?”

  “Of course.”

  Hope’s brow creased in a worry line. “Better go well armed. Take the prayer book, too. Added insurance.”

  Brandy nodded. She was much more interested in meeting the flesh and blood officer who researched the Losterman case than a phantom conjured up by a medium. She glanced at the Cassadaga business card her grandmother gave her.

  She would call both Captain Hunter and Adele Marco, the medium.

  THREE

  On the way home Brandy stopped at the public library that adjoined the Town Hall, ducked under the blue-canopied entrance, and picked up the two books Hope had reserved for her. She added an issue of the Skeptical Inquirer and by 5:00 was dashing up the stairs to relieve her sitter. She and John had rented a three-room apartment in a white frame building above a café. Brandy’s self-confidence about the case already wavered. Who could help her with a mysterious death so long ago? Everyone with first hand knowledge was dead. Her best hope was to get her hands on Shot Hunter’s records.