Micanopy in Shadow

by Ann Cook

  Brandy felt a tug at her heart. She thought of her father, a social studies teacher—gone now these twelve years.

  “He’s a person who dealt with a great many people in his career and was highly respected.” Again, Brandy’s skepticism surfaced. Her father certainly filled that bill, but most subjects would believe their loved ones did. “He wants you to know he is with you, watching over you.” The medium paused, adding “If you want to make contact with a specific person, I’d like to hold something of theirs.”

  Brandy reached into her bag and gave Ms. Marco the cameo brooch. The ivory face gleamed in the lamplight. As soon as Ms. Marco’s fingers closed over it, her eyes widened. She sat for a few seconds; then her hands began to shake. She gasped, “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible! Something’s very wrong. I feel enormous anxiety—a child in blue—and fear, terrible violence.” She lowered her penetrating gaze. When she raised her eyes again, the dark pupils were like the points of a chisel. “There’s danger in this piece of jewelry. Don’t use it. Don’t.” With a shudder, she handed back the brooch.

  Brandy stiffened and her thoughts raced. Had Ada felt such terror? Bewildered, she laid the brooch back in its narrow box, returned it to her canvas bag, and lifted out the prayer book. “I brought another item. See if this works better.”

  The medium still seemed flushed and disturbed. “I’ll try.” Her forehead contracted in a frown. “Let’s hope for something better.” She accepted the little volume and held it. No agitated reaction. Instead, her fingers caressed it. “Does the letter ‘A’ mean anything here?” she asked. “I can’t seem to get a full name.”

  Brandy voice was tight. “It might.”

  A tear slid down the medium’s cheek. “There’s danger here, too, but not the same kind. I sense awful grief.” She drew in her breath. “Danger and then this awful sadness.” Once more she waited a few seconds, her eyes moist. “I feel a longing, a yearning.” She shook her head. “It’s a very long time ago.” She lowered her eyes, then looked up. “This prayer book is almost too sad to handle.”

  “Can you tell me the nature of this sadness? What caused it?”

  Ms. Marco handed the little volume back. “Separation and loss, I think.” She leaned back with an air of finality and clasped her hands.

  The reading seemed to be over. “Anything else? Please!”

  Ms. Marco placed a finger on the recorder off button. “There are two people involved in the instances of the jewelry and the prayer book. One person seems involved in both, I think. The other two are different people.” She punched the off button. “Does that make sense to you?”

  Brandy’s expression was blank. “I don’t know. Can you tell me who caused the terror?”

  “My dear, I don’t think the one who’s so frightened even knows.”

  She handed over the tape and stood. When Brandy took the fifty dollars from her wallet, Ms. Marco hesitated. “I don’t believe I was able to go the full time. When someone comes with a specific expectation, the reading is more difficult. This one was very difficult.”

  “The reading was worth it,” Brandy said. Ada wasn’t alone when she died, and she had been terrified. It didn’t sound like suicide.

  Ms. Marco walked Brandy to the front door. “I know there are lots of charlatans in my work,” she said. “But I must warn you. Be very careful. I cannot predict accurately beyond three months. Too many things can change. But you have put yourself in danger—and also someone very close to you.”

  Time and again, her final words would resonate in Brandy’s mind.

  FIVE

  After the Sunday morning session with the medium, Brandy zipped through the Ocala National Forest by ten-thirty, her thoughts in turmoil. Rain threatened again, and thunder boomed in the west. Above the pines, lightning flared. Fortunately, traffic was sparse.

  Had Adele Marco actually pierced the veil of the past? Brandy might suspect murder only because she had investigated other cases. But this morning the medium’s vision confirmed her suspicion. No one except the dead woman’s daughter would still care how Ada died. Townspeople were curious, of course, but only Hope had grown old yearning for the truth.

  Under wind-driven branches, Brandy drove into Micanopy about 12:30. Rain now pounded the roof of her car and masked the windows of houses facing the road. Cholokka Boulevard seemed to close around her. No one else was on the street. The only sound came from water sloshing in the gutters and her windshield wipers beating back and forth. As the light from her head-lamps leapt before her from place to place on the wet pavement, she strained to follow the shimmering band, as if reality itself was shifting. She felt disconnected from the ordinary world.

  The eerie sensation passed as soon as she parked next to the streaming curb and rushed up the stairs. She found John in the kitchen, a dishtowel tucked into the collar of a polo shirt stained with carrots, spinach, and peaches. He had finished his own sandwich and was ladling a meal of vegetables and fruit into Brad’s open mouth. Some actually reached their target, although Brad kept grabbing for the spoon. Brandy had let him feed himself.

  “Am I glad to see you!” John said. She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, then lifted a sleepy toddler from his highchair, and carried him into the bedroom. She tucked him in his crib for his afternoon nap, then hung her windbreaker in the closet. She dreaded the next half hour, but she wanted to explain her Cassadaga experiences to him.

  Brandy fixed herself a tuna fish sandwich in the kitchen, while John seated himself at the table, and offered her account of the reading. “You can listen to the medium yourself,” she added. “I’m sorry her final remarks aren’t on the tape.”

  John’s left eyebrow elevated, as she knew it would. “I don’t need to listen to the tape.” He followed her into the bedroom again, where she started unpacking. “Everything she told you has a logical explanation. Based on your opening comment, she knew to focus on some dramatic event in your family history. Dramatic usually means tragic.”

  Brandy wasn’t surprised. She expected his response. Yet she yanked her slacks, shirt, and lingerie out of the overnight bag, flung them into the hamper, and slammed the lid to her bag shut.

  “And the letter ‘A’?”

  “Easy.” He brushed his fingers over his mustache; he was considering the issue. “‘A’ is one of five common vowels. There’s a vowel in every English word. If she got no response to ‘A,’ she’d try a few more letters, or tell you that a clue to the name just didn’t come through.”

  Brandy kicked the bag under the bed, a bit harder than necessary. “My being well-organized about my work?”

  “She took a careful look at how you were dressed—which would be neat—and the fact that you came prepared with what you wanted to know. You’d also gotten a recommendation and made sure she was available.”

  “Two people involved with both the brooch and the book? One of them different in each incident?”

  “Educated guesses again. What incident is likely to involve only one person? Suicide comes to mind, of course, but even in that case, someone finds the body. If she guesses wrong in some particular, you would overlook it. You did when she thought you’d been working in the garden or cleaning a garage.”

  “And my being in danger?”

  “Shrewd. She’s given you a reason to come back.”

  Brandy didn’t argue, but she did not get out the Marco tape, either. She thought, you had to be there. She remembered Adele Marco’s kindly warmth, her concern that seemed genuine, the real tears in her eyes. Brandy could believe some mediums and séances, too, were manipulative. She couldn’t apply that label to Ms. Marco.

  By slotting a favorite Mozart CD into his stereo, John signaled the conversation was over. Brandy picked up the phone and carried it onto the porch. Hope had to learn about the reading, although Brandy didn’t intend to alarm her by repeati
ng the medium’s final warning.

  * * *

  Monday began clear and bright, the air so crisp with energy that Brandy’s mission seemed almost credible. John’s unsympathetic response to the reading still irritated her. But she could look forward to her appointment tomorrow morning with the retired sheriff’s officer. She’d promised to meet Mr. and Mrs. Irons today. She might find time for another interview, too.

  Her babysitter knocked on the door at precisely 9:30. While Brandy prepared to leave, Kyra set two coloring books with large, boldly outlined drawings on the coffee table. Brandy was delighted to have an expert in child development as a sitter. “Brought along a few safe, simple crayons, Mrs. Able,” Kyra said. “I’ll let Brad watch ‘Dora the Explorer’ on TV if he wants. Like, not for long.”

  “Reading to him is more important—and talking to him.”

  “I know. We’ll have a mid-morning snack, and I can give him lunch. Like, I’m free all afternoon.”

  Kyra bent to help Brad stand up. He had toddled into the room and thumped down to turn through the coloring book. “Remember my boyfriend?” she asked. “How I told you he might, like, be able to help you?”

  Brandy waited.

  “You know, the town marshall? Ezekiel Wilson?” Brandy remembered the newspaper clippings. The town marshall had been the first responder. He had also seen Ada in town, or thought he did.

  “My boyfriend’s grandfather is him—or should it be he? Not the Marshall in 1921. His son.” Kyra lips faintly tilted up. A soft look came into her eyes. At the memory of her boyfriend, surely, not of his grandfather.

  “Does your boyfriend’s grandfather know anything about the case?”

  Kyra tried again. “My boyfriend’s a Wilson. Grant. His great-grandfather was, like, Zeke Wilson, the marshall.”

  “You think Grant knows much about the case?”

  Kyra flushed. “Does he know anything about it? His grandfather knows, like, everything about it. Old Mr. Wilson and his daughter, they kept all his daddy’s records. Zeke Wilson was, like, the biggest man who ever came out of Micanopy. Grant says the case fascinated both his grandfather and his great-grandfather.” She sat on the couch, lifted Brad into her lap, and warmed to her topic. “War hero, town marshall, Alachua County Sheriff, state senator. Ran for governor. Owned lots of property around here, too.”

  Brandy felt a surge of optimism. Another excellent source. He might be more forthcoming than Shot Hunter. She laid a hand on Kyra’s arm. “I’d like very much to talk to Grant’s grandfather. Will you see if your friend will arrange a meeting?”

  Kyra grew cautious. “Tell you what, I’ll try to fix up an appointment. Grant’s, like, a ranger at Paynes Prairie. The whole family likes to brag about Senator Wilson. The old man, he’s not doing too well. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Brandy would have to wait for Kyra to act.

  Before leaving, she made sure Brad had enough toddler food on the shelf, in case she was late for lunch. Gray clouds had drifted across the sun and a light rain was again falling. A front still moved across the state, but it would not interfere with her drive to meet John and Mr. and Mrs. Irons. She selected a linen cardigan in beige, matching jeans, and a scoop-necked white jersey shirt. Make a favorable impression on the townspeople, she thought. Understated elegance was her goal—that and easy care.

  “Of course, the Irons’ house is on Lake Tuscawilla now,” Brandy said. “John says that Montgomery Irons had it moved. I’ll have my cell phone.”

  Kyra nodded, her cheek against Brad’s silky hair.

  By 10:00 A.M. Brandy was in her Prius driving down the hard-packed surface of Whiting Street on the west side of town. Mist hung above the road and in the branches of overarching oaks. She passed the original site of Montgomery Irons’ house, north of its new location. Late nineteenth century builders had more sense than to build on a body of water that often flooded, but like most modern Floridians, this latest heir wanted a view. Brandy slowed and turned through the open gates of the family estate, followed a winding dirt road, and pulled into a gravel driveway next to John’s van.

  The house had been built of local pine in the late 1870s. John would respect its craftsmanship and practical design. Hand cut, decorative railings flanked a porch at the rear entrance, but Brandy walked to the front to admire the long gallery sweeping below three dormer windows. Each framed a wide balcony. Intricate, carved wood outlined the steeply pitched roof. A broad bow window with four gleaming panes identified the parlor.

  Brandy ran up the steps, crossed the wide porch, and rapped lightly on a double door. It still retained its original glass, tinged with a pink flower design. John said the house was in reasonably good repair. For three generations sons of the Irons family had lived here. When the restoration was complete, Montgomery Irons would be the fourth. The builder’s son owned it when Ada met her death.

  Brandy pushed one of the doors open, stepped into the foyer, and looked down a hall that led straight to the back entrance. The interior woodwork gleamed like brown satin. On the right side, a hall separated a parlor, dining room, and modern kitchen from three other large rooms. A long staircase curved up to the second floor. Brandy recognized the elegant simplicity of Cracker architecture, enriched by extra rooms and extended veranda.

  She glanced about for John. He was in the parlor, his back toward her, intent on the sketchpad in his hands. Through the bow window, Lake Tuscawilla reflected the gray sky like a smoky mirror. Its calm waters stretched a mile to the east, its shores a mass of weeds and water lilies.

  “Hello there!” she called, went quickly to him and put her arms around his waist.

  He turned and gave her a quick hug. “Just in time. They’re here.”

  Brandy could see a Mercedes pull into a gravel parking space in front. She would try to accomplish two things: charm John’s classiest clients and probe Montgomery Irons for what his family knew about the Losterman mystery.

  Wheels ground to a stop in the gravel outside, and the Irons emerged from their Mercedes. Montgomery Irons’ footsteps on the wooden veranda sounded ponderous, his wife’s sprightly. He held the door for her, then stepped inside, and they both paused to admire the staircase.

  Irons stood well over six feet, bulky without being fat, his head large and bald. He came toward Brandy, one big hand outstretched. “Well, hello, little lady!” he boomed. “Monty and Lily Lou Irons.” He covered her hand with both of his. “So glad you could stop by. Read about you in the Gainesville Sun. Some business over in Homosassa, I believe.” He drew back and beamed, his face as smooth as Jell-O and a bit jowly. “I’ve always trusted redheads.”

  Brandy’s hair had tints of tawny red, but she didn’t consider herself a full-blown redhead. Why did he think the color of her hair needed commenting on? She let the remark pass.

  Lily Lou Irons came into the parlor in high heels, clutching a Gucci bag. Brandy had a glimpse of a heart-shaped face, a willowy figure in a filmy pants suit, and smartly styled hair, much blonder than nature intended. She waved one slim hand and trilled, “I’m just dying to see upstairs. I’ve got the most marvelous idea! Be back in a jiffy.” She disappeared up the curving staircase.

  “I’ve just finished this sketch of the floor plan.” John flipped open his sketchpad for Irons. “I asked students from the university to make careful measurements. We took a series of photographs, inside and out.” He opened a file folder on a card table.

  Irons bent forward, inspected the papers and sketches, and nodded.

  “We’ve already checked. There aren’t any leaks that would damage the foundation or roof projections. We also had the dormers inspected. They’re okay, but the chimney does need pointing.”

  Irons smiled benignly. “I believe in being thorough. That’s splendid. I already recommended a contractor I trust.”

  “One other thing.
You might consider a few changes—bring the house back to its original design. You’ll probably want to leave the remodeled kitchen next to the dining room. But a section of the hallway shrank when someone added a small closet and enlarged the bathroom.”

  “That was Mother’s idea—changing the library to a guest room. Daddy didn’t agree. But when he died, she went ahead with her plan. I was still a teenager.”

  He pointed to his drawing of the downstairs floor plan. “We could restore the original sweep of the downstairs hall by removing the closet. Sounds as if your father would have liked that.”

  Irons nodded again. “Sounds good.” He directed his next comment to Brandy. “So you’re snooping around Micanopy these days? A pretty girl like you?”

  His patronizing tone irritated her again, but he probably didn’t realize she wouldn’t take his remark as a compliment.

  “As a matter of fact, I am curious about something,” she said, glad for the opening. “You might be able to help. I understand your family has a long history here.”

  Upstairs, sharp heels clicked on bare wood and halted at the top of the stairs. “It’s going to be perfectly precious, Monty.” Lily Lou came down the steps. Brandy marveled that such a tall, angular woman’s bird-like movements and childish chirp made her seem fragile. Brandy admired such artful illusion. The piping voice continued. “I want a dressing room next to my bedroom. Promise?” From the enraptured look on her husband’s upturned face, Brandy gathered his wife’s strategy worked—unless, of course, she really was still a willful child at heart.

  “That’ll be just fine, my dear. I’m sure our architect can manage it.”

  Lily Lou Irons took a dainty final step down into the hall. Her gaze swept over Brandy. “This is Mr. Able’s wife.” Irons gestured with a plump hand,

  Brandy flashed him a brilliant smile. “The house will be beautiful when it’s finished, Mr. Irons.”