by Ann Cook
“Seems to be a hazard of my trade. I’d like to see the ledger and receipt book. Grandmother asked me to have a look.” She exaggerated. Hope considered herself quite capable of checking the records herself, but Brandy hoped to spare her the worry.
She hadn’t seen a computer in any of the shops. The town prided itself on preserving the old ways. But Hope did expect copies of receipts to be filed by date with the price and sales tax noted on each. Every numbered receipt should match a sticker on each item sold, each properly identified. Missing items should be accounted for. Brandy also wanted to check the “bills owed” files and “accounts receivable.” Snug should know the drill.
He uncoiled his gangling frame. “Got the ledger here somewhere.” He added in an injured tone, “You need it right now? Ought to let me know you’re coming.”
The two bikers were watching, motionless behind a display of bright blue-green carnival glass. Brandy cringed when the taller figure dropped into one of her grandmother’s most expensive purchases—a square-backed Sheraton-Hepplewhite chair. Snug had not cordoned off the seat to protect it.
He turned toward the rear of the shop and led Brandy to a metal cabinet in a disorderly back room. With a dramatic flourish, he opened a drawer and lifted out a battered ledger book. She scanned the entries. They were almost all in her grandmother’s neat, legible hand and only four were dated more recently than a month ago.
“I don’t know how you stay in business at this rate, Snug,” she said. “You haven’t bought any replacement items in weeks, and you’ve moved almost nothing.”
He shifted from one foot to the other and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Business been a little slow coming out of the summer, know what I’m saying?” He gazed past her at a box sitting on the floor by the door.
“A new delivery?” she asked.
“Just a lusterware tea set. Your grandmother ordered it before her operation.” He brightened and pointed to a small rocker with a cane seat that he had not yet set in the show room. “I bought that a few days ago.”
“I suppose you’re using Grandmother’s Instant Antique Expert kit?” She gazed at the ordinary looking rocker. Hope always whipped out a tape measure, magnifying glass, magnet, and flashlight to verify the age of an antique.
“Oh, sure. Over there’s a little ole’ table just came in. Belonged to my friend’s grandmother who lived to be a hundred. It’s at least a hundred-fifty years old.”
Brandy studied the round table. Even she knew that after forty years, wood shrinkage makes a round table oval. “You’ve been taken, Snug,” she said.
She turned again to the lusterware box. She couldn’t see any postage or UPS stamp on it. “Let’s take a look at the tea set.”
When she pulled off the masking tape and opened the flaps, she glimpsed a creamer, sugar, and teapot, and a set of saucers packed on their edges. Snug stepped quickly forward, knelt down, and re-closed the box. “Need to inventory the pieces myself,” he mumbled, not glancing up. “You know, put stickers on them and all.”
Another customer had come into the shop—a tall man in neatly pressed slacks and sports shirt carrying a briefcase. Something about the purposeful way he moved down the aisles struck her as odd. He didn’t seem to notice the antique pottery or porcelain ware or occasional piece of furniture until he saw Snug had company in the back room.
Then he paused and bent over a creamware platter. His dark hair combed back and flipped up at the neckline.
“The receipt book?” Brandy asked, focusing again on her cousin.
“Oh, yeah. Got it here somewhere.” He rummaged again in the drawer and brought out a narrow volume. Brandy flipped through it. No recent sales. And yet the shop stayed open, and he continued to pay shop expenses, drive his new Mustang, rent his Gainesville apartment, and even pay Hope her share of non-existent profits.
Brandy handed back the moribund receipt book. “Snug, I’ll be direct. Grandmother wants to take Mr. Henderson’s offer next door. Nothing here indicates you should keep the shop. At this rate, you’re both going to lose your investment here.”
Snug riveted Brandy with a defiant stare. “You tell old lady O’Bannon I’m not selling. That’s final. Why should I listen to you? Just get outta my face.”
As Brandy swung around to march back through the front door, Snug approached the man in the slacks and sports shirt.
The owner of the neighboring antique store was sitting in a chair beside his own door. Along one outer wall stood his bookcase display of nineteenth century toys—an iron-wheeled train, a toy bus drawn by two prancing horses, a wooden whirligig with moveable arms, and a tiny wooden Conestoga wagon. His fleshy arms lay limp across a leather apron, and his broad face beamed up at the morning sun. Mr. Henderson seemed anything but the eager shopkeeper. But his alert gaze followed each shopper on the sidewalk. He greeted everyone who passed with a friendly nod and a “Good morning.” If they paused to survey his merchandise, he commented on each item.
His small store strained at the seams. Customers inside were either browsing or waiting for the cash register clerk. Several left, carrying plastic bags. No wonder he wanted to absorb the languishing business next door. Brandy stopped to introduce herself and ended by saying, “My grandmother’s very interested in your offer to buy their store. But she has to persuade her grandnephew. He’s co-owner.”
Mr. Henderson raised himself ponderously to his feet and ushered her into his shop. As soon as Brandy stepped inside, she saw the contrast. This one had a cleaner, more inviting smell. The merchandise was set out on shelves and in glass cases in neat, orderly rows, arranged by categories—pottery, glassware, bottles, silver and porcelain, clocks, jewelry. At the rear were more shelves of ageless picture magazines and sheet music. Each item bore an unobtrusive label.
“I’ve checked the legal arrangement,” Henderson said with a knowing jerk of his head toward Snug’s shop. “Mrs. O’Bannon and Mr. Haven are tenants-in-common. That’s the arrangement in your great uncle’s will. According to Florida law, neither can sell without the other’s permission.” He shook his large head. “Last time I spoke to Mr. Haven, he had no interest at all in selling.” Henderson gave Brandy a penetrating glance. “I don’t know why. He sure doesn’t seem to sell much, if I do say so. I sit here and see who goes in and what comes out. Not many and not much, I can tell you.”
Brandy nodded. “My grandmother recently had surgery. I’m looking into things for her. How long do they have to accept your offer?”
“Well, it’s like this, young lady. If I can’t buy their place, I’ll negotiate in the other direction. The bookstore owner on the other side wants to sell. Let’s say, they have two weeks. After that, I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll start talking to my other neighbor in earnest.”
“Two weeks it is,” Brandy said. Did that give her grandmother enough time?
A half block down the street, she stepped into the small Stark Drug Store. It suffered its usual dearth of customers. Both the young pharmacist and his grandfather would now know she was Ada Losterman’s great-granddaughter. If either had read the morning newspaper, they’d also know about Shot Hunter’s murder. The story in the Sun was brief, but Hunter was well known in the county, and it received prominent play. It included nothing that Brandy didn’t already know, but her name appeared as the one who found the victim.
She approached Caleb’s grandson at the pharmacy window first and waited a few moments, aware of the faint odor of disinfectant. Pharmacy cleanliness was clearly a concern of the brawny youth behind the counter—but from the look of the rest of the store, not a priority for its aging owner.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said. “You’ve already helped me on the history of Micanopy.”
He looked up, his expression uncertain.
“You mentioned moonshine operations in the 1920s,” she
said as casually as she could. “The Town Marshall’s records mention a federal revenue agent who went missing near Micanopy about that time. He was later found murdered, and a lot of men, even your great-grandfather was questioned. Can you shed any light on what happened?”
The young man considered the question, resting his chest against the counter, and shook his head. “Can’t tell you more than that, I’m afraid.” He nodded toward his grandfather, dozing in his chair, the morning paper spread over his potbelly. “Ask my granddad. He may remember.” He braced his arms on the counter and leaned closer. “Was quite a shock yesterday, I guess. Learn anything from Hunter before he was offed?”
Brandy shook her head and moved on.
Once more she knelt before the shrunken form of Caleb Stark Jr. A tattered hardback lay open on the rickety little table beside him. “Excuse me, sir,” she began, “could you help me again? I’m curious about 1920s moonshining in Micanopy.”
The shriveled face lifted. Liquid blue eyes squinted up at her. “It’s no secret they was moonshine stills all over this country in them days. Out in the woods. Fortunes made—you could say—and lost before the gov’mint wised up and made booze legal again.”
“A revenue agent in the area was killed right about the time Ada Losterman drowned. Somebody shot him. He was in the dry goods store the same day she was. It was the last time anyone saw him. You ever hear about that?”
He folded the paper, creased it, and set it beside his chair. “Don’t know what you’re getting at, young lady. I heard something about moonshine when Papa talked about them days. Everyone purely hated them revenuers. They busted up stills but kept their hands out for a payoff.”
“Didn’t anyone go to jail?”
“Mostly they paid a big ole’ fine and then, like I said, they paid off the agent who busted up they stills, and set up somewheres else. That’s how the business worked in them days.”
Brandy inched a little closer. “So why was this particular man killed?”
A sly look danced in Caleb’s eyes. “Reckon he was greedier than most. They was a known cost of doing business. He overstepped them limits.”
“And did your father suffer at the hands of this agent—as best you remember?”
A withered hand reached out and picked up the volume on the table. “Don’t rightly know. The Sheriff’s deputies swarmed around the store after the killing. I remember hearing that. Murders were pretty rare here.” He opened the book to a page marked with an empty cigarette pack. “Papa admitted the feller come in the store, got his cut and left. Body found out in the piney woods a few days later by some fellers on a turkey shoot.” His narrow chest rose in a soundless laugh. “Don’t reckon he was mourned around here, that’s for blamed sure.”
“You told me your dad talked to Ada Losterman, even was nice enough to lend her his phone. You ever hear about that?”
He weighed his answer, one finger holding his place in the book. “They said the phone was on a wall in the office in the back.”
“One last question. Did your father have a car then?”
“How the hell would I know?” he snapped. “I wasn’t born yet. And you sure ain’t listening to me. Quit asking so many dad-blamed questions. You ain’t the only one. That fellow was murdered—paper says you found him. I told you murders is rare here—he was in here asking questions, too. It ain’t healthy, answering questions.”
He glanced down at the open page. His reading material surprised Brandy again—Crime and Punishment. As she made her way to the entrance, she wondered what either Caleb Stark, father or son, would make of the old pawnbroker’s murder. When Raskolnikov killed the woman, he thought she was a worthless leech. Did the revenue agent meet the same criteria?
And if something did happen to him in the dry goods store, why would anyone care now?
NINE
When Brandy stepped up on the Irons’ veranda, she could hear the soothing rumble of Montgomery Irons’ voice. In the hall, the sound droned on louder … “order what you need from the Denver millwork and restoration company. That’s all right.”
John answered. “You said you want to reproduce the original craftsmanship, but I’m concerned about staying on budget.”
“Never mind the expense. Order whatever you need.” Irons heard Brandy’s footsteps, looked around, saw her, and lumbered forward, hand out-stretched again. “Here’s our delightful sleuth,” he boomed, “Hello, hello. You’re looking lovely today, I must say.” He clasped Brandy’s hand with one fleshy one, closing the other over it.
Brandy glanced about for Lily Lou and heard her high heels rapping on the wood floor at the end of the hall. She emerged from the kitchen, wearing a clingy chiffon dress that flattered her high bosom and small waist. As she approached, her hips swung like a runway model’s. Montgomery dropped Brandy’s hand and watched his wife, mesmerized, a moist smile frozen on his lips.
As she came nearer, John asked, “Like the plans for the new kitchen?”
“Oh, goodness!” Lily Lou made a deprecating gesture with one dainty hand. “I don’t care about the kitchen! I certainly don’t plan to cook. I wanted to see the color swatches lying on the counter. The mauve is precious.”
“Look who’s come to see us, dear,” Irons said. He tore his gaze from his wife’s lithe figure and turned again to Brandy. “We won-dered—Lily Lou and I—whether you’ve learned anything useful about your great-grandmother. And we want to say how sorry we are that you had such an awful shock yesterday.”
Brandy edged closer to John, hoping to dodge the large hand aimed at her arm. “Captain Hunter’s murder is terrible, of course. I really haven’t gotten very far.”
“Learn anything from this man Hunter?”
“Not much. I’ve talked to Caleb Stark, and I interviewed the son of Zeke Wilson. He’s kept all his father’s records. He hoped to find someone to write the marshall’s memoirs and never did.”
Irons lifted his wife’s arm and slipped it over his own, holding her near him. “Those files should be helpful, I’d think. Were they?”
Brandy favored him with a Cheshire cat smile. Why reveal how little she knew?
While John strolled back into the parlor to inspect the cornices, Lily Lou trilled, “This is all so exciting! You’re bound to learn something interesting—maybe even why the poor woman came to town.” She gave a tiny shudder. “Maybe even why she killed herself.”
“If she killed herself,” Brandy said. “I don’t think she did.”
* * *
At 2:00 P.M. Brandy parked behind the Micanopy Historical Society museum and the smaller archives building. A covered porch with wooden benches ran along the entrance wall of the museum, but she didn’t intend to visit it now. She’d seen the displays many times of farm machinery, nineteenth century clothing, household objects from the 1930s, the replica of a general store, Timucuan Indian artifacts, photographs of early graduating classes, nineteenth century maps, and area fauna and flora. Instead, she turned toward the squat, cedar-colored building with a peaked roof that faced the parking lot and knocked on the door.
Brandy wasn’t prepared for the archivist’s white hair and birdlike stature. She’d expected someone younger.
“Didn’t think I’d be in my seventies, did you?” Mrs. Dunn said cheerily. “I assure you, I’m as efficient as I’m prompt.” She ushered Brandy in and swept a hand toward the row of metal filing cabinets on the right hand wall. The cabinets and one desk were spare and tidy. Blue drapes hung at the few windows, and a round table with boxes stood on the left, along with racks of old newspapers. “Tell me about your area of interest, and I’ll help find what we have.”
“Micanopy in the 1920s—1921 specifically.” Brandy glanced about for a computer. There was none. This collection operated as it always had—with file folders, index cards, and paper lists. Brandy did spot a c
opying machine.
Mrs. Lawrence had already pulled out a file drawer. “You may want to go through these,” she said. “We have lots of clippings and old photographs donated by families. Information about each photo is noted on the back. I arranged the clippings folders by decade.”
Brandy took a padded chair before the table, as the archivist pulled several folders from a second drawer. “If you need copies, I can make them.” She disappeared into a compact kitchen.
Brandy opened the 1920s folder first and prepared to take notes. One story caught her eye. It described a hotel that rivaled the Haven’s and was more profitable. The dim photograph showed a rambling building with long wings, a water tank, and a windmill. It had sixteen rooms for guests and a ballroom for large parties.
Brandy almost forgot the purpose of her research as she read about the weekend dances and barbecues held in good weather at a lodge on nearby Lake Ledwith. The clippings listed the society guests, families who owned large tracts of land. The hosts included a few merchants, a doctor and two attorneys. Brandy recognized the name Adrian and Sybil Irons and more surprisingly, Caleb Stark. His dry goods store was either quite lucrative or he owned considerable property or one of the elite owed him a big favor. She favored the two latter possibilities. A brief 1921 newspaper account of the revenue agent’s murder appeared in a law enforcement folder. He was identified as Isaiah Sash, a property owner living in Micanopy. She wondered if he broke up his own neighbors’ moonshine stills. In a file folder labeled “Losterman” Brandy found the same newspaper clipping Hope had.
She turned to old photographs. She needed a better sense of these people, who they were really, what they looked like. Most were of families she had never heard of, although she recognized Montgomery as a prominent surname.
She paused for a moment to study a photograph of the Irons couple who had befriended Hope as a child. A notation on the back identified the occasion as their son’s christening. As Adrian Irons looked down at the elaborate baby basket, his long, morose face had an almost benign expression. He wore a dark, closely fitted suit and a tie with a geometric design and a jeweled stickpin. The proud mother leaned toward the basket, facing the photographer. Sybil wore white chiffon with a wide neckline, pearls, and wrist-length sleeves. A few delicate fabric roses decorated the waistline. Her strong, square face and firm jaw seemed out of keeping with the dainty dress.
