by Ann Cook
He sounded like Grant’s Aunt Liz. There would be no dissuading him. Brandy pushed the stroller on down the aisle to a nearby display, handed Brad a cloth book from her canvas bag, and showed him how to turn the pages. Then she searched for and found baby aspirin, Tums, hand soap and tissues. As she dropped them into a wire basket, an aging female clerk at the cosmetics counter came slowly toward the cash register. Maybe she was supplementing her social security. Apparently Caleb Stark himself did not wait on customers.
As the clerk rang up her purchases, Brandy said, “I haven’t seen you here before. Been in Micanopy long?”
Enlarged blue eyes looked back through dense lenses. “Been here forever. I’m Caleb’s sister.” Her reedy voice took on an edge. “He wants me to come in when he needs someone to help out.” She went on in an injured tone, “Daddy thought only his son could run the store.”
Brandy noted the rift. “In that generation a lot of men didn’t think women could run a business, or do much else.” She gave Caleb’s sister an understanding smile. “Things are different now. I’m a writer, researching the history of Micanopy. Maybe we could talk later.”
She paid the bill, pushed the stroller to the back of the store, and hesitated beside old Caleb, always interested in what he was reading. This time it was a collection of Poe’s short stories. By leaning over, she could make out the title of the current one, “The Purloined Letter.” She remembered its theme: something valuable hidden in plain sight.
A clue to Ada’s fate stood in the cemetery in plain sight—the lines from “Lenore.” Brandy had been attacked before she could identify the “fiends below”—or at least one of them.
While she waited silently for Caleb to speak, she retrieved the cloth book Brad had flung to the floor and substituted his big-eyed glowworm. The old man finally spoke.
“Heard you was in a fracas the other day.” His stained fingers reached for the cigarette stub smoldering in an ashtray at his elbow. From his lisp and the shriveled look of his mouth, Brandy supposed he’d removed his false teeth. He gave Brad a tart glance. “A drug store ain’t no place for a young ‘un his age.”
Brandy knelt, waving away a plume of smoke. “Just picking up a few items. And yes indeed, I was attacked a few days ago.” The expression in his narrow eyes was not sympathetic, but she plunged on. “No more investigating. I promised my husband. People’s secrets will now be safe. But …” she paused, searching for the right terms. “I’m still interested in Micanopy’s past. I won’t be around much longer—only until my husband finishes working on the Irons homestead.” With a pang, she knew it was true. They’d be leaving soon.
Caleb didn’t reply directly, but the look on his angular features was self-satisfied. His sharp chin lifted. “Ought not do all that blamed work on an old place like that. Ought to left it where it stood, instead of moving it to the lakeshore. A fool thing to do. Wait ’til the next big storm blows through.”
But snippets of information came her way when least expected. One had come only yesterday from Montgomery Irons. She intended to pursue it with Caleb, and he had given her an opening. “I understand your father worked on renovations to the Irons homestead. Mr. Irons says his mother made changes then.” Caleb’s father would be past retirement age then, old to be working a construction job. “You remember hearing about that?”
The shrunken lips twitched. “He was still spry even then, liked to keep busy. I had the store then.” His moist blue eyes traveled again to the open book.
Brad dropped his stuffed glowworm and began squirming. Brandy lifted him clumsily onto her hip. “I saw a couple of portraits made in the 1920s of the Irons couple, and there was a photo of your father in the archives building. I’ve never heard you mention your mother.”
“Nothin’ to tell. My folks separated when I was a little tyke. My sister and me, we stayed with her. She was a good Christian woman and no concern of yours.”
“I’d appreciate your telling me more about your family history.”
“Short answer is ‘no.’ Now, skidaddle. I’ve answered two questions and that is enough.”
Brandy was reminded of Lewis Carroll’s “Old Father William.” and thought of quoting it to him: “I have answered three questions and that is enough, Said the father, ‘Don’t give yourself airs; Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs.’” She decided Caleb might be offended. He might be having his own little joke. He did read.
Brandy took his not-too-subtle hint and pushed the stroller toward the front door, her mind turning back to the stocky pharmacist. She remembered the feel of a heavy body behind her, the band pulled tight around her neck, the large rock hurled at the bison. Young Stark was sturdy enough to fill the bill. He also knew family history.
Caleb’s sister, too. Brandy halted at the cash register again, where the temporary clerk had finished ringing up another sale.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Brandy said casually, taking a copy of the Gainesville Sun from a stack on the counter and digging in her bag for a quarter.
“Tilly.” The older woman raised her gaze defensively. “Tilly Turner. Short for Matilda. Old-fashioned, I reckon.”
“I’m looking for local color about the town, especially its past.”
Behind their thick lenses, Tilly’s eyes brightened. Writers always intrigued people, unaware of the drudgery and numbing research it involved. She warmed to the topic. “A couple of movies were filmed here, you know.”
Brandy leaned closer. “Your nephew told me about old files stuck away in a back room here. He said the cabinet holds lots of records about old times. Your father always meant to write the store’s history. They’d be a helpful resource.”
Tilly glanced back at the pharmacy counter and at Caleb, lost again in Poe’s stories. The pharmacist stood in an alcove, restocking shelves, his back turned.
“Sure, I know about Daddy’s old metal cabinet. No one goes back there anymore.”
Not too different from traffic in the rest of the store. “Caleb is so secretive about everything,” Brandy said. “But you’re part owner. Do you think I could take a look in it some time soon? I won’t be in town much longer.”
Tilly’s head tilted to one side, considering the request. “Caleb always cuts me out of everything but chores,” she said finally. “Then it’s, ‘Tilly, come in, take care of the filing or do the inventory.’ Sure, I could call you when I’m ready to start the inventory. Should be in a day or two.”
“Thanks,” Brandy said. She scribbled her apartment and cell phone numbers on her card and handed it to Tilly. “That could help with local color.”
On the sidewalk again, she pulled her jacket around her, tucked Brad firmly back into his seat, and brushed past a few shoppers toward her grandmother’s antique shop. The window display looked the same—the same Depression glass on the top shelf and the same dirty, ruby-colored goblets. The short shelf below was still crowded, but near the door she spotted two wicker rockers that she hadn’t seen before. They might interest buyers.
A pickup rattled into a parking space before the shop, and Hope’s long legs swung out the door. She wore charcoal-gray slacks and a knobby gray sweater she’d probably knitted herself. She didn’t move with the briskness Brandy had come to expect, but her eyes were fierce and her mouth compressed.
“Let’s have at it,” she said, and started in. The store was empty of customers. Snug advanced in a languid stroll from behind the cash register. As Brandy followed, she heard a car start up in the alley and pull out. Snug faced them, his pale forehead creased. One thin hand pushed back his lank hair. He reminded Brandy of actors in old fifties movies, loose-jointed men who smoked and used studied gestures and thought they looked cool.
He rocked on the balls of his feet and addressed Hope, plainly ignoring Brandy. “So, regular delegation,” h
e said. Brandy wondered if he would mention the attack. “You ought to like my new acquisitions. Went to an estate sale in Ocala last week.” He pointed to a Windsor chair with four spindles near the front counter. Brandy suspected he’d been using it to sit in. “Nice, simple design,” he boasted.
Hope surveyed it and shook her head. “I suppose you checked before you bought it. More than four spindles would mean it was older and more valuable. These posts aren’t decorated with turnings.”
He frowned and gestured again at the chair. “Notice the rung across the front of the chair that joins the legs. Old.”
Hope didn’t bother to bend down and examine it. “It’s only there for added strength. A rung doesn’t indicate age. How old did the salesman tell you the chair is?”
“Eighteenth century, and it’s lacquered, too. I thought you’d be pleased.”
Brandy was temporarily diverted when Brad stood up in his stroller and reached for the tassels on a musty smelling black shawl draped over a counter. A single tug could send a pink luster-ware tea set and an 1890s mustache cup spiraling to the floor. These items her grandmother especially valued. Brandy picked Brad up again and set him firmly on one hip.
Hope was responding to Snug’s boast about the Windsor chair. She did not look pleased. “Read the antique dealer’s manuals,” she said dryly. “This chair is nineteenth century, at the earliest. Wait a minute.” She stepped into the restroom at the rear of the store, moistened a handkerchief, and dampened the rung. Then she took a quarter from her purse and rubbed the coin’s edge against the finish. Snug bent to watch as she lifted it back up and showed him a brown smudge. “This chair, I’m sad to say, can’t be earlier than about 1925.” She shook her head. “I do wish you’d studied the books I gave you before you went out to buy something.”
He flung back the stringy lock of hair. “We’re doing okay. I just received a delivery of creamware dishes from a contact in Gainesville. The guy was just here.”
“An unbroken set? May I see them?”
He ignored her and said instead, “And the wicker rockers just came in. They’ll sell.”
She nodded, looking more closely at a rocker. “It’s true. Wicker’s back in style, all right, but these aren’t old. Elaborate ones could be as early as 1850. These are plain. They might be 1930s at best.”
Snug swung himself behind the cash register and stood with his jaw set. “You come in just to criticize? You’re getting your fair share, and it’s nothing to sneeze at.”
Hope stepped up to the register, drawing in her breath and tensing her cheeks. “We came here to gave you an ultimatum. I can’t handle the store now, and I want you out of here. We’ve got to sell. Mr. Henderson gave us two weeks. That was a week ago.”
He swiveled around toward Brandy. “This is your doing. You stand to inherit. Don’t think I don’t know.” He smirked. “You think I had something to do with your getting whacked the other day.”
Brandy stepped forward. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Actually, she doubted he had the strength. Of course, anger and fear increases strength.
Hope braced her hand on the counter and leaned toward him. “Nonsense. I’m the one who wants you out. And if you don’t agree to sell, I’ll find a way to make you. I’ll find out how you manage to earn big profits with hardly any sales.”
They left on that high note. Brandy turned to see her cousin’s arrogant face blanch. She felt uneasy about the confrontation with Snug. First, she wanted to see into that last delivery carton. Was it dishes, or something more valuable? Hope’s warning made a discreet investigation more difficult.
But Hope was satisfied. “That ought to make the little devil see reason,” she said as she stepped into her old pick-up.
Brandy didn’t argue. Instead she said, “I’m coming over. Not for long, but I have a few questions. I’d like to know more about the Havens.” She strapped Brad into his car seat, tucked the stroller into her trunk, and followed Hope. Surely, questioning her own grandmother wouldn’t be considered continuing the investigation.
* * *
Hope opened her front door and gave the cat a quick chin scratch, while Brandy struggled in behind her with the stroller. Patches jumped down from her perch and followed them both into the kitchen, while Brandy carried Brad again on one hip. In the kitchen she settled him, at least temporarily, in his stroller.
Hope put on the kettle. “You’re going to strain that shoulder,” Hope said, frowning.
“Kyra will come again tomorrow if I need to go out.”
“Nice kitty,” Brad crooned, reaching for a handful of black cat fur. Patches scampered under the kitchen table, tail twitching.
Hope began slathering a slice of whole wheat bread with peanut butter. “This will keep him busy.” The bird clock emitted a soft cooing. She glanced up. “Mourning doves. It’s noon.”
Brandy checked the cupboard, opened a can of tuna, set out the mayonnaise and relish, and slapped together two sandwiches. She found a toddler cup on a cabinet shelf, and set it on Brad’s tray. “Do you remember anything about your mother the day she left you?”
Brandy lifted a bib out of a drawer and tied it around the little boy’s neck while Hope handed Brad the bread and peanut butter. It was a few minutes before Hope answered. First, she poured steaming water into two cups and laid fragrant sugar cookies on a small plate.
“I remember the feeling of loneliness and worry more than I remember her,” Hope said at last. “To tell the truth, I could never recall what my own mother looked like.”
“How did you come to feel about the Havens?”
“They couldn’t actually adopt me, you know. No one knew who my father was. He’d have parental rights. They were my foster parents, but they had legal status.”
The two seated themselves at the kitchen table.
“What were they like?”
Hope raised her cup and stared across the rim, all hardness now gone from her face. She replied obliquely with another question. “Do you realize what would’ve happened to me if they hadn’t taken me in? I would’ve gone into an orphanage. Can you imagine what my life would’ve been like there?”
Brandy spoke gently, careful about probing a sensitive area. “But tell me how you felt about them as parents.”
This time the pause was longer, almost meditative. Hope rocked the nearly empty teacup back and forth in its saucer, choosing her words. “Child rearing was very different then. Mothers weren’t urged to show feelings of warmth. Discipline was the name of the game. Fathers didn’t pitch in and help with child-rearing or housework, either.”
Brandy spoke quietly. “I’m hearing that they were pretty hard on you.”
“Remember, they’d lost a little girl about my age. Her photograph had been colored by hand and hung in the hall. The fact is, she was the prettiest child I ever saw. All the neighbors said so. She had long blonde corkscrew curls. She’d been dainty. I was a scrawny tomboy with knobby knees who’d rather wear overalls.” She allowed herself a tight smile. “I don’t think I ever measured up, and that’s the truth.”
Brandy felt a surge of sympathy for a childhood sadness she’d never known about. “Mother Haven didn’t want people to locate my mother’s people,” Hope continued in a sharper voice. “She knew they’d get custody. I had an anonymous benefactor in town, and the Women’s Club helped with expenses, too.”
“Then a little brother came along,” Brandy said. “What was that like, sharing what little warmth there was?”
Her grandmother looked up, eyes again lively. “You misunderstand. My little brother became the light of my life. Mother Haven turned his care over to me a lot. I was six years older, and a surprisingly maternal little girl. I loved taking care of him. He turned to me with all his minor hurts; he waited at the window when I walked home from school. After he was a few years old, ther
e was a lot more love for me in that house.”
Brandy tread softly again. “You haven’t said much about your foster father.”
Her grandmother turned and set her empty cup on the counter, again thinking of the right words. At last she said, “He was remote, but he was not abusive, if that’s what you’re wondering. It was as if, well, his wife wanted me and he’d go along. Often he was away. He worked in the truck farms where Paynes Prairie is now. He did help with the hotel some, too. Maintenance, mainly.”
“Was he there when your mother left you?”
“I don’t think so. They’d just bought their first car—the cheapest, a Ford Model T. He was out test-driving it, Mother Haven said. He didn’t know about me until he came home. She’d already called the town marshall.”
Brandy made a few notes on a pad. “I’ve got to get going.” Brad had dropped his cup and was trying to climb out of the stroller.
Brandy helped him out and took his hand while her grandmother opened a lower cabinet door and took out a packet of safflower, sunflower chips, and a measuring spoon full of peanuts. Patches knew where she was going and stole out from under the table to follow Hope onto the back porch. As an indoor cat, birds still held an academic interest.
“Time to feed my favorite little songbird, the tufted titmouse,” Hope called back to Brandy. “It’s the smallest one in Florida, and it’s here all year.”
Brandy remembered the routine from her childhood. She would help her grandmother clean a plaster birdbath beside the bottle-brush trees and sprinkle seed in the feeder. Brandy had also liked watching for the tiny, dove-gray bird with the stiff crest. Not the same individual Hope would feed today, of course, but one of the same species.
“Would you watch for the red-tailed hawk?” Hope called. “One sometimes flies over from Paynes Prairie and preys on small birds.”
