by Ann Cook
Brandy thought of the medium’s warning. She was endangering not only herself, but someone else close to her. She sighed. Hope would never believe that hawks were not the only danger in Micanopy.
FIFTEEN
Late that afternoon, Brandy threw a cardigan around her shoulders, stepped out onto the second floor porch, and stared down at the two blocks of aging stores, at the oaks in front of the café and the thin coating of russet and yellow covering the ground below. Gray branches bristled above the buildings and nearby houses. The few shoppers still on the sidewalk bent against a wind from the south. Had October been as blustery and chill eighty-one years ago? The business district was different then, the town much more active, but these blocks would look much the same. Only the names of the stores and their proprietors had changed.
She tried to picture her great-grandmother among those now on the sidewalk, bending against the brisk breeze and pulling her black shawl more tightly about her shoulders. Brandy clothed the slim figure in the white blouse and black skirt described in the newspaper clipping. One hand held down the small black hat with ribbons. Bobbed hair showed under the rim. The small female figure became so clear in Brandy’s mind that she almost searched for her among the shoppers.
But it was not the imaginary figure that she saw but a bulky female in jeans that did nothing to minimize her broad hips. She emerged from the drug store wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a white ball cap pulled down over graying hair. Beside her tottered the fragile figure of old Savage Wilson. He leaned on a heavy cane with one hand; the other clutched his daughter’s arm. Brandy watched the woman half lift the old man into a pickup’s passenger seat. She was certainly strong enough to strangle a smaller woman.
Her mind turned to Caleb, then to his father and the murdered revenue agent. The town marshall would have discovered the man’s body. As shadows crept across the boulevard and store lights blinked on, Brandy remained on the porch. The telephone startled her. When she picked up, she recognized the deep southern drawl of her Atlanta hospital contact. Her grip on the phone tightened.
“Brandy O’Bannon? Are you the lady looking for someone who worked at Grady Memorial during the Great War?” The designation was current during World War I, although this woman would be much too young to remember the era.
“Yes, I certainly am. I know only one name—Ada Losterman. Losterman could be the last name of the woman’s mother I’m trying to locate.” After all Ada had worn no wedding band. “One of them might have been a nurse at Grady Memorial.”
“I called a ninety-year old friend who trained at the hospital. The generation of nurses before hers, they served during the war. Some of the wounded stayed in the hospital long after 1918.” For a second the woman began to speak slowly and deliberately, as if reading. “Some nurses were sent to Fort Hancock near Atlanta on October 5, 1918.” She paused. Then went on, surprised. “Lord a’ mercy, there were three-thousand cases of Spanish influenza at the fort! Some of this is on the internet.”
“I’m grateful for your checking,” Brandy said. “Did your friend mention a Losterman?”
“She thinks she remembers hearing the name. It was unusual. She believes her mother knew a nurse by that name—a Mary Losterman. She would be in her mid to late forties then. I hope she isn’t the woman you’re looking for, what happened was so sad. She says that nurse died of the flu the same year, she and her husband both. The whole family caught it.”
A few minutes later John came through the door and found Brandy sunk in gloom. Even Brad’s delighted cries as he threw down his blocks and pull toys and ran to his dad didn’t brighten her mood. He tucked his newspaper beside the lamp on the end table, dropped onto the couch beside her, and took her hand. “Got a new problem?” he asked. “You haven’t kept on keeping on, have you?”
A frustrated smile went along with her hug. “It’s just that my one good Atlanta lead reached a dead end. Grady Memorial Hospital was the one place I could ask questions and not arouse suspicions in Micanopy. I have a possible name for Ada’s mother, but both parents died before Ada ever came here.”
John patted her hand. “Let’s see. When Ada stopped at the hotel, she made no reference to her family or a local contact. It’s possible she came to see someone because her parents had both died. She was wearing a lot of black for a young woman.”
Brandy looked up. “People wore mourning then a long time, I remember. Maybe I could still find out if Mary Losterman had a daughter name Ada.”
John shrugged out of his suede jacket and stepped to the bedroom closet to hang it beside another, careful to face the hangers the same way. “If I were you, I’d check the Atlanta 1910 and 1920 census. If there’s a Mary Losterman, you can get her husband’s first name and see if Ada was their daughter.”
Brandy felt hopeful again as she went into the kitchen to heat a pot of lentil soup. She cut chunks of frankfurters into the soup and grilled two cheese sandwiches, and they sat at the table while Brad ate in his high chair. After supper she would settle herself at the laptop, and ask John to tuck Brad in for the night.
When she Googled United States Census, she found the website www.census-online.com. Although Atlanta is now in Fulton County, she was routed to DeKalb County for the 1910 census where a window gave her a choice of surnames.
Losterman came between Lord and Lour. She clicked on the name, and a chart appeared on the screen listing three individuals: Mary, 37, wife, Frank, 38, head, and Ada, 11, daughter. When Brandy read the name that had occupied most of her time for two weeks—and probably caused Hunter’s death as well as the attack on her—she called to John, “She’s here! Ada is here!” He glanced up from his newspaper and smiled.
The record gave the Losterman family as white, all born in Georgia. “Ada was the daughter of a couple who lived in Atlanta, at least they did in 1910.”
“Try 1920,” John said. “See if the parents are still there. They won’t be if your woman from Grady Memorial is right, and they both died in 1918.” He returned to his paper while Brandy accessed 1920 on the census record. “Ada might be, though,” he added, “if she didn’t come to Micanopy until 1921.”
But the report in the 1920 census listed no Lostermans at all. “I can try calling the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Atlanta. Ask for birth records. Maybe Hope Losterman will be listed.”
Brandy climbed into bed that night, buoyed by hope that she might learn even more by computer and telephone. Without computers in 1921, the Sheriff’s Office could not easily check. Maybe Hunter’s father checked the hard way.
* * *
But in the morning a phone call to the Bureau in Atlanta disclosed that no birth of a Hope Losterman was recorded in 1917 or 1918, and the County Clerk’s office had issued no marriage license naming an Ada Losterman—nor could she find relevant information about Camp Hancock.
By 10 A.M. a disgruntled Brandy was ready to give up and settle for learning only the names of her great-grandmother’s parents.
At least she had some vital information to report. When she called and explained the facts she’d found, Hope drew in her breath. Quickly Brandy added, “But we still don’t know why Ada came to Micanopy or why she died here.”
“Great heavens, you’ve done a wonderful job! Don’t worry about the rest.” Brandy could picture Hope’s expression—the sudden light in her remarkable gray eyes when she learned who her grandparents were, but also the hidden disappointment when other questions went unanswered. Brandy stepped out on the porch with the phone and glanced across at the two-block business district. “I’m not satisfied,” she said.
She still needed to find a way to delve into the past more subtly and cautiously. She glanced at John, who was taking a rare Friday morning off. He lounged in his favorite chair, listening to the soothing strains of Debussy’s “My Reverie,” content with her promise. Her conscience pricked a little, but not much.
She was still puzzling about her next step when Brad toddled out onto the porch in his denim overalls. She was helping him sort his blue and red blocks when two familiar figures crossed the boulevard, Kyra in khaki chinos, beige cardigan, and paisley shirt and Grant, not in uniform. The two disappeared below her on the downstairs porch, and in a few minutes she heard their brisk footsteps on the stairs.
Kyra burst in first, tossing back her loose brown hair. She looked at Brandy, eyes dancing. “Remember the old lady in Evinton?”
Before Brandy could answer, Kyra spotted Brad, hurried onto the porch, and lifted him into her arms. Brandy followed.
“She’ll see you, like, this afternoon,” Kyra said. “Mrs. Washing-ton—Mattie Washington. She married into the same Washington family the girl was in—the one who worked across the street from the Baptist Church. Mrs. Washington doesn’t have a phone, but Sheshauna went by to see her yesterday. She said she’d be home today at 2:00. She’s, like, expecting you.”
“Certainly, I want to talk to her.” Brandy looked in at John. He had turned his head toward her. “But I promised John I wouldn’t go without him—not after what happened in Paynes Prairie—and he’s working this afternoon.”
Grant had been standing quietly by the door. Now his flexible frame bent in a mock bow. “At your service, Mrs. Able.” He gave her the wry smile she had noticed the first time they met. “I’m off today. Let me be your escort. All the rangers feel terrible about the attack. We feel partly responsible.”
Brandy shook her head. “That’s silly, Grant. It isn’t the rangers’ responsibility to baby-sit their visitors.” She hesitated. “Still, I do want to talk to Mattie Washington.” She gave Grant an appraising look. Physically fit, lithe but obviously strong, bright enough, as far as she could tell. A ranger would have useful skills.
Kyra nuzzled Brad’s soft cheek. “I’ll, like, stay with Brad.” The little boy pulled back and kicked to be put down. “I need to remember he’s almost three. He needs to show his independence.”
Brandy felt a new surge of hope. Mrs. Washington knew something that eighty-one years ago Ezekiel Wilson and the Sheriff’s Office didn’t. She stepped over to John. “If Grant rides shotgun, do you think it’s okay for me to go to Evinton? I want to talk to the lady there. We won’t even be in Micanopy.”
She’d never told John about the small silver car, but it had been days since she last saw it.
John considered, then nodded. “Guess that would be all right.”
Grant’s eyes mirrored his crooked grin. For a moment Brandy felt unsettled. He would hear whatever long hidden information Mrs. Washington told her, and he was not exactly uninvolved. Zeke Wilson had charge of the investigation first. What if the old lady divulged something that injured Ezkiel Wilson’s precious reputation? Would Grant care? Would he report to his aunt and grandfather? She wished he hadn’t flashed that ambiguous smile.
But she could use Grant’s help with another concern. “When we checked Wilson’s personal records, we never looked for the senior Caleb Stark, or the murder of a revenue agent. His body was found a few days after my great-grandmother died, and he was last seen in the same store the day she drowned.”
Grant’s half-smile appeared and disappeared. “We could check. I never thought to look at that. Granddaddy might even remember something about it. He was eleven then.”
“We only want to read the Marshall’s account of that crime. I trust his personal record.” She exaggerated for his benefit. “I don’t see why your Aunt Liz or her father could object. Also, I wonder if he mentions an interesting fact I heard, that Old Caleb had dealings with the revenue agent that led to gossip.”
Grant shook his head. “I never talked to Granddaddy about the revenuer. Didn’t even know about him.”
Kyra spoke up. “Shesahuna gave me directions to Mrs. Washington’s house.” She reached into a floppy cloth bag and handed Grant a slip of paper. “She lives on a little farm not far from the Evinton post office. You must have seen pictures of it. It’s, like, photographed a lot. Anyway, I suggest you stop at the post office and be sure these are right.”
Brandy left the directions to Grant. She was already thinking of what to ask Mattie Washington.
* * *
Brandy wasn’t sure what to wear to interview an elderly, probably impoverished farm woman. She chose a tailored pants suit with a black and white houndstooth jacket, not elegant but dignified.
By 1:00 P.M. Brad had polished off toddler servings of carrots, peas and apricots, sipped a cupful of milk, and was nodding in his high chair. As soon as he was settled for his afternoon nap, Brandy left the sitter relaxing on the living room couch with a paperback novel and hurried down the stairs after Grant. They climbed into his pickup under a flat, gray sky for the drive south. While still on Cholokka Boulevard, Grant let down the windows and they breathed air brisk with the chill of early autumn.
As he swung left on Route 25A and rounded the north shore of Lake Tuscawilla, Brandy strained to see the Irons homestead to the southwest. But a broad swath of uneven pasture bordered the weed-choked north shore. She could see few houses to the south, and no large ones faced the lake on the north. They crossed U. S. 441 and drove east before Grant made a sharp right and cut due south toward Evinton, a tiny blip on the map west of sprawling Orange Lake.
“Evinton’s only got a few homes and two churches,” Grant said. “One’s Mount Olive African Methodist Episcopal Church. A lot of black pioneers are buried there. Might be what keeps Mrs. Washington in the area.”
Grassy pastures lay on either side of the road. Now and then the clouds parted and a dim sun shone down on scattered Angus and Hereford cattle, grazing in the dappled sunlight. Beyond them a row of oaks screened the blue waters of Lake Orange.
Grant began to slow, watching the right side of the road. “Evinton’s not as old as Micanopy. Only dates to 1882, but the Florida Southern Railroad ran through here.” He pulled up before a one story, unpainted frame building perched on cement blocks. The metal roof was steeply peaked. A wide porch ran across the front. In Evinton beautification did not seem a high priority, but here straggly yellow wisteria ringed the barren yard. Grant jumped out, walked around his little truck, and helped Brandy down.
“We’ll stop and check our directions. You ought to see this old post office, anyway. Painters find it irresistible.” He looked east. “We’re not far from Cross Creek.”
As they stepped inside, Brandy saw a barred post office window in a corner near the front door. Out a back window Brandy could see the tall, narrow shape of an old-fashioned outhouse.
A broad-faced woman, her gray hair in a bun, sat in a rocking chair next to a battered desk, a magazine open on her ample lap. The interior was shadowy and cool, and a low fire murmured in an iron stove in the center of the wooden floor, its stovepipe reaching up through the ceiling. Around her were boxes of oranges, jars of preserves, cartons of coca cola and canned goods, fresh turnip greens, tomatoes, and cabbages. The postmistress scarcely raised her eyes.
“Artists plan to raise money, try to pay for air conditioning and plumbing,” Grant said.
He pulled the directions from his pocket and stepped up to the woman in the rocker. She finally looked up, tucked a lank strand of hair back beneath a barrette, and took the paper.
“You know Mattie Washington?” Grant asked.
The postmistress nodded. “Drives her old truck in here about once a week. Gets her mail and buys provisions. We got the basics, and our vegetables is home grown.”
Brandy moved up beside Grant. “We’re going to visit her. Can you think of anything we could take? Some little gift?”
The postmistress nodded a second time. “Might take a nice slab of bacon. She likes to cook fatback with her beans.” While she turned her attention to the directions, Brandy paid for the package and slipp
ed it into her canvas bag. The proprietor tapped Grant’s paper with a calloused finger. “Go on over here to 182nd Avenue and then bear left at the first little ole’ dirt road you come to. Can’t miss it.”
Brandy followed Grant down the steps. “A scene right out of Old Florida,” she said.
For fifteen or twenty minutes they drove down the avenue, then bounced over a rutted road to a mailbox that announced “Washington.”
Brandy looked out at the uneven pastures and spreading oaks. “Developers haven’t dug their claws in here yet,”
“They’re trying. The couple that owns the post office won’t sell their property, but they’re not young.” Grant’s mouth was grim. “Sooner or later someone, maybe their heirs, will want the money.”
As he swung into a narrow two-track road, little more than a trail, they heard the hoarse barking of a dog. On either side, water oaks towered along a barbed wire fence. At the end squatted a clapboard cabin. Any paint it might have had had vanished long ago. It looked as if it had sprung up under the oaks and slash pines like a gray mushroom. In the naked soil of the front yard, Rhode Island Red and white Leghorn hens scratched under the fiery blossoms of a hibiscus. Beside the cabin stood an old rattletrap pickup.
Like the post office, the small house was raised off the ground. It had a cypress shingle roof, meager front porch, and two front windows and front doors. Originally a “dog-trot” or breezeway would have connected the two main rooms. Beyond a side window, the posts of a back porch with a sloping roof formed a third room. John would classify it as one of Florida’s “vernacular cracker” cabins.
As they stepped up on the porch, the black-and-white hound that had so loudly announced their arrival came wriggling up to them, tail beating back and forth. “Some watch dog,” Brandy said, but he had, after all, let Mrs. Washington know her company had arrived.
She stepped up on the front porch and knocked on the right hand screen door. A piercing voice answered, “Come on in! Door ain’t latched.”
