by Ann Cook
But this time she was more interested in the young wife, her round, pretty face, shapely nose and mouth, and pale, wavy hair. Her bright smile befitted a bride. She wore a traditional wedding gown, white, lacy, and nipped in tight around a small waist. “Your mother was lovely,” Brandy said.
“You’ll see why she didn’t want no pictures took later,” the old man said. Grant turned rapidly past pages of long dead relatives, pausing over several of Wilson looking fierce as Sheriff and sedate as Senator.
At last he located the one they were looking for. Mrs. Ezekiel Wilson was hard to recognize as the sweet young woman in the wedding photograph. She hunched over in a wheelchair, a shrunken figure in a shapeless smock that covered her legs, her face thin and drawn. One frail hand rested on the large wheel, her eyes wide with surprise. Brandy felt sympathy for the wife and mother who wanted to be seen only as she’d looked as a bride.
The next page showed the couple’s grand Micanopy home, a Queen Anne with wide veranda, gingerbread trim, and a turret rising from the second floor. Savage Wilson shook his head. “Couldn’t keep it up after Papa passed. It finally burned in the fifties.
Brandy was completing her notes when the living room door swung open. The stout figure of Aunt Liz towered in the doorway, as grim and menacing as an Easter Island statue. She ignored Grant, glared at Brandy, and bellowed, “What in tarnation you doing here again? I told you plain as day. Daddy and me got nothing to say to newspaper folks.”
Brandy snapped her notebook closed and thrust it into her bag. “We’re just going,” she said.
“And don’t try to tell me you ain’t poking and prying into our business!” Liz rounded on Grant. “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, helping this woman dig up stuff about your own kin. I heard your granddaddy say the marshall was in the Klan!”
Had she been listening, trying to figure how damaging Brandy’s search could be? Liz, if not her father, seemed to know Klan membership would not elevate her father’s reputation. “Now give me them records and get out.”
Grant closed the lid of the file and stood. “No harm done,” he said soothingly.
“No harm done, my foot!” She advanced onto the porch. “A few minutes ago, I heard this poor old man practically accuse his own daddy of taking money from them moonshiners. Now get, the lot of you!”
Grant was lifting the file box in her direction when they heard refined voices coming from the front yard. “Could stand some mowing out here,” a woman complained.
In a softer tone, a man said, “I expect Old Man Wilson keeps his daughter busy enough.” There was a knock on the screen door.
The woman called, “Hello there!” She was tall and her torso wedge-shaped, as if stuffed into a too-tight corset. A lapel of her tailored navy suit featured a gold pin in the shape of a schoolhouse.
“I’m Mrs. Rice, the new principal of Ezekiel Wilson Elementary School,” she announced as Grant stepped forward and opened the door, “and this is the Alachua County school superintendent, Mr. Dunn.”
She had derailed Aunt Liz’s tirade. Liz drew herself up, preening, and smoothed down her print cotton housedress. After a disparaging glance at Brandy and Grant, she smiled broadly at the new guests. “Do come right on in,” she said. “I reckon you’re here about the ceremony.” She handed a thick cane to her father. He lurched up from his chair and hobbled forward with a bemused expression.
Mr. Dunn, a short, tubby man of middle age with an ingratiating smile, said, “Oh, indeed we are.” He glanced at Grant and Brandy and hesitated, as if anticipating an introduction.
When none was forthcoming, he took Mrs. Rice’s arm and began guiding her through the door into the living room. Grant steadied his grandfather, then nodded at Brandy and spoke up, “This is Brandy O’Bannon. She’s a journalist lives here. She might be interested in covering the story.”
Mr. Dunn turned an alert glance toward them again. “We want to honor Mr. Wilson’s father, Ezekiel, for his excellence in law enforcement and government. Of course, he was a native of Micanopy.” He looked again at Aunt Liz. “We’d like you to fill us in on his career. I plan to introduce the school’s new principal here”—he directed his gaze at Mrs. Rice—“and then give a short speech about the school’s namesake. We’d certainly welcome news coverage.”
“They were just leaving,” Liz said firmly.
When she opened the living room door, Brandy caught a glimpse of a Victorian parlor stuffed with heavy furniture—large sofa, its frame carved in foliage and scrolls, fireplace where gas logs spurted a blue flame, matching armchairs with rounded contours, a pink-topped marble table laden with knickknacks. It looked as if Zeke Wilson’s furnishings had been preserved in his son’s more modest house.
The superintendent turned to Brandy. “I knew a Hope O’Bannon years ago,” he said. “Is she a relative?”
“My grandmother.”
“We taught together.” He beamed. “I was still wet behind the ears. She was a fine fourth grade teacher. Headed an organization of elementary school teachers that petitioned Senator Wilson in Tallahassee.” He chuckled. “She was a stem-winder in those days, even if he turned her down. Be sure to ask her to come. I’d enjoy seeing her again.”
Brandy nodded. “Be glad to.”
Dunn gave the principal his arm. As they stepped into the next room, he added, “She could represent teachers who taught in the former school.”
Liz planted herself in the doorway after they passed through, glowering at Brandy. His suggestion disturbed her. She gripped Brandy’s arm. “Stick to the script, young lady!” she hissed. “I’ll not have gossip spread about the marshall. And warn your grandmother. I know her. She’ll say whatever comes into her head.”
Brandy yanked free and glanced down at the red finger marks on her arm before escaping with Grant into the front yard. They hurried through the thick grasses and swung open the metal gate.
Clouds had closed together since that morning and hovered like a gray quilt above Hawthorne Trail and the prairie beyond. Brandy stopped on the paved path. “I’ve never walked much beyond this point. I’d like to see the overlook. It’s not a lot further, is it?” She wanted to digest the tidbits she’d learned at the Wilsons. She could still be home for a late lunch.
“Maybe a quarter of a mile.” Grant began strolling east between rows of turkey oaks, white oaks, and palmettos. In about fifteen minutes, he turned right on a path that led south toward the overlook. When they reached the end, Brandy still couldn’t see much. The prairie and a sinkhole of standing water were fenced off and low shrubbery encircled the area. They seated themselves on a covered bench, a map of the state preserve on a large board at their backs. Brandy glanced at her notes and silently ticked off information in the marshall’s files.
First, during a blackout of the area, a neighbor reported a light by the pond, as if someone took the first opportunity to search there after Ada drowned. The second: Ezekiel Wilson’s wife had been a sickly invalid for several years before he met attractive young Ada. Would that affect his attitude toward either? The third: How did he amass enough money as deputy and later Sheriff to build a grand house? There was a fourth: when Zeke Wilson was a state senator, he became Hope’s enemy. At the ceremony, in her outspoken way, would she refer to his quarrel with local teachers? That fact might not have registered with Grant, but it certainly did with his aunt.
Brandy didn’t care to speculate with the man’s own great-grandson about any of the revelations.
“Do bison ever come here to drink?” she asked, looking over the bushes at tall weeds and prairie grasses. A few sweetgum grew nearer the water. “I owe my life to at least one of them.”
He shrugged. “The animal didn’t save you deliberately. It was just curious.”
Brandy sighed. Neither bison herd nor mustangs were in sight. “Curiosity is a mark of intelligence,�
�� she said, rising.
When he answered, his voice had an odd lift. “That explains why you’re so curious about your great-grandmother. You don’t give up, do you?”
Grant knew about her promise to her grandmother and John. She wasn’t to continue looking for answers—and clearly she was.
EIGHTEEN
On her way home Brandy checked in with John on her cell. “Come to the Irons place after lunch,” he said. “I’d like you to see the house now that we’re almost done.” Brandy agreed and called Kyra, who said Brad would be napping, and she’d stay later. It would give her more time to study.
After Grant dropped Brandy off, she fixed the three of them canned chicken sandwiches and sliced apple, and at 2:00 P.M. found herself pausing on the new rose-colored flagstones that led to the Irons’ front steps. Lake Tuscawilla spread before her in the early afternoon sunlight. The striped head and brown vest of a native Florida wood duck bobbed at the water’s edge; a drabber female paddled along behind. Next spring there’d be adorable ducklings. Out in the lake, an anhinga raised its slender neck, lifted off the surface, and flew to the branch of a turkey oak, where it stretched its black wings to dry.
Maybe for the last time, she admired the bow window in the parlor and the regal sweep of the first and second floor verandas.
When she entered the foyer, she could hear John and Montgomery. They bent over architectural plans spread on a card table in the parlor, conferring. Brandy took the opportunity to look downstairs at the central hallway. Another hall led to the left past two bedrooms, side-by-side off the veranda. Above these were the upstairs bedrooms. The wide foyer opened into the parlor on the right, an archway connecting it to the dining room. The main hall narrowed as it led past the former library on the left to the broad stairway, kitchen, and back porch.
“We complied with all the Standards for Rehabitation,” John said. “I use the Interior’s Standards for Historic Preservation Projects, as appropriate for a certified historic structure. They allow leeway for modern bathrooms and kitchens.”
He pointed to the foyer and staircase. “We’re ready for the final act. Your oak staircase was never painted. We won’t paint it now, but when we’ve finished, it’ll gleam like new. Once we eliminate the small library closet on the left and restore the original library, we can expand the hall to its original grand style.”
Irons rocked expansively on the balls of his large feet. “Splendid.” He chuckled. “I’ll feel like the lord of the manor.”
He turned and noticed Brandy. “Well, look who we have here! Bless my soul, it’s our little lady super-sleuth.” He started for her, arms outstretched as if for a bear hug. Brandy even had a whiff of his cologne. She stepped to one side, and he satisfied himself by seizing and crushing her hand. “Your husband tells me you struck pay dirt. You found where poor Ada Lostermsn came from.”
“That’s true.” She shook her hand to restore the circulation “But I don’t want to interrupt. I just came to join John.” She glanced at the shining woodwork and the blue and white print wallpaper John had meticulously matched to the nineteenth century original. “I’m impressed.”
Upstairs, the hallway echoed with the telltale click of high heels. “Did your wife come this afternoon?” Brandy asked.
Irons made a deprecating gesture with one big, flat palm. “She’s inspecting the rooms upstairs.” His lips turned down. “Wish she shared your enthusiasm.”
“She doesn’t like the house?”
“Oh, she likes it, all right. She just doesn’t want to live here. Out in the sticks, she says.”
“Pity.” Brandy started up the curving staircase. She found Lily Lou lounging against a sitting room door next to the master bedroom and chewing thoughtfully on a thumbnail.
Brandy stopped in the generous-sized upstairs hall. “It’s become a gorgeous house.”
“I know.” Lily Lou frowned at the ruined scarlet of her nail. She stepped into the nearest bedroom and slumped down on a folding chair beside a large old-fashioned steamer trunk. “Monty insists we’re going to live here. Well, I don’t know what I’ll do about it, but I don’t plan to be stuck out here in the boonies. Maybe a weekend or two, now and then.” She waved a delicate hand toward the open trunk. “I found more stuff in the attic. Nothing very interesting. You were asking about data and it looks like Monty’s father and grandfather kept every scrap of paper.” Brandy thought of Caleb Stark’s and Zeke Wilson’s old files. Saving records might be characteristic of the era. Lots of successful men thought they would write their memoirs.
Brandy never tired of turning through musty records, all clues to life in the past. “What kind of papers?”
Lily Lou leaned over, reached into the trunk, and handed Brandy several receipts. “Oh, all sorts of things. Old electric and phone bills, receipts for dresses and suits and jewelry and hats. They kept everything.” Brandy looked down at three bills for lumber in 1922 and ’23. “The trunk’s full of stuff like that. I looked through some of it, but there’s nothing here you’d care about.”
Reluctantly, she stood and began strolling toward the staircase. Brandy trailed after her. Many women with busy social agendas would feel the same about living in the house. Not Brandy. It would be a perfect place to write uninterrupted.
Lily Lou halted at the first step. “Any progress in your investigation? I mean, after the attack and all. I hope you’re being careful.”
Brandy wasn’t sure how much to reveal. “A little more progress, but I haven’t found the main answers—not yet. It’s hard, now that it’s become dangerous.” She gazed for a few seconds out a round window toward the lake. “A piece of the puzzle’s missing. I can feel it.”
They joined Montgomery Irons and John in the parlor. Brandy’s eyes immediately went to the portraits above the mantel—stern faces, both—she with her firm-jaw and elegant laces and jewels, he with his shotgun and dog and eyes that had seen too much.
In spite of Lily Lou’s own downcast mood, Monty beamed at her, then looked at Brandy. “Well, now, little lady,” he boomed, “you’re worrying your good husband. He’s afraid you’re still asking questions.” A slight edge crept into his usually affable tone. “About my grandfather, for example. Just what do you need to know?”
Brandy dropped her head and looked up at him. She would be broaching an unwelcome subject. “I’ve asked about all the World War I veterans in Micanopy. A letter my great-grandmother carried implied she knew a combat veteran. I think she came to town to see somebody.”
Irons raised his eyebrows and rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Everyone knows your great-grandmother saw people in the dry goods store. Zeke Wilson said he thought he saw her. That’s two veterans right there. Couldn’t be my grandfather. He was already married and had a baby.”
“Wilson also had a wife and son.”
Irons nodded slightly. “But Caleb Stark was a young buck then, and unattached.”
How could she ask if his grandparents had a rocky marriage? She forged ahead anyway. “We know that veterans of all wars have problems readjusting, especially after combat. Your grandfather had a record of battle after battle on he frontlines. Did you see any such trouble, growing up?”
His scowl began to gather.
She went on quickly. “He was still recovering from his wounds when your dad was born.”
Irons’ round face reddened. “Everyone says the man was a saint. He was always good to me. The Lord never made a sweeter-natured man.” He frowned. “I hope you’re not listening to gossip in the colored community!”
Brandy tried to sound non-committal. “I did interview a descendent of the maid who worked across the street from the pond. She knew your grandparents’ housemaid. She said the housemaid found both husband and wife hard to work for.”
John gave Brandy a look of startled disapproval. Irons stepped back, bristlin
g. “Oh, really! There wasn’t a more respected couple in the whole town!”
John began selecting architectural printouts still lying on the worktable and dropping them into his briefcase, his expression grim. “Really, Brandy,” he said. “That’s a bit much.”
Monty’s tone turned brittle. “What your informant certainly didn’t tell you was that the maid stole a piece of Grandmother’s jewelry. It disappeared from her jewelry box. It was an expensive gift from my grandfather. They had to fire her.”
Brandy shot a glance at John, who glared back. “I realize I was hearing gossip, and third hand at that,” she murmured.
With an apologetic smile, she changed the subject. “You’re right,” she said. Maybe the World War I bit is a red herring. The Havens weren’t exactly angels. They had a strong motive to get rid of Ada. Mrs. Haven was the only witness to what Ada actually said when she arrived. Maybe Ada came to Micanopy to see the Havens all along. We’ll never know. But according to my research, what Ada told her was the truth—she was alone in the world. Both parents died earlier that year.”
John had gathered up his own materials and stood at the entry. Brandy added, “But we only have Mrs. Haven’s testimony that she was with Hope when her mother drowned, so I’m curious about Mr. Haven, too.”
Irons was not mollified. “I’m sure my grandparents had nothing to do with the owners of a third rate hotel, and they’d hardly know a laborer and tradesman like Stark, or Zeke Wilson, either. Sounds like their generosity led to your suspicion rather than your gratitude. Hardly seems fair.”
“My grandmother has always been grateful,” Brandy said meekly, and followed John outside, hoping she’d made amends for her lack of tact.
