Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County

by Amy Hill Hearth

  “Okay,” Bunny said. “We let the lawyer do the talking. How do I look?”

  “You look as good as Mrs. Astor’s pet mule!” Mrs. Bailey White said, and at first I thought it was an insult.

  “Why, thank you!” Bunny replied playfully.

  Jackie and I exchanged glances. Neither of us knew what they were talking about. “Would anyone mind if I put the radio on?” Jackie asked suddenly. Without waiting for an answer, she switched it on. The wailing sound of Eric Burdon singing the Animals’ rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun” wafted through the air.

  “Gee!” Jackie exclaimed. “What a depressing song! How did that get to be a hit?”

  “Oh, I know that song!” Bunny said, surprising us. “It’s a folk song. Heard it a long time ago.”

  “Me, too,” said Mrs. Bailey White.

  The song finished and the next up was “Everybody Loves Somebody,” a Dean Martin hit that Jackie seemed to find more palatable. “Now that’s more like it,” she said. “At least that man can sing.”

  “That’s for sure,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Sounds kind of sexy.”

  “What we need around here is another radio station,” I said, trying to be pleasant and conversational.

  “You are not kidding!” Jackie snapped. “Even a country radio station would be better than having just old WNOG!”

  “Why, Jackie, you are a Yankee snob,” I said, trying to joke.

  “What—just because I don’t love country music? I like some of it,” she said defensively. “I like Loretta Lynn and Johnny Cash.”

  “Maybe you should go back to doing your own show on WNOG and then you can pick your own music again,” Mrs. Bailey White said, trying to be helpful.

  “I’ve told you, it wasn’t as much fun once everyone found out who I am,” Jackie said. “The fun part was doing it incognito.” She started to say more but the next song distracted her. “Oh, there’s that song my daughters were talking about! ‘You Don’t Own Me.’ ”

  “That’s Lesley Gore,” I said.

  We listened to the words. “Sounds like that gal is standing up for herself,” Bunny said approvingly. “Tellin’ her man to back off.”

  “Now this is the message young girls need to hear!” Jackie exclaimed. “Your boyfriend or husband doesn’t ‘own’ you! You are free to make your own choices!”

  A deputy sheriff pulled into the parking lot, ending our conversation. He opened his car door with a swift, furious kick of his left foot, treating us to a flash of spit-polished cowboy boot reflected in the morning sun. Whether this was intended to impress or intimidate, I had no idea. Or maybe he was a show-off all the time. My nerves were so jittery I was probably reading into it.

  Without looking at us, he sauntered to the courthouse door and unlocked it. Just when I thought he was avoiding eye contact with us, he turned and grinned menacingly and made a mock bow of welcome. Then he went inside.

  “What in the world was that all about,” Jackie complained.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but let’s get out of this heat and go into the courthouse.”

  Jackie agreed. “Yes, and it would behoove us to figure out where we’re supposed to sit,” she said.

  “And locate the ladies’ room,” Mrs. Bailey White added.

  Jackie smiled despite herself. “Yes,” she said, “and that, too.”

  “I wish Mr. Yonce was here already,” I said, my voice bordering on whiny. I could no longer disguise my anxiety. Unlike Jackie and the others, I also had to contend with the fact that Darryl was likely to be attending. He might even be testifying. Of course, he might just send his attorneys on his behalf. But I had no way of knowing in advance.

  • • •

  THE COURTROOM WAS DIVIDED IN half by an aisle, a bit like a church. Jackie insisted we settle into the first row on the left side. Darryl and his lawyers could sit on the front row on the right. “That’s the way they do it on Perry Mason,” she said.

  “Well, where are the lawyers going to sit?” I asked, confused.

  “I think they’ll be standing,” Jackie replied. “There’s no defendant, per se, and no jury. So they’ll be arguing before the judge.”

  About twenty minutes later, Mr. Yonce arrived, nervously mopping his brow with a handkerchief despite the arctic blast coming from the central air conditioner. But when he saw us, he grinned and gave us a thumbs-up. He darted over to us and whispered, “Everything is under control.” Hopefully this meant the fingerprints had been a match. Then he and Jackie discussed the seating arrangements. “I need to sit on the aisle,” he said, “and y’all can sit right here. But save a seat or two.”

  Save a seat or two? I wondered why. The courtroom was empty except for us. As if reading my mind Mr. Yonce said, “A huge crowd has started gathering outside. They’re making them wait to come in until after the judge arrives.”

  My heart fluttered. A huge crowd. This was surprising, considering that there had been little in the newspaper—despite Jackie’s best efforts—about the hearing. But I had underestimated the power of the grapevine and the determination of both sides.

  This wasn’t a fight about one development. It was a fight over dreams. Darryl and his supporters longed for buildings and roads, for new jobs, and fat bank accounts. People like me wanted just the opposite; our dream was for the land and river to stay the same, the way God made it. As for Bunny, she was protecting something she had fought for her entire life: a place where she could be left alone, which was the only dream she’d ever had.

  At least Bunny and I were on the same side. To us, it had always been Dreamsville.

  Thirty-One

  The judge was an old-timer named Henry “Hang ’Em Harry” Prentiss, a dignified no-nonsense kind of fellow who looked remarkably like Confederate General Robert E. Lee in the classic Civil War portrait that held a place of honor in many Florida homes.

  Darryl and his three lawyers walked in at the last second, just before Judge Prentiss called the courtroom to order. I was expecting to get the evil eye from Darryl, but he didn’t even glance at our side. Mrs. Bailey White snuck a peek behind us, just to ascertain if there was indeed a full house, and whispered a little too loudly that it was a “gallows crowd,” meaning a lot of people, many of them spittin’ mad.

  Had Darryl filled the place with folks hungry for jobs? Or were they on our side, eager to see the development halted in its tracks?

  Judge Prentiss began the proceedings by banging the gavel and complaining heartily about the microphone and the air-conditioning. After we were treated to his tirade on new-fangled machinery, he made the following statement:

  “I have been brought out of retirement to adjudicate this case, and frankly I would rather be fishing, but I am here and I will fulfill my duties to the court. Both of the justices normally serving this court have a conflict of interest in the case and have recused themselves. Justice Donald D. Battle owns land adjacent to the disputed property. Justice John Ed Jones has made a financial investment in Mr. Darryl Norwood’s company.

  “Remember, this is a preliminary hearing,” he continued. “I have read the supporting materials but I have not made a decision. I wish to hear what the attorneys representing each side have to say.”

  Darryl’s lead lawyer and our Mr. Yonce stood up and approached the bench. Like two awkward dancers at a cotillion, they faced each other uneasily.

  Darryl’s lawyer spoke first. “Your honor, my client is being prevented from his right to develop the property,” he said, his tone indignant. “This frivolous claim is causing needless delay. It is causing financial harm to my client, and it is detrimental to the community. Hundreds of jobs are at stake.”

  Now it was Mr. Yonce’s turn. “Your honor, this case has nothing whatsoever to do with the creation of new jobs, or what may—or may not—be good for the community,” he said. “It is, quite simply, a dispute over the ownership of land which we can settle here easily today. My client, Miss Bunny Ann McIntyre, o
wns the land. Mr. Darryl Norwood claims to own the land, having purchased it from someone other than Miss McIntyre. The fact that he was misled or defrauded is not our concern. The fact is he does not own the property. It’s the oldest story in the world, when one human being covets that which belongs to another, essentially saying, I want what you have. The deed belongs to Miss McIntyre, the eldest living direct descendant of the original property owner, and the papers have been authenticated.”

  “And how have they been authenticated?” the judge asked. “I have most of the papers here in front of me but I want it said aloud for the gallery.”

  “Well, the first document is the deed in trust,” Mr. Yonce said. “It has been authenticated by a bank in Pensacola. The bank is in possession of a copy, and it is from that bank that the trust has been administered since its inception.

  “Secondly,” Mr. Yonce continued, “we have hired a genealogist who has proven that Miss McIntyre is the eldest living direct descendant of Confederate General John Stuart Williams and that, under the trust which he created long ago, she is the rightful owner of the land.”

  Darryl’s lawyer burst out laughing and covered his mouth in a way that seemed rehearsed. “Your honor, excuse me!” he said. “The fact is we don’t know if this woman”—he turned and pointed at Bunny—“is in fact Bunny Ann McIntyre. She has been calling herself Dolores Simpson for at least the last twenty-four years, according to our research. It seems rather convenient that she has begun calling herself Bunny Ann McIntyre just in time to claim an inheritance under that name. How do we know who she is?”

  “Your honor,” Mr. Yonce countered, “we have a court record from 1939 that proves she is Bunny Ann McIntyre. The document includes her name, photograph, and—most significantly, your honor—her fingerprints. Those fingerprints match those of the woman you see sitting here today. Here is a report, officially prepared by the fingerprint expert, retired Sarasota detective Dexter W. Stone.” With a flourish, Mr. Yonce set the report before the judge.

  Darryl’s lawyer scoffed. “What is that court record, counselor? Let’s be honest here! It’s for disorderly conduct. The arrest took place outside a so-called nightclub featuring nude dancers in Tampa, where she worked as a stripper. Are we supposed to believe anything this woman says?”

  Bunny jumped angrily to her feet. “I was not a stripper! I was a fan dancer!”

  “Sit down, please,” the judge scolded. Bunny complied.

  “Well, the record shows you were a stripper, or exotic dancer,” Darryl’s lawyer replied, looking remarkably unfazed by the outburst.

  “Fan dancer!” she hollered.

  “Silence in the court!” the judge bellowed.

  Mr. Yonce waited a beat, then said pleadingly, “Your honor, this is character assassination. My client is not on trial here. The only thing that matters is ownership of the land. She owns it. What she may have done in her past has no relevance.”

  “But it does have relevance, your honor!” Darryl’s attorney said. “This woman has a history. She is not an upstanding citizen. With all due respect, I believe we need to examine this issue.”

  Judge Prentiss took a long sip of water, then set the glass down a little too hard right next to the microphone. “Let me think about this, boys,” he said. He then removed his glasses, spit on the lenses, and used the long sleeve of his robe to clean them.

  Suddenly, Jackie raised her hand and began waving it like a schoolgirl. “Your honor, may I say something?” she asked. Before he could answer she had leapt to her feet.

  He squinted at her. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Mrs. Jacqueline Hart,” she said.

  “And you wish to speak because . . . ?”

  “I wish to be a character witness for Miss McIntyre.”

  The judge peered at Jackie. “Aren’t you Miss Dreamsville? The lady who had that radio show?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Jackie said sweetly.

  “Well, I have no objection. Since Mr. Norwood’s attorney has led us down this path, I will hear what you have to say. Come up here and speak from the witness stand, though. And keep it short.”

  Jackie sashayed to the chair adjacent to the judge’s bench. “Shouldn’t I swear on a Bible?” she asked.

  The judge nodded. A deputy sauntered over, held the Bible, and made Jackie repeat the oath: “I do solemnly swear . . .” Jackie was in her glory. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been waiting her whole life for a chance to testify in a court of law. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bailey White and I glanced at each other, and I noticed Mr. Yonce biting his lip.

  “I would just like to say that I think it is entirely unfair for this man here”—she pointed theatrically at Darryl’s lawyer—“to attack Miss McIntyre and attempt to embarrass her. Since the beginning of time, women such as Miss McIntyre have been used and abused, and treated with scorn. She has had a difficult life, was cast out by her parents in her youth, and treated with utter disregard by unscrupulous men. It is unconscionable, in a civilized society, to make her pay again and again—”

  Darryl’s attorney coughed conspicuously and rolled his eyes. Jackie noticed and took a different tack.

  “Excuse me, but don’t most of us here—probably all of us—consider ourselves to be Christians?” she cried out. “Miss McIntyre has made mistakes, but haven’t we all? Who among us dares to cast the first stone? I thought we weren’t supposed to judge others! And what about forgiveness? Miss McIntyre left that life of temptation and wickedness. She is an honorable person. She raised a son, who is an upstanding citizen . . .” Jackie’s voice trailed off and she dabbed real tears from her eyes.

  Mrs. Bailey White and I were openmouthed. For a moment our Jackie sounded like a born-and-bred Southern lady. “Why, Mrs. Hart, I am greatly moved,” the judge said. “Where is this son? I would like to hear from him, if he is present.”

  A voice from the far back of the room called out, “I’m here!” The crowd rumbled with anticipation. Robbie-Lee, carrying a suitcase, made his way to the front. I was so happy to see him I almost cried.

  “Silence in the court!” the judge bellowed. He used the gavel three times to emphasize his point.

  Robbie-Lee looked just the same except maybe a little thinner. He’d always been a good-looking guy and a swell dresser. As he took Jackie’s place on the witness stand and was sworn in, he seemed out of breath. The judge coaxed him to speak.

  “Well,” Robbie-Lee said, “she has always been a wonderful mother. I could not ask for a better mom. She took such good care of me. I’ll never forget the time I had the chicken pox and she—”

  “All right, I think we get the picture,” the judge said.

  “Sir, I would just like to add that I don’t think it’s at all nice that these highfalutin lawyers”—he gestured at Darryl’s attorney—“are saying such evil things about my dear mama.”

  At his emotional pronouncement, hankies were removed from purses and vest pockets throughout the courtroom, most conspicuously along the left front row. Jackie, who had returned to her seat next to me; Mrs. Bailey White, on my other side; myself, and even Bunny, were crying loudly.

  “And there’s something else I would like to say, your honor,” Robbie-Lee said. “I recall as a child visiting my mother’s parents, who died a long time ago. And they had a family Bible—I surely wish we knew where it is now—but it had the names of people written into it, each time somebody was born. My mama pointed out her name—Bunny Ann McIntyre—to me, and we wrote my name just below it. And while I don’t know what happened to that Bible, I swear that this is the truth.”

  Robbie-Lee stepped down and headed for an empty seat on our row, pausing to kiss his mama on the cheek.

  Mr. Yonce looked a little shell-shocked by the unexpected testimony of Jackie and Robbie-Lee, but Darryl’s lawyer saw an opportunity. “Your honor,” he said, “this is a pretty scene but I believe we are getting off track here! These sorts of theatrics do not help us get to the truth. Especially co
ming from Mrs. Hart, who is a notorious local personality, a newspaper columnist, and previously, the host of a scandalous radio show.”

  The judge grabbed his gavel and slammed it twice. “Good heavens, man, can’t you see that Miss Dreamsville, er, Mrs. Hart is in mourning clothes?” he scolded. “Have we reached that time and place where we have abandoned all decency? Were you not raised better than this?”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Jackie said, standing briefly. “Sir, you are a true gentleman.”

  The judge blushed. Mr. Yonce looked so lost he reminded me of a fish that had leapt out of water and found itself belly-up on dry land. Our poor young lawyer had completely lost control of his case.

  “Is there anyone else who would like to speak?” the judge asked finally.

  A laborer named Jim Beam, just like the liquor, spoke about the need for jobs. “We need this project,” he declared. “How am I supposed to feed my family?”

  Then one of the brothers from Gun Rack Village—Billy, I think—also chose to speak, directing his question to Mr. Beam. “Does your need for a job mean you’ve got to destroy what we have?” he asked. “It may not seem like much to you but it’s our entire way of life.”

  I was waiting for someone to bring up Seminole Joe but before that could happen, the proceedings came to an end. “I’ve heard enough,” the judge said. “I’ve had as much botheration as I can stand. There’s no need to go further. The rightful owner is Miss Bunny Ann McIntyre. All other arguments are moot.”

  He brought down the gavel and left the courtroom. If he hurried, he’d be back to his favorite fishing spot by midday.

  Thiry-Two

  And so Bunny Ann McIntyre had won fair and square. She was now the official heir to the river. In fact, she was the largest heiress in Collier County.

  Dora was thrilled, naturally. Jackie Hart rushed off to write a special column for the newspaper. Robbie-Lee was relieved and more than a little surprised that his mother had turned out to be wealthy—well, land-rich, at least. Billy and Marco had raced off in their pickup to share the news.