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Authors: Ann Cook
Micanopy in Shadow
Brandy O’Bannon mysteries
Trace Their Shadows Shadow over Cedar Key Homosassa Shadows
Micanopy in Shadow
A Brandy O’Bannon Mystery Ann Turner Cook
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Micanopy in Shadow
Brandy O’Bannon Mystery
Copyright © 2008 by Ann Turner Cook
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover art by Frank Bolock, artist and instructor of Bolock Enterprises, Temple Terrace, Florida
ISBN: 978-0-595-46301-5 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-595-90596-6 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
To Bob, who is here, and Jim. who is gone.
Accidents of Birth
… as luck would have it, and inching over the same little segment of earth-ball, in the same little eon, to meet in a room, alive in our skins, and the whole galaxy gaping there and the centuries whining like gnats—you, to teach me to see it, to see it with you, and to offer somebody uncomprehending, impudent thanks.
with permission from poet
William Meredith January 9, 1919—
I recognized the perfect setting for my fourth Florida mystery two years ago when I drove down wide Cholokka Boulevard in tiny Micanopy (Mick-can-óh-pee) and walked along its two blocks of book and antique shops. The late nineteenth and early twentieth century town square serves a current population of only 653, augmented by tourists. The town’s website identifies it as Florida’s oldest inland settlement, the second oldest settlement in the state.
Micanopy lies among oaks and pines near Lake Tuscawilla, only a mile east of busy Interstate 75 and twelve miles south of the university town of Gainesville. Place names here reflect an Indian past, and area history stretches far back into the tragic record of Florida’s indigenous peoples. In the eighteenth century many forces drove the Indians who became Seminoles into Florida.
In 1835 the town’s namesake, Chief Micanopy, headed the Alachua band that ambushed Major Francis Dade’s command. The ensuing battle, called a “massacre” by the United States Army, began the Second Seminole War.
The town itself wasn’t incorporated until 1880. The population then was about what it is today. During the nineteenth century Micanopy thrived as a center for timber and vegetable farming, exploiting Payne’s Prairie a few miles to the north, now a 17,346 acre state preserve.
Builders are not permitted to impose condos or cookie-cutter developments on this timeless community. Instead Micanopy includes early twentieth century craftsman cottages, an impressive Queen Anne house with a turret, a bed-and-breakfast in a reputedly haunted nineteenth century mansion, and a sprinkling of small churches along its narrow, shady streets.
I stood in Micanopy’s historic cemetery among tombstones dating from 1826. Under moss-shrouded oaks in its center stands a five foot tall monument of an angel. It reminded me of a similar marker in an historic Tallahassee cemetery I visited years ago. An excerpt from an Edgar Allan Poe poem on its base had memorialized a young woman.
The story of Ada Losterman came to me then.
In the story that follows, the settings are as accurate as I can make them, although there is no drugstore or pharmacy currently in the town. All the characters are fictitious with one exception—the domestic long-haired cat, Patches. She helped supervise the writing of this book and is proud to play an important role.
I am grateful to many people for their indispensable assistance in my research. In chronological order, they are:
Patti Woods
, for the germ of the idea from her own biography that drove the story;
Mark L. Greenberg
,
Ph.D
. University of South Florida, Director, Florida Studies Center & Special Collections Department;
Paul E. Camp
, Librarian, Special Collections, Library System;
Kimberly A. Constantine
, Director, Development, Library System, and the university’s
Hampton Dunn
collection of Florida history.
Attorney
Bob Amos
for information about legal issues;
Diana Cohen
, Micanopy Historical Society archivist who showed me the fatal pond, among other sites, and explained the activities of the Ku-Klux-Klan in the 1920s;
Lynn Parrish,
who assisted in archives research and drove us along the route from Micanopy to the spiritualist center of Cassadaga;
Gwen Anderson
for the February1997 issue of
Doll Reader
magazine;
Anna Scott
for a copy of the
Episcopal Book of Common Prayer
that her father, John Flanigen, carried in his breast pocket during World War I and also for information about Atlanta’s Grady Memorial Hospital School of Nursing;
Grant and Diana Wilson
for two tours of Payne’s Prairie and visits to Micanopy, as well as for the name of the story’s baby sitter and for letting me appropriate Grant’s name for the Payne’s Prairie ranger; the
Prairie’s rangers
for information about their duties and the Preserve;
Edie Klein
for her books on antiques;
Ann Tennis
for information about the operation of an antique store;
Martha Sherman,
Tampa architect and specialist in restoring historic properties for her advice; to
Suzanne DeWees, Ph.D
. of Cassadaga for her kindly and enlightened expertise on readings;
Ashley Cook
for sharing knowledge of child development and the social work study program at Florida State University, and as always, to
retired Hillsborough County Sheriff Walter C. Heinrich
for information about the 1975 Richard Cloud murder case in Tampa, solved by the Sheriff’s Office.
In addition, I was helped by Caroline Barr Watkins’ book,
The Story of Micanopy
, Alachua County Historical Commission, 1975, Gainesville, Florida;
Payne’s Prairie, the Great Savanna
:
A History and Guide
, Second Edition, 2004, Lars Andersen, Pineapple Press, Inc, Sarasota, Florida; and writer, editor, and consultant Fred W. Wright, Jr.; creative writing instructor Rebecca Johnson, and gifted daughter, Jan Cook, journalist and speech writer, for their helpful critiques.
Ada turned her young face toward the unfamiliar dirt road. It stretched straight before her in the chill October afternoon. After a quarter of a mile, it curved to the right. Two hours ago its oak canopy seemed protective. Now in the fading light, the branches arched above her, darker and more sinister. The only sound was the murmur of leaves. She clenched her fists, stifled a final sob, and strode forward.
She’d never been so angry or so hurt.
I have to tell someone. But first, get back to the hotel
. Hope would be waiting, standing on chubby little legs at a window, clutching her cloth doll, eyes bright, blonde hair curling above her forehead.
Hope is most important.
Ada herself had insisted she would walk back. For a second she heard the purr of a car’s engine.
Maybe he’s come for me
. But the low noise stopped. He was letting her leave after all.
Thank God, Mama and Papa didn’t live to see this day
.
At the turn in the road, her pace slowed, and she looked around.
Such a small town, so many oaks and palmettos.
She looked behind her. As far as she could see, no one followed. She hurried on
.
To the east the modest business district lay under an overcast sky—dry goods store, telephone exchange, and the apothecary building she visited earlier that day. A Model T and a mule-drawn wagon had rattled along the paved main street. Further to the east the Atlantic Coastline train depot would be empty.
Was it only noon that I’d passed through there
? Her heart lurched. She’d so looked forward to the trip.
She tramped on, felt a growing weakness, a strange numbness.
Must be the shot of brandy.
She’d never had one before. Her heart felt like an iron weight. She pulled her mother’s embroidered shawl closer and leaned into the rising wind. That morning she’d combed her hair into a fashionable bob, set the new hat with the ribbons so carefully on her head. Now her hair flew loose. The hat had blown off.
How far to the hotel
? She couldn’t remember. She had left Hope there—and she didn’t even know the owner.
A toddler not yet three can’t walk far. I’ll only be gone a short time
. Tears clouded her eyes.
I should have accepted the ride. I should not have marched away.
In a few minutes Ada could scarcely lift her feet. Her thoughts splintered. A mist drifted across her eyes. The ankle length black skirt kept snagging in sandspurs. She shook her head and pushed on, past the white bulk of the small Smith Street Baptist Church. Its tall, rectangular steeple lifted into growing darkness.
Inside, a thin-faced pastor lit a lamp and peered out his study window. He saw the figure stumble past, and for a moment was curious. Another town drunk, he supposed.
Across the road Ada saw more houses, indistinct in the half-light, silent behind fences and long expanses of grass. After she passed one next to the church, she no longer could move her legs.
Sit down, just for a few minutes
.
Let the fuzziness in my head clear
. A grassy area beside the road broadened and sloped toward a pond. Thickets of spike moss and briars ringed the duckweed on its surface. From it came the sour smell of stagnant water.
In the church the pastor bent again over his papers, thinking of next Sunday’s sermon. He patted the top pocket of his black suit and found his pen. In a careful hand he wrote, “Be Your Brother’s Keeper.” He looked out the window again, searching for a way to extend the alliteration, and glimpsed the square shape of an automobile. It passed. Light from its protruding headlamps flared briefly. He added another sentence to the sermon and settled back in his chair, a slight smile on his lips, satisfied.
