Micanopy in Shadow (15 page)

“Monty would just adore for you to see these, I know.” She dropped onto the sofa beside Brandy. “He’s awfully proud of his family you know—both sides—lovely people—although, of course, the Montgomeries lost their fortune during the big citrus freeze of the late 1800s. His mother’s people, of course. He’s named for them. But they stayed on in the area, many of them.”

Brandy understood Southern people’s dedication to family. It could work in her favor with Lily Lou and Montgomery.

Lily’s long slender fingers were turning through the first heavy album. The photographs were carefully mounted in large, white-framed ovals on acid-free, archival pages, and held in place by sheet protectors.

“This is the founder of the family in Florida,” Lily Lou said, pointing to the long, solemn face of a bearded gentleman with bushy eyebrows and narrow head. “He’s the veteran of the War Between the States, almost killed at the Battle of Atlanta. Came from the Macon area. The Yankees took almost all the family cotton and everything else.” She shook her head mournfully. “Property that was left went to his older brothers. He’s the one settled in this area. The government had cleared out the Indians and opened it up for settlement. Oh, he carved out acres and acres of land around here.”

The Civil War veteran had an interesting face, Brandy admitted, but he was too early to be of help.

Lily Lou flipped to the next page. “Here’s Monty’s grandfather and his wife.”

For the second time Brandy gazed down at Adrian Irons’ long nose, neatly clipped hair, and trim black mustache. The first photograph showed him in a heavy khaki uniform, his head and neck erect, the same lean face, the same somber eyes. In the second he wore a white scarf looped about his neck and a black hat. A faint smile curved his lips, but the eyes belied it. In the archives photograph she had not noticed his dark, haunted eyes. What had Adrian Irons seen to engender that look? But after all, he’d been severely wounded in France. The photograph in the archives would be a later one, after he had a baby son. But in neither could she honestly say she found a resemblance to Hope.

“And here’s his wife, Sybil Ann. Like I said, she was a Montgomery. Lovely family. They were quality, even if they’d lost their money.”

Brandy looked with interest at the face of the woman who had been kind enough to raise funds for her great-grandmother’s burial. She had noted earlier the firm chin. Sybil Ann Irons must have had courage. Her expression was grave, like most portraits made in those days when subjects had to pose for lengthy periods. She had severely cut dark hair, fair skin, and a broad, foreshortened face. Her eyes were almost as intense as her husband’s, her lips down-turned. No one could have called the woman pretty, but perhaps handsome. She had chosen to wear a high-necked white blouse with frills down the front and embroidery on the raised collar.

“She looks like a woman who would accomplish whatever she set out to do,” Brandy said.

Lily Lou tittered. “She set out to marry Adrian. That’s what she accomplished. The story is, people say, that Sybil Ann set her cap for him in dancing class when they were in seventh grade. He liked dancing about as much as most boys his age. They’d all rather be out hunting in the piney woods. They say she started her hope chest then. By the time she married Adrian after the war, she already had her Francis I silver and all her table linen. Of course, the families were both delighted with the match.”

Brandy wondered fleetingly if Adrian—home from a brutal war and not long out of the hospital—had much to do with the decision to marry. Of course, he must have.

“They were engaged—or at least had an understanding—before he left. Sybil planned it all from the beginning.”

A true Southern belle, the proverbial steel magnolia, Brandy thought, rather like the present Mrs. Irons. Brandy had never believed Lily Lou was as frivolous as she appeared. Underneath that facade, a bright curiosity could surface.

“And did Montgomery’s father have brothers and sisters?”

“No. An only child, you know, like Monty, and our own son. The Irons men only seem to father sons.” She made the remark with pride, as if siring males was proof of virility. Lily Lou hurried through a few more pages, and Brandy caught a glimpse of a small photograph of Adrian standing beside a car.

“Hold on a second,” Brandy said. “I’d like a better look at the last picture.” She studied the four-door, black car with square body, headlights, and running board. “What make of car is that? Do you know?”

Lily turned on past it. “Monty says it’s an Oldsmobile. He says his grandparents bought it in 1920.” Brandy made a note.

Her hostess closed the album. Her huge eyes glanced up searchingly. “But you haven’t told me what you’re finding out about, you know, when Ada Losterman went to her reward—I mean, how it happened.”

Southern belles did not speak directly of death. People “passed on,” “went to their eternal rest,” “departed this life,” or as in this case, “went to their reward.” Ada’s reward was paradise, according to the monument donor, unlike her tormentors, who would go “below.”

“Haven’t learned much yet,” Brandy replied, not quite truthfully, folding over the cover on her notepad and tucking it back into her canvas bag. “But I’m on the track of a few leads. Discovering Ada’s identity is key. I’ve got the name of a hospital where her mother might have worked. If they still have records, I could discover her parents’ names. Also a man—probably a soldier—wrote her an affectionate letter during the war. I need to check further about that. There’s another possible lead. A black maid might have witnessed the drowning and been afraid to talk. I’m hoping to meet someone in her family.” Brandy paused. “We know that the dry goods store owner, the senior Caleb Stark, met Ada. Suspicious activities took place at the store in those days. I’m also curious about the town marshall, Zeke Wilson. He also spent time with Ada, although he didn’t tell the Sheriff. I wonder why?”

“I don’t know much about the Wilsons,” Lily Lou said, shaking her head. “But the Starks are tacky-tacky. Nothing but Florida crackers. I hope she didn’t have anything to do with any of them.”

“Not voluntarily, I’m sure,” Brandy said. She agreed with Lily Lou’s assessment, at least of the old man. Even so, the Starks did seem a literate crew.

“Adrian was an educated man, I guess?”

“Goodness, yes. He went to one of the best prep schools and then to the Citadel in Charleston. He served as an Army officer.”

Brandy’s mind turned back to Caleb Stark. “Could I look at your phone book a minute?”

Lily Lou nodded and rose gracefully. She set the volumes on a maple drop leaf table in the corner. It held a framed photograph of a young man in a blue uniform. Lily Lou followed her gaze. “Monty Jr. He’s at Camden Military Academy in South Carolina.” Brandy recognized his father’s heavy features, as yet without jowls. “He’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”

Lily Lou disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a phone. While she carried the albums back into the closet, Brandy turned to the page that listed the Starks. She quickly found Caleb, pulled her notepad out of her canvas bag, and jotted down the few other Starks in Micanopy

“May I borrow your phone, too? I’d like to speak to someone in the Stark family besides the drug store owner and his grandson.” She held out her list of names. “Could you look at this list and tell me who’s the oldest family member on it, besides old man Stark?”

Lily Lou wrinkled her nose prettily, but she accepted Brandy’s notepaper. “Goodness.” She studied the first name. “That’s Caleb Stark’s youngest granddaughter. I once saw her sitting on the back of a motorcycle and smoking. How tacky is that?” She looked further and set one coral nail on the third name, Cora Mae Stark. “Well, I think this is Caleb Stark’s elderly sister-in-law.” Brandy recognized the address on a street well removed from Cholokka Boulevard, where people of “quality” lived.

Brandy dialed. The woman who answered sounded halting and querulous. At first she seemed to speak to herself. “Can’t stand these blamed things. Family made me put one in. Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”

Brandy affirmed that she could. “Mrs. Stark,” she said quietly, “I’d like to talk to you. I’m a writer who’s working on a story about the history of Micanopy.” She glanced over at Lily Lou, but her hostess had stretched out on the chaise lounge again, picked up the
Cosmopolitan
, and did not appear to be listening. She might not have caught Brandy’s only partial truth.

After a pause the thin voice said, “I reckon. Ain’t got nothing better to do this afternoon.”

Brandy fell back into the Southern idiom she’d almost eliminated. “I’ll be there directly,” she said.

When she hung up and handed the phone back, Lily Lou sighed. “You’ve learned a lot already. It’s all so exciting! Do you think that law officer’s murder had anything to do with your investigation? The paper said you had an appointment with him.”

Brandy stood to leave. “I think his death was related to Ada Losterman. I think her death was the first murder.”

She only wished the Sheriff’s Office agreed.

TEN
 

Cora Mae Stark lived in a small, white frame house with win dows on both sides of the front door. A giant oak spread over the roof and yard, softening its plain façade. Brandy mounted the lone concrete step and rang the bell. A white-haired woman, badly bent with osteoporosis, opened the door. She looked up at Brandy with a pair of shrewd, bright blue eyes. A loose-fitting smock shrouded her misshapen body, and she wore frayed bedroom slippers.

“Mrs. Stark?” Brandy ducked her head a little and flashed her ingratiating smile. “I called a few minutes ago. I’d like to ask you a few questions—about early Micanopy.”

“Reckon you can set a spell.” Arthritic fingers pulled the door wide, and for a second Mrs. Stark studied Brandy. Apparently she passed muster. As Brandy stepped into the sparsely furnished living room, Cora Mae turned toward an archway into the next room. “Just fixin’ to have a cup of coffee. Much obliged if you’d join me.” She began hobbling toward the kitchen.

The front room smelled musty and little used. Brandy followed across a threadbare beige carpet, past a rump-sprung rocker, and an overstuffed sofa. A black velvet wall hanging of two kittens decorated one wall, the sort sold by roadside vendors. Over a scaled-down brick fireplace hung the picture of an Indian astride a horse. Both heads drooped toward a cliff below. Brandy recognized “The End of the Trail,” a popular fixture in less sophisticated homes years ago.

In the small kitchen Cora Mae picked up a carafe from an electric warmer, poured coffee into two mismatched mugs, and set them on the metal-topped table. The aroma of baking chicken and the stronger odor of collard greens filled the air. This must be the room where Cora Mae spent most of her time.

“I’m clean out of cookies,” she said. “I could rustle up some light bread and jelly. That’s what I’m fixin’ for a snack.” She pulled a stick of butter, a loaf of white bread, and a tiny creamer from the refrigerator.

Brandy glanced at her watch—already 2:00—and realized she hadn’t eaten lunch. She nodded and joined Cora Mae. Cora Mae slathered two slices with butter and what Brandy surmised was homemade strawberry jam, and the two women settled themselves companionably on hard straight chairs. “Glory be, I been feeling poorly,” Cora Mae said. “It’s my arthritis. Too much stooping for too long, picking them beans and peas and cabbages, I reckon.”

Out the window, Brandy could see neat rows of tomatoes and green beans fenced with chicken wire. Cora Mae gazed dolefully into her cup, then glanced up with those sharp, blue eyes. “Now, what was it you had in mind, young lady?”

Brandy decided on a direct line of questioning. “I know about moonshining in these parts during the twenties. You must’ve heard stories.” She took out her small notepad, prepared to take notes.

A slight smile twitched Cora Mae’s lips. “Corn likker. Made right good ‘shine.” She paused for a second. “I hear tell.”

“You won’t be surprised to learn the senior Caleb Stark engaged in the trade.”

Cora Mae looked back steadily, showing neither dismay nor embarrassment. Brandy pushed on. “I believe he carried on some of the business at the dry goods store. I’m especially interested in the revenue agent who was there before he was killed because he was there the same day as Ada Losterman.”

“Sure ‘nuff,” the older woman said, again with a little smile. “I figured you’d get around to her. I talked to my brother-in-law the other day.” No surprise there.

“At the time,” Brandy went on, “Mr. Stark told a reporter—and the Sheriff and Town Marshall—that Ada came in asking about work. Apparently the revenue agent came in that day to collect a bribe. I’m curious to know if they met.”

“Lordy, how you going to find out now?” Cora Mae took a sip of the steaming coffee, so strong that Brandy had to half fill her cup with cream. “Now, I got no special feeling for those Starks myself. Truth is, some were a sorry lot. They’s not my people, you know. I’m a Steadly.” The Starks, they’s my husband’s family. He passed two years ago—ornery as all get out, but then”—her dismissive tone eased—“we got on pretty well anyhow.” Brandy didn’t suppose the Steadlies stood any higher in Lily Lou Irons’ estimation than the Starks.

Cora Mae sat back and fixed Brandy with a drill-like gaze. “Before I go into what I’ve heard about them times, you got to let me know what you found out already—you know, about that poor Losterman girl’s passing. Always been curious about it myself.”