Free Micanopy in Shadow by Ann Cook

the coffee table. Brandy was delighted to have an expert in child development as a sitter. “Brought along a few safe, simple crayons, Mrs. Able,” Kyra said. “I’ll let Brad watch ‘Dora the Explorer’ on TV if he wants. Like, not for long.”
    “Reading to him is more important—and talking to him.”
    “I know. We’ll have a mid-morning snack, and I can give him lunch. Like, I’m free all afternoon.”
    Kyra bent to help Brad stand up. He had toddled into the room and thumped down to turn through the coloring book. “Remember my boyfriend?” she asked. “How I told you he might, like, be able to help you?”
    Brandy waited.
    “You know, the town marshall? Ezekiel Wilson?” Brandy remembered the newspaper clippings. The town marshall had been the first responder. He had also seen Ada in town, or thought he did.
    “My boyfriend’s grandfather is him—or should it be he? Not the Marshall in 1921. His son.” Kyra lips faintly tilted up. A soft look came into her eyes. At the memory of her boyfriend, surely, not of his grandfather.
    “Does your boyfriend’s grandfather know anything about the case?”
    Kyra tried again. “My boyfriend’s a Wilson. Grant. His great-grandfather was, like, Zeke Wilson, the marshall.”
    “You think Grant knows much about the case?”
    Kyra flushed. “Does he know anything about it? His grandfather knows, like, everything about it. Old Mr. Wilson and his daughter, they kept all his daddy’s records. Zeke Wilson was, like, the biggest man who ever came out of Micanopy. Grant says the case fascinated both his grandfather and his great-grandfather.” She sat on the couch, lifted Brad into her lap, and warmed to her topic. “War hero, town marshall, Alachua County Sheriff, state senator. Ran for governor. Owned lots of property around here, too.”
    Brandy felt a surge of optimism. Another excellent source. He might be more forthcoming than Shot Hunter. She laid a hand on Kyra’s arm. “I’d like very much to talk to Grant’s grandfather. Will you see if your friend will arrange a meeting?”
    Kyra grew cautious. “Tell you what, I’ll try to fix up an appointment. Grant’s, like, a ranger at Paynes Prairie. The whole family likes to brag about Senator Wilson. The old man, he’s not doing too well. But I’ll see what I can do.”
    Brandy would have to wait for Kyra to act.
    Before leaving, she made sure Brad had enough toddler food on the shelf, in case she was late for lunch. Gray clouds had drifted across the sun and a light rain was again falling. A front still moved across the state, but it would not interfere with her drive to meet John and Mr. and Mrs. Irons. She selected a linen cardigan in beige, matching jeans, and a scoop-necked white jersey shirt. Make a favorable impression on the townspeople, she thought. Understated elegance was her goal—that and easy care.
    “Of course, the Irons’ house is on Lake Tuscawilla now,” Brandy said. “John says that Montgomery Irons had it moved. I’ll have my cell phone.”
    Kyra nodded, her cheek against Brad’s silky hair.
    By 10:00 A.M. Brandy was in her Prius driving down the hard-packed surface of Whiting Street on the west side of town. Mist hung above the road and in the branches of overarching oaks. She passed the original site of Montgomery Irons’ house, north of its new location. Late nineteenth century builders had more sense than to build on a body of water that often flooded, but like most modern Floridians, this latest heir wanted a view. Brandy slowed and turned through the open gates of the family estate, followed a winding dirt road, and pulled into a gravel driveway next to John’s van.
    The house had been built of local pine in the late 1870s. John would respect its craftsmanship and practical design. Hand cut, decorative railings flanked a porch at the rear entrance, but Brandy walked to the front to admire the long gallery sweeping below three dormer windows. Each framed a wide