Finding Miranda Read online

  Finding Miranda

  IRIS CHACON

  Copyright © 2015 Delia L. Stewart

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1519400241

  ISBN-13: 978-1519400246

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Bill Coppage, who will never see this but who taught me more about life, radio, and spirituality than almost anyone I know. He has been an inspiration not only to this writer but to countless others, both blind and sighted.

  Thank you, Bill, and God bless you always.

  CONTENTS

  1 THE RITUAL

  2 THE VISIT

  3 THE D.M.V.

  4 THE LIBRARIAN

  5 THE CASTOR BEAN

  6 THE ALARM

  7 THE DEEJAY

  8 THE LIBRARY

  9 THE CONSPIRACY

  10 THE SNAKE

  11 THE WARNING

  12 THE LETTER

  13 THE TEA

  14 THE TROPHY

  15 THE GOVERNOR

  16 THE ARSONIST

  17 THE MESSAGE

  18 THE DECISION

  19 THE SUPPER

  20 THE HUNTED

  21 THE VENDETTA

  22 THE RENAISSANCE

  23 THE DETECTIVES

  24 THE AWAKENING

  25 THE GIFT

  26 THE FACTS

  27 THE LIST

  MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SAMPLE CHAPTERS

  1 THE RITUAL

  Seventy-five-year-old Martha Cleary relaxed in her front porch rocker by dawn’s misty glow with her coffee at her side, her binoculars hanging from her neck, and her small-caliber rifle in her lap.

  Wide, shady verandas were the norm in the tiny community of Minokee. The rustic frame houses crouching beneath the live oak trees were nearly as old as the trees themselves. No one had air conditioning in Minokee. With their Old Florida architectural design—all wide-opening windows and deep, dark porches—the quirky ancient cottages were cool even when it was hot enough to literally fry okra on the sidewalk downtown. If Minokee’d had a sidewalk. Or a downtown.

  Next door—and only a few yards away from Martha Cleary’s rocking chair—a screen door creaked open and whapped shut. Bernice Funderberg doddered toward her own rocker, blue hair in curlers, pink fuzzy slippers complementing her floral housedress.

  “Yer late,” Martha said.

  “Yeah, when ya hit seventy ever’thing ya gotta do in the bathroom takes a durn sight longer than it yoosta,” groused Bernice. “Did I miss ‘em?”

  “Nah, not yit.” Martha lifted her binoculars and peered off down the narrow asphalt road to where it curved into the thick palmetto scrub a half-mile away. A jungle of vines, palmettos, young pines, and broad, moss-draped oaks pressed close alongside the road. Nothing was visible through the tangle of flora and shadow. “They ain’t made the turn yit. Prolly got a late start—like you.”

  “But not fer the same reason, I’ll betcha!” Bernice said with a chuckle.

  “Bernice, poop jokes is the lowest form of humor. I am appalled at your unladylike references to bodily functions at this hour of the mor— Get outta there, you sorry varmint!” Martha raised, cocked, and fired her rifle in one smooth, practiced motion. Bushes rustled in the garden bordering her porch.

  “Git ‘im?” said Bernice, unruffled by the sudden violence. It was just another dawning in semi-quiet little Minokee.

  “I didn’t wanna hurt ‘im, jest wanted ‘im outta my summer squashes.” Martha set her rifle aside and shook a fist at the bushes. “Find yerself another meal ticket, Bugsy! I don’t do all this yard work fer my health, y’know!”

  Bernice snorted. “Yes, ya do, ya old biddy. Say, ain’t that them?” She pointed toward the far curve of the road.

  Martha hoisted her binocs, focused, smiled, and nodded. “Yep. Here they come.”

  “Shucks,” whined Bernice. “Looks like a shirt day.”

  “Hush up, ya shameless cougar!” said Martha.

  Across the narrow street, first one and then another screen door whined as other house-coated, coffee-carrying ladies emerged and took their seats in porch chairs. The new arrivals waved, and Bernice and Martha waved back, smiling.

  “Jest in time,” Martha said.

  In the distance a man and dog loped toward the cottages, gliding along the leaf-shadowed, warm asphalt, with a soft whhp-whhp-whhp as the man’s running shoes met the pavement. He wore faded jogging shorts that showed off well-muscled thighs. A tee shirt stretched across his wide chest and tightly hugged his impressive biceps. His pale beard was trimmed close to his face, which was shaded by the bill of his Marlins baseball cap. He wore sunglasses. His donkey-sized dog wore a bandana.

  The ladies in the porch chairs sighed and sipped their coffee, all eyes devouring the oncoming duo. As he drew nearer, without slowing his pace, the man angled his face with its hidden eyes right and left and acknowledged each lady with a wave. A mellifluous bass voice rumbled from behind his pectorals, “Mornin’ Miz Martha, Miz Wyneen, Miz Bernice, Miz Charlotte.”

  “Mornin’ Shep, mornin’ Dave,” each lady called in turn. They did not wave back.

  The running shoes whhp-whhp-whhpped past the ladies and on down the tree-arched road. The porch ladies rose from their chairs and turned to watch the eye-candy-in-a-ball cap move away from them. When Shep and Dave rounded the next corner, out of sight, all four ladies gathered their coffee cups, binoculars, and (in at least one case) weapons. With contented sighs, Martha, Wyneen, Bernice, and Charlotte went back into their respective homes. Even with a shirt, today had been a good day.

  2 THE VISIT

  Shepard Krausse’s cottage was as ancient as the other Old Florida bungalows in Minokee, but unlike his elderly neighbors, Shep had not been living there since the Eisenhower administration. Shepard’s flowerbeds were well tended and blooming wildly because he paid good money to minions he never saw. He grew no vegetables as Martha Cleary did, and even if he had grown them, he would have happily shared them with the local brown rabbits, no rifle required. He didn’t have any particular political agenda regarding firearms; they just weren’t for him.

  Shep’s running companion, Dave, did have strong opinions about the NRA and gun control, but nobody cared. Dave was a dog, for Pete’s sake.

  Shep banged through the back door, into his home’s cozy kitchen. He wriggled out of his sweat-soaked tee shirt and dumped it into the washing machine just inside the door. Dave followed him in, sat down next to the washer, and looked up expectantly. Shep removed Dave’s bandanna and added it to the dirty laundry.

  Shep removed two water bottles from the fridge and poured the contents of one into Dave’s dish. Uncapping the second bottle, Shep raised it in Dave’s direction: “Cheers, Dave.” Dave lapped at his bowl while Shep guzzled his bottle dry. Then Shep refilled both bottles at the sink and returned them to the fridge.

  “Ready for a shower?” he said to Dave.

  “Whff,” replied Dave, using his indoor voice.

  “Well, let’s go, then,” said Shepard and turned to precede Dave down the hallway to the bedroom and bath. Shep removed his Marlins cap, and a white-blond ponytail slid from beneath it, rippling down the center of his back. He did not take off his sunglasses.

  As they passed the living room, Dave whirled to face the sofa. His ears snapped back against his skull, black lips curled, fangs protruded, and a deep, threatening rumble vibrated from his throat. Shep was beside the dog instantly.

  “Who are you?” Shepard asked.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Krausse. And call off your dog, please,” a calm, gravelly voice came from the stranger slouched into the deep sofa cushions.

  Shep placed one hand on Dave’s back. Dav
e stopped growling but neither retreated nor hid his fangs. “I’m not alarmed,” Shep said, “but I am curious. What are you doing in my house? Did my mother send you?”

  “Cute little town, Minokee,” said the man casually. “People really don’t lock their doors. You might want to rethink that. And, no, I haven’t had the pleasure of doing business with the lovely and impressive Mrs. Montgomery-Krausse. I’m here on behalf of a, uh, concerned citizen. I have a message for you.”

  The huge dog might have been cast from bronze; he was still as death and just as scary.

  Shep spoke lazily, but his body had shaken off the fatigue of his morning run in favor of all muscles tensed in high alert. “I don’t believe I’ve done anything to, uh, ‘concern’ the citizenry. And I have a machine that takes messages. My number’s in the book, Mr. ....”

  The man hauled himself from the depths of the couch and stood. Coins jingled as the man’s fingers fidgeted in his pocket. In the heat and humidity, the man’s suit jacket smelled like a wet llama. Shep thought the air conditioner in the man’s car must be broken.

  “I didn’t phone, Mr. Krausse, because you might not have listened to your messages. My client wants to be certain you hear and understand his concerns.”

  “Then tell me what they are, and get out.”

  The man presented his message in two crisp sentences, then said his farewells and backed out the front door, watching Dave all the while. Shepard kept silent, his restraining palm resting in the raised fur on Dave’s back. The whole encounter had lasted less than ninety seconds.

  Shep and Dave stood motionless until they heard a car crank to life and move off down the street. Shep then moved to the front door and locked the deadbolt. Only then did he respond to the stranger’s two sentences.

  “Like hell I will,” was his whispered vow to the departed man—and to himself.

  3 THE D.M.V.

  An hour away from tiny Minokee, the bigger town of Live Oak steamed like broccoli in a microwave: green, limp, wet, hot, and fragrant. Summer was an infant according to the calendar, but the time-and-temperature sign outside the bank said baby had grown up fast. At barely nine in the morning it was already over ninety degrees in the shade.

  Of course, no shade existed (and, for the moment, no air conditioning either) inside the cramped local office of the Division of Motor Vehicles. Miranda Ogilvy might have endured the heat better than most, with her skinny physique and sleeveless cotton sundress, but she was sandwiched between a buxom big-haired Hot Mama and a barrel-bellied, sweat-stained Good Ol’ Boy. After languishing in the stagnant line of bodies for nearly an hour, Miranda’s toes had been crushed by the platform heels of Hot Mama four times. Her heels had been bruised by the sharp-toed cowboy boots of G.O.B. three times. Neither neighbor seemed aware of Miranda, though she was pillowed between them like a slipped disc in a miserable spinal column.

  Silently Miranda forgave her heavy-footed line-mates; it wasn’t their fault. Nobody ever noticed Miranda.

  “Next!” bleated an agent whose red face glistened between lank bangs and wrinkled shirt collar. Hot Mama peeled her backside off the front of Miranda’s sundress, lifted her platform heels off Miranda’s numb toes, and shuffled to the counter.

  Oblivious to Miranda’s presence, the crowd of humanity behind her surged forward, led by G.O.B.’s pointy shit-kickers. Miranda advanced two quick steps to avoid being trampled. Now at the front of the line, she luxuriated in breathing deeply since no one was plastered against her front from toes to sternum.

  Two yards down the counter to the right, the previous customer departed, and Miranda leapt like a gazelle into the vacant spot.

  “Next!” an empty-eyed public servant bellowed directly into Miranda’s face. The woman was shorter and wider than Miranda and actually leaned to look around Miranda for the next victim.

  “I’m here,” Miranda said with a smile and a timid wave.

  The official started and then focused on the front of Miranda’s sundress. “How can I help you?”

  Miranda pushed an envelope and her driver’s license across the counter. “I need to change the address on my license, please.”

  “You can do that by mail or on-line, y’know.” The tone of voice said, It’s lunkheads like you who cause long lines on hellish days like this!

  “I tried,” said Miranda sweetly. “They said I need a new picture taken.” She eased her driver’s license an inch closer to the official, who looked down at it and frowned.

  “Where’s your face?”

  “Right there in that rectangle, see?”

  “That’s not your face, it’s the back of your head! You can’t have the back of your head on your driver’s license!” She angled her shoulders as if to talk over her shoulder, though she continued shouting directly into Miranda’s nose. “Freddie, they can’t have the back of their head on their driver’s license picture, right?”

  The shoulders squared up toward Miranda once more. “You gotta have your face in the picture, honey.” Her eyes said, What are you trying to pull, sister?

  “I know. They tried and tried. That’s the best we could get. I’m sorry. I just don’t photograph well,” said Miranda. I’m a sincere, law-abiding citizen, really, truly I am, and it’s not my fault your air conditioner is broken and it’s two hundred degrees in here.

  The squatty official pursed her lips, glared at the driver’s license, scowled at Miranda’s collarbone—nobody ever looked Miranda in the face—and after several deep breaths said, “You got proof of the new address? Power bill, phone bill, water bill, mail addressed to you?”

  “My first power bill,” Miranda said, sliding the envelope farther across the counter.

  The official squinted at the address on the correspondence.

  “Minokee? Does anybody still live in Minokee?” Then, over the shoulder again, “Freddie, is folks still livin’ in Minokee?” Then, to Miranda, “You really moved to Minokee?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure did.”

  “From where?”

  “Miami.”

  A satisfied nod at Miranda’s bodice buttons. Explains a lot, said the eyes. “Step over there in front of the blue screen,” the official ordered.

  Miranda wove her way across the room to stand in front of the screen and face the digital camera.

  Minutes passed. Miranda’s official approached the camera from the other side of the counter, carrying Miranda’s papers, then stood looking about the room. “Ogilvy!” she shrieked. “Miriam Ogilvy!”

  From three feet in front of the camera Miranda waved and smiled. “Right here. It’s Miranda. Miranda Ogilvy.”

  “Whatever,” said the official. “Look right here.” She tapped a spot on the front of the camera. With her other hand she swatted at a fly trying to roost on the camera lens.

  The fly buzzed straight at Miranda’s face, Miranda reacted instinctively, and the result was a high-tech digital photograph of the top of Miranda’s head with her two hands flailing above it like moose antlers.

  “Crap,” said the official when the new license rolled out of the laminator. She showed the moose photo to Miranda.

  “It’s better than the old one,” Miranda said encouragingly.

  The harried official looked at the photo and at the melting masses still waiting in the long, long, long line of customers.

  “You’re right,” she said, handing Miranda the new license together with the supporting papers. “Have a nice day.”

  “Thank—” Miranda almost said.

  “Next!” the woman blared as if nobody was standing right in front of her.

  I guess nobody is, thought Miranda and murmured a “Thank you” that nobody heard.

  4 THE LIBRARIAN

  Herbert Lundstrom’s wife, Hazel, often said of her husband, “He’s short and bald with large pores, but he’s so wonderful.” And he was. He was kind, sympathetic, sweet natured, and helpful. In short, he was ill suited for civil service work, but the State of Florida had not ye
t discovered it, so he remained on the job. Miranda Ogilvy was blessed to be in his office a quarter-hour after leaving the DMV.

  Lundstrom worked in Human Resources, and it was his joy to tell Miranda her new job at the Live Oak Pubic Library was waiting for her.

  “I’m so glad to meet you in person, after all our correspondence and phone calls,” Lundstrom said as he ushered Miranda into his cubicle. “It’s not often we have an applicant with your credentials in a town this size. Miami’s loss is Live Oak’s gain, eh?”

  “Actually, we met yesterday afternoon at Phyllis Ogilvy’s memorial service,” Miranda said pleasantly.

  “We did?” Clearly Lundstrom had forgotten.

  “But it’s good to see you again,” said Miranda, who had expected nothing else.

  Leaning back in his faux leather chair, which Hazel had lovingly chosen for him from a very upscale office equipment catalog, Lundstrom made a tent with his fingers and smiled in Miranda’s direction. “So, tell me, Mary—”

  “Miranda.”

  “—right—tell me, how in the world did you acquire a house in Minokee? I was shocked to see your address. It’s such a tiny community, they say nothing is ever available in real estate there unless somebody dies.” He chuckled.

  “Somebody died,” said Miranda.

  “Oh?” The chuckle became an uncertain smile.

  “Phyllis Ogilvy? You were at her memorial service yesterday?”

  “Oh! Oh, Phyllis, yes! Of course, yes. She was one of our civil service employees, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Miranda. “You’re giving me her job.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The librarian position here in Live Oak. That was Phyllis’ old job. She was the librarian here since before I was born. But you already knew that.” Miranda smiled.

  Lundstrom smiled, too, but his eyes were blank. Apparently he knew nothing of the sort. They smiled at each other across his desk while his Birds of America clock, another gift from Hazel, chirped off several seconds.