Finding Miranda Read online

  Suddenly, Lundstrom surged to his feet and thrust his glad hand toward Miranda. “Well, it’s great to have you with us. See Tom in Accounting to fill out the tax forms and such, and report to the library bright and early Monday morning.”

  Miranda bounced up and shook the proffered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lundstrom. I look forward to the new assignment.”

  “Right you are. Good day, Michelle.”

  “It’s Mi–, uh, good day, Mr. Lundstrom.”

  Miranda went to see Tom in Accounting, even though she knew that Tom in Accounting, naturally, would not really see her.

  5 THE CASTOR BEAN

  When the Little Cypress National Forest was established in the crook of Florida’s elbow, there were a few logging roads and two short, narrow residential streets deep inside the forest. That was in the 1940s.

  The dozen small homes clustered on adjacent Magnolia and Orchid Streets were the only structures permitted within the Little Cypress. They were grandfathered in, largely to save the money it would’ve cost to condemn the properties under eminent domain laws and pay off the resident families. Those two crooked streets and twelve rickety-looking wooden houses in the middle of the woods made up the miniscule community called Minokee.

  “Minokee” was said to be a Seminole Native American word meaning “chock full of big, hungry reptiles.” Experts disagreed on the exact translation. In any case, the forest around Minokee was not exactly a swamp, but a short jungle hike would take a person from the asphalt streets to the puddles, ponds and streams where alligators and cottonmouth water moccasins plied their toothy trade. On calm evenings the growls and grunts of mate-seeking bull ‘gators carried all the way to the verandas of Minokee. It wasn’t quite as romantic or exotic as hearing lions roar in the night across the Serengeti, but it was an excellent reminder that the Little Cypress National Forest had its own “king of the jungle.” And the king of Minokee’s jungle was not warm, cute, lovable Simba.

  Miranda Ogilvy was hired on Friday afternoon. She spent Saturday unpacking her few belongings and settling in to her late Aunt Phyllis’ little old Minokee house. Sunday was going to be her day to rest up from relocating three hundred miles with less than a week’s notice, following the sudden death of her aunt. On Monday morning, Miranda would report for duty as the newest librarian at the Live Oak Municipal Library.

  Sunday morning found Miranda too excited to sleep, so the sun was not even up when Miranda slipped into the rubber flip-flops she kept by her front door. She wore nothing else but the extra-large SpongeBob Squarepants tee shirt in which she slept. After sharing her Miami apartment with two roommates in order to afford the rent, Miranda relished being alone now in her own house and not having to be dressed for society before leaving her bedroom.

  She planned to retrieve the Sunday paper from the front yard and then spread it all over the living room while eating powdered doughnuts and drinking coffee right there in front of God and everybody—well, nobody—and that was the beauty of it! No one would tell her to get dressed, eat in the dining room, don’t leave a mess, don’t get the newspaper sections out of order. No one would say anything because no one was there but Miranda, in Miranda’s very own, very small, very old, slightly weird, much appreciated, pokey Minokee house.

  She parted the blinds beside the front door and peeked out into the gray morning. A twinge of pink touched the tops of the palm and live oak trees; the sun would crawl over the horizon soon. Too early for anyone to be up, surely. Too delicious that she could race out and snatch the paper off the lawn with no one the wiser. She smiled to herself, unlatched the front door, and scampered out onto the porch.

  “Mornin’, Miss Ogilvy!” shouted the old lady across the street.

  Miranda squeaked and dove under the broad leaves of a tall plant.

  “Mornin’, neighbor,” sang out another lady.

  Miranda cleared her throat. “Morning, y’all,” she called tentatively.

  “You can stand up, dear, it’s only us girls,” came from another porch nearby.

  Miranda pushed aside leaves the size of garbage can lids and reconnoitered. She could see an old lady with—was that a rifle?—across the street; another lady next door to Gun Lady, and two more on porches along Miranda’s side of the street. Slowly she stood, picked up the Sunday newspaper, and stepped around the mammoth plant to the curlicued iron gate in her waist-high stone fence.

  “Y’all up this early every day?” she asked.

  “Magnolia Street coffee ritual,” said the lady with—yes, it was definitely—a rifle. “Get yer cup and come on out. I’m Martha; that there’s Bernice,” she pointed over her shoulder, “and that’s Wyneen and Charlotte.” She gestured to Miranda’s side of the street. “We met at the memorial service, but don’t fret if ya don’t remember ever’body yit.”

  Bernice spoke up from her rocker, “Mind yer bidness there, Martha. Ain’t that them a’comin’ right now?”

  Martha whipped up a set of binoculars and focused down the road past Miranda. “Yep, ‘at’s them.”

  “That’s who?” said Miranda, turning to look in the direction indicated. A huge dog and a half-naked man (maybe three-quarters naked!) were running—running! Directly at her.

  Miranda squeaked, dove again under the broad-leaved plant, and squeezed herself into the tiniest possible ball, tucked against the inside of her low, stone, garden wall.

  “It’s a no-shirt day!” Martha crowed. The other ladies made sounds usually associated with double chocolate fudge cake under homemade whipped cream.

  Miranda closed her eyes tightly and squatted, trying to pull her SpongeBob shirt down over her thighs, knees, ankles, and toes. No use. She could hear the whhp-whhp-whhp of the man’s sneakers on the road, closer and closer and—

  The women began shrieking.

  “Mornin’, Shep and Dave!”

  “Mornin’ Shep!”

  “Good morning, Shepard!”

  “Howdy, Shep and Dave!”

  Miranda’s heart lurched in her chest when a deep voice very near her fence responded with morning greetings to Martha, Bernice, Wyneen, and Charlotte. Miranda stopped breathing altogether when the same voice, inches away from her hiding place, whispered, “Why are you hiding under there? Are you not decent?”

  Miranda didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

  “It’s okay. I absolutely cannot see you. Promise.”

  “H-how d-did y-you...?”

  “How did I know you were in there?” There was a smile in his voice.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s happenin’, Martha?” Bernice called.

  “Krausse is talkin’ to the Ogilvy girl. Nuthin’ to see. I’m goin’ in,” answered Martha. Her screen door creaked and whapped as she left her porch.

  Within seconds, three other noisy screen doors testified that the ladies had returned to their houses.

  “They’re gone,” Shep said to the plant. “You can come out.”

  “No, thank you,” said Miranda shyly.

  “Suit yourself. In answer to your question, Castor Bean Tree, you smell absolutely heavenly—which is highly unusual for castor beans, as any kid who ever took castor oil will attest. Therefore, I cleverly deduced that either this was a one-in-a-zillion castor bean tree, or a new neighbor has moved in on Magnolia Street. That would be you. I’m Shepard Krausse, by the way. And this is Dave.”

  The dog whuffed in greeting. Standing flatfooted on the road, Dave’s head rested comfortably on the top of the stone fence, and he gazed with interest at the talking plant.

  Miranda’s hand protruded from between leaves and patted around until she found Shepard’s hand resting on the fence. They shook hands. “I’m Miranda,” she said.

  Without releasing her hand, Shep bent at the waist and rested his forearms on top of the stone fence. Mister Friendly. “Some people think he’s Shep and I’m Dave; I guess they think Shep should be a dog’s name. But it’s easy to tell us apart. Dave’s smarter, but I’m cuter.”


  “Rrrrmf,” said Dave.

  “Okay, Dave’s smarter and cuter, but I’m the one with the good personality.”

  “Rrrrmf.”

  “Okay, okay, Dave’s smarter, cuter, and more personable, but I … uh … oh! I can play the piano!”

  Dave whined.

  “I didn’t say I play well.”

  “Rrrrmf.”

  “Our house is directly behind yours,” Shep said, now holding her hand between both of his. “We face Orchid Street. Your lot shares a back hedge with ours.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Miranda, tugging on her hand.

  He released her. “You’re really lucky to get a house in Minokee, you know. People hardly ever sell here. My house belonged to my grandparents. Everybody in the neighborhood’s been here since God was in Pampers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You shoulda known the old termagant who used to live in your house. Boy, she was a fireball. Fearless Phyllis we called her. She would have fought the devil with a can opener—and probably woulda won. And boy, what a know-it-all. She had an answer for everything, and an opinion to go with it.” Shep chuckled to himself. “Good old Fearless Phyllis. So, how’d you get this house, you lucky duck?”

  “Aunt Fearless croaked,” she said pointedly.

  Shepard was momentarily silenced, suddenly conscious of how rude and callous his words must have sounded to a grieving niece.

  Dave whuff-whuffed.

  “Dave thinks I’m an idiot,” Shep said.

  “Uh-huh,” said Miranda.

  “Well, we won’t keep you. Welcome to the neighborhood. Let’s go, Dave.” Shep and Dave moved away from the fence. As they jogged away, Shep spoke to the dog, “Why’n’t ya tell me ta shut up, doofus?”

  “Whuff,” said Dave.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Shep responded.

  Miranda raised herself onto her knees and looked between elephantine leaves at the departing pair. How often did no-shirt day come around? She’d had scarcely a glimpse of the man while she cowered beneath her leaf umbrella; it was only natural to wonder whether the muscles on his front were as impressive as the very well developed muscles she now observed on his back. She resolved to join the Magnolia Street ladies for coffee every morning from now on, but she would get dressed before coming outdoors in the future.

  6 THE ALARM

  Shepard Krausse worked nights. He exploited his hot-molasses baritone as host of a late-night radio program called Sheep Counters. His shtick was that his purpose in life was to serve the insomniacs whose conspiracy theories were keeping them awake. When the old trick of counting sheep didn’t work, the sufferer could call in and commiserate with a shepherd—in this case, Shepard.

  Yeah. Ha. Ha.

  It was corny, but in rural north-central Florida the show was a staple and had a loyal following. Get it? Following? Sheep?

  Well, it was what it was, and for Shep and Dave it was a living. Dave could come to work with his best friend, and Shep didn’t have to cut his hair to work at a “real job” in the big city.

  Of course, the silliest puns and the most regrettable jokes on the program were always attributed to Dave. Dave also served as purported researcher and all-around consultant on “the issues,” which were whatever Shepard said they were.

  This particular day was different in only one way: today Shep and Dave had talked to a castor bean tree, and they would never be the same. (Dave was totally smitten.) Who could have known that the dawn’s routine after-work run would be a life changer?

  Most days the pair worked their on-air shift from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m., commuted from Live Oak back home to Minokee, ran a few miles, then showered and collapsed into the deep sleep of the pure in heart. Today, Shepard had lain awake all day, hands behind his head, face toward the ceiling, debating with himself.

  Despite his joking with Miranda about the foibles of Fearless Phyllis, Shep and his late neighbor, the elder Miss Ogilvy, had been on very friendly terms. She had worked days, and he had worked nights. Still, their ships had passed in the twilight from time to time, and even with, say, thirty years’ difference in their ages (that’s giving old Phyllis the benefit of significant doubt), they enjoyed one another’s company.

  Even when, as a child, Shepard had visited his grandparents’ house—in which he now lived—he had never missed a chance to cross the two back yards to Phyllis’ kitchen door. Phyllis had always greeted him warmly but very seriously. She was the first person in his life who had treated him like a responsible, self-sufficient human being with a good head on his shoulders. He was eight at the time.

  Did he still have a good head on his shoulders? He wondered, blue eyes wide open as they had been for hours. Phyllis may have mentioned relatives in Miami. Shepard couldn’t remember. He certainly didn’t recall any prior knowledge that would have prepared him for Miranda Ogilvy, the transplanted, inheriting niece.

  Assuming he was correct, that he had known nothing about Miranda until today, how could he be...? Well, he couldn’t, that’s all. But then, why did he feel so positive that he, that she, that they...? Well, he couldn’t be positive, could he? And wasn’t he a grown man with a normal, productive, contented life? He couldn’t suddenly be incomplete because he had crossed paths with a stranger today.

  Sure, he could.

  No, he couldn’t.

  And what about Miranda? What would make him think that he impressed her as anything other than a consummate dolt? Nothing, that’s what.

  And so it went, round and round, hour after hour, and would have continued except that Dave, lying on the cool tile floor beside the bed as usual, suddenly raised his head and ears and whuffed. A second later, Shep heard someone enter through the back door.

  “Sleep!” he whispered to Dave.

  Dave dropped his chin onto his outstretched front paws and closed his eyes. Shepard rolled onto his side and curled into the fetal position under the covers. It was a stellar performance and did no good at all.

  The bedroom door crashed back against the wall, shattering the quiet, and that was only the beginning.

  “Get up, Goldilocks!” a man thundered from the doorway.

  Shepard’s only reaction was to yawn theatrically and turn over onto his back, eyes closed. Immediately Dave yawned theatrically and rolled over, lifting all four feet into the air, eyes closed.

  “Everybody’s a comedian,” the man said without humor and with a pronounced Italian accent. “Quit playing and get outta da bed right now. I made lasagna, and by my grandfather’s beard, you gonna eat it before we go. And we gonna leave on time. You late one more time, you gonna have to go out and find serious work!”

  Eyes closed, Dave whined.

  Shep translated, one eye open. “The lasagna, it’s not vegetar--?”

  “Not vegetarian,” the man interrupted. “No, itsa not vegetarian, I learna my lesson.” The man turned to leave the room, muttering over his shoulder, “I’ma waste my considerable, considerable talents on you ungrateful barbarians.”

  Shep sat up in bed and shouted down the hall, where the man had gone. “Hey, did you lay out my clothes?”

  Dave rolled right side up, stood, and shook himself awake.

  From the kitchen the man’s voice rasped loudly, “Hangin’ in the bathroom, Pretty Boy! Get a move on!”

  “Thank you, Pietro,” Shepard called in a syrupy sing-song.

  “Whuff aruh,” barked Dave.

  ….

  Less than thirty minutes had passed when Dave preceded Shepard into the kitchen. Shep took a seat at the dark, heavy wooden table that had been his grandmother’s pride. He could have seen himself in the polished surface, but he didn’t. Pietro set a plate of steaming lasagna between the utensils laid at Shep’s place.

  “Thank you,” said Shep.

  Dave sat, eyes bright, ears upright, and tail wagging, in the corner nearest the kitchen sink. A vinyl placemat and stainless steel dish of cool water occupied the corner tiles. Pietro set a stainless steel bowl of
kibble topped with lasagna on the mat beside the water dish.

  “Whuff aruh,” barked Dave, but he didn’t move from where he sat.

  “Let’sa pray,” said Pietro. Dave lowered his chin, Shep bowed his head, and Pietro intoned toward the ceiling, “For what we are about to receive, gracious Lord, make our selfish hearts truly grateful. May this food and your Holy Spirit fuel us to live for your glory. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said Shep, then picked up his fork and began eating.

  “Whuff,” said Dave, then dove snoot-first into the food bowl.

  Pietro brought a plate for himself and took a seat across the table from Shepard. Forks scraped, and mmm’s of appreciation bespoke deliciousness, complimenting the cook. Moments later Shep swallowed a bite and cleared his throat.

  “What?” said Pietro.

  “Had a visitor waiting when I got back from my run this morning.”

  “And...?”

  “In the house, sitting on the couch.”

  “You leave-a da house unlocked?”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered to this guy. Is there bread, please?”

  Pietro’s chair scraped. “Jiminy Christmas, I forgetta da oven!”

  “Explains the charcoal smell.”

  Pietro yanked on an oven mitt and jerked a smoking pan of garlic bread from the oven. He slammed the oven door and dropped the pan in the sink. Removing his oven mitt, he resumed his seat at the table. “No, we don’t-a got bread, Smarty Trousers. Now you quit da stallin’ and tell me what da guy want in you house on you couch before da sun even come up good.”

  “Is there more sweet tea, please?”

  “Talk, or you be wearin’ all the sweet tea we got!” Nevertheless, Pietro retrieved a pitcher from the fridge and refilled his and Shep’s glasses.

  “Seems somebody’s not a fan of the Shep and Dave show. I mean, they like Dave just fine, but they think I’m sharing too many personal opinions about things I know nothing about. The guy wasn’t too specific, but I got the feeling he meant opinions about things that could hurt a certain governor’s chances of becoming vice president of the United States.”