by Tom Lowe
O’Brien studied the image closer. The woman in the photograph stood near a river, smiling. Visible in the sepia tone image was a single flower she held in one hand. He cut his eyes up to Kim who was laughing, watching Max, and serving a charter boat captain a beer. O’Brien thought Kim resembled the woman in the picture. He said, “She’s very beautiful. I can understand how your great, great grandfather would have commissioned a portrait of this woman, his wife. I’ve tracked down a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never searched for a 160-year-old ghost.”
“I’ve been blessed, very successful in business. My time is running out. I’m battling pancreatic cancer. Before I die, I’d love to see this solved. I’ll pay all of your expenses, plus ten-thousand to search for the painting. Fifty-thousand if you’re successful. Will you do it, Sean?”
“What was your great, great grandfather’s name?”
“Henry Hopkins.”
Kim Davis filled a cold mug with a craft beer, handed it to a customer at the bar, and watched the old man shuffle out the Tiki Bar door into the wash of bright sunlight in the parking lot. She tossed Max a piece of cheddar as Sean O’Brien set the folder on the bar. Kim said, “Well, well, looks like whatever’s in that folder was enough to make you want to keep it.”
O’Brien smiled. “Nothing to keep, really. Just a copy of an article in a newspaper, a photograph, and an address.”
“Okay, I’m curious. If you don’t mind me asking, what did the gentlemen want?”
“He’s looking for something long ago from his past…something, that if found, might change a long-held legend or perception of his family.” O’Brien told her the story the man had left with him.
Kim splayed both of her hands on the top of the bar and leaned closer to O’Brien. “So, are you going to take the job?”
“I don’t know. On first pass, I’d say no. But there’s something in the old man’s eyes, a quiet dignity, a long-distance stare…a last hope. I don’t know if I can help. I said I’d think about it and let him know.”
“Seems innocent. I mean, you’re just looking for a painting, right? Not an old body, a fresh body, or anything threatening. The change might do you some good, Sean. Can I see the picture?”
O’Brien opened the folder and slid the copy of the photograph onto the bar. Kim looked at it, her eyes growing wider. She moistened her bottom lip. “That, woman…she looks familiar…like I’ve seen her somewhere before, at least I’ve seen the image. I just can’t say exactly where. So this woman was that man’s great, great grandmother?”
“That’s what he says.”
“She’s beautiful.”
O’Brien looked up from the picture to Kim. “That’s what I thought. She’s striking. So you really think you’ve seen this before? He said it was on the news, CNN, in this USA Today story, and other news outlets.”
“No, I didn’t see it on TV or online. I believe I saw it somewhere else. I just can’t place it. It’s like trying to recall puzzle pieces from a day-old dream. Oh well, maybe I’ll think of it. You said the man left an address, too. Whose address?”
“The home of the person who donated the photograph to the Confederate Museum.”
“What real use is that if whoever donated it told the museum they didn’t know the identity of the woman in the photo?”
“Because sometimes an old photo is stored with other things that might shine some light into the past.”
“Hey, Kim,” shouted a charter boat captain at the end of the bar. “Turn up the sound on the TV. Looks like some poor bastard got nailed in the Ocala National Forest.”
“Hold your horses, Bobby,” Kim said, reaching for the remote control. She pressed a button and the sound became louder.
On screen, a news reporter stood in the Ocala National Forest, the images quickly cutting to video of flashing blue and red lights from police and emergency vehicles. Police and paramedics worked the scene behind yellow crime tape wrapped around cypress trees laden with Spanish moss. A white sheet was pulled over a body lying on a gurney, a red flower of blood in the head area, detectives in the background questioning men dressed in Civil War uniforms.
The reporter looked into the camera and said, “Police investigators are initially saying the death is most likely an accidental shooting. The victim, a long-time Civil War re-enactor, is described as a man in his late thirties, someone who spent occasional weekends participating in Civil War battle reenactments. Police say the shooting happened when a movie crew was filming a battle scene between re-enactors playing Union and Confederate soldiers in the production of a movie called Black River. The man may have been shot with a Minié ball, which is a bullet used in vintage Civil War era rifles. All of these old rifles are supposed to be firing blanks. However, one was not. I’m told there are more than two hundred extras on the film, evenly divided between actors playing Union and Confederate soldiers. Filming the movie, which is described as a big-budget Hollywood feature, is suspended pending the results of the investigation. Detectives want to know how the Minié ball got in the chamber of one of these old rifles…maybe a horrible oversight that now has resulted in a death. If somehow this death points toward a homicide…detectives will be searching for a motive, and that would make this unfortunate incident like something found in a mystery movie script. The name of the man killed is being withheld pending notification of relatives. Live from the Ocala National Forest, this is Mike Stratton, Channel Seven News.”
The charter boat captain, a barrel-chested man with sunspots the size of dimes on his bald scalp, said, “Doesn’t sound like an accident to me. Lot’s of crazy shit happens out there in the national forest. I know it sounds weird, but I wonder if they were filming exactly the time the fella got shot.”
Kim blew out a deep breath. “Come on, Hank, that’s morbid.” She glanced down at the photo on the bar and then raised her caramel eyes to meet O’Brien. “That’s odd, Sean. Here we are talking about a lost Civil War era painting possibly being connected to the unknown identity of this woman in the photograph, and a Civil War re-enactor dies on a movie set doing a mock battle. I know it’s just coincidental, but I got goose bumps on my arms. Another thing…remember when I told you I did some acting back in college?”
“I remember.”
“I’ve always had the acting bug. Once bitten, I suppose. Anyway, when they had an open casting call, I drove to the production office and auditioned.”
“You didn’t mention that.”
“Probably because I didn’t get the bit part I auditioned for. I was out most of the day. Met a lot of Civil War re-enactors the producers were recruiting. I hope to God that one man I spoke with wasn’t the poor person killed on set. I can’t remember his name, but I do remember one of them kept staring at me. He was weird. I’m actually glad I didn’t get the part if I’d have had spent time on set around that man.”
“Maybe he wasn’t hired.”
“Maybe. But now good old reality comes along in a non-scripted scene in real life where that older man walks in here with a 160-year-old Civil War puzzle, and he’s asked you to solve it for him. That’s the kind of thing that gives me goose bumps.”
O’Brien slid the photo back in the folder, closed it and smiled. “You have an active imagination.”
“Sometimes, but when I first saw the old man guarding that folder on the table waiting for you, I felt it was harmless. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“It’s only an old photo. Come on, Max. Let’s head down the dock to Jupiter. We have some work to do.” O’Brien stood. He looked at Kim. “Don’t worry. I haven’t even taken the job. Finding a 160-year-old painting would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack of time. The question is where is the painting today? It might not still exist.”
“But like the old man said, Sean, you have a way of finding things…or they have a way of finding you. Maybe it’s because you have the courage to look under the rocks.”
“I’ve got to fix a bilge pump on Jupiter. Se
e you later.”
Kim watched O’Brien step out the restaurant door facing the marina. She looked through the open window as he walked down the long dock, the sound of laughing gulls in the warm breeze, a flock of the white pelicans sailing over the moored boats.
She glanced down at her tanned upper arms, the warm breeze doing nothing to make her goose bumps go away.
Nick Cronus stuck his head out of the open window of the wheelhouse and shouted to O’Brien, “Sean, great timing—grab the stern line, and tie it to the white cleat.” Nick reversed the engines of his forty-foot fishing boat and backed into the slip as easily as a New York cabbie parallel parking. He stepped down from the wheelhouse and tossed O’Brien a rope. Max paced the dock, eyes bright, barking twice while Nick quickly climbed back in the captain’s chair and worked the bow-thrusters, inching the boat closer to the dock.
O’Brien tied the stern line and walked to the bow, Nick adjusting the engine on St. Michael, working against the rising tide and wind out of the east. O’Brien grabbed the rope on the bow, rapidly tying it to a cleat. Nick shot his brown arm out the window, killing the engine, giving O’Brien the thumbs-up sign. Max cocked her head, watching Nick climb down from the wheelhouse. “Hot Dog,” he said, scooping Max off the dock with one large hand. “I caught a lot of fish out there. Gonna cook some after I sell some. Sound good? Hell yeah it sounds good ‘cause Uncle Nicky is hungry.”
O’Brien smiled. “Between you and Kim, Max will forever turn her nose up at dog food.”
“That’s because ‘lil Max is the queen of the marina, and she knows it.” Nick laughed and set Max down in St. Michael’s cockpit. The fishing boat had the seafaring look and lineage of Greek boats that sailed and fished the Mediterranean Sea for centuries.
Nick reached inside a large cooler and pulled out two cans of beer. He popped the top on one, taking a long pull, his eyes watering. He used the back of his hand to wipe the beer foam from his bushy moustache, handing the second beer to O’Brien. “Cheers, Sean. I’ve been at sea five days. Didn’t catch nothing the first three days. I say a little prayer and bam! I’m toasting to a damn good catch. Amen, brother.” He touched the gold cross hanging from his neck and knocked back a second long swallow from the can, shaved ice running down the side and splattering on the top of his brown feet.
Born on the Greek island of Mykonos forty-four years ago, Nick Cronus’s accent was still as thick as his mop of curly black hair. He had the shoulders of a pro linebacker, ham-sized forearms, and black eyes that smiled from an olive-skinned face tanned the color of light tea. He had a generous and yet fearless heart. Three years earlier, O’Brien pulled two bikers off Nick, saving his life in a brutal bar fight taken into a parking lot. And since that day, Nick said he and O’Brien were “brothers for life.”
O’Brien nodded. “Good to hear you did well out there. What’d you catch?”
“Got about a hundred pounds of red snapper. Maybe another seventy-five in grouper. A half dozen mackerel. I’ll sell ‘em to Johnson Seafood this afternoon. Old man Johnson prefers to pay me in cash. I don’t have a problem with that.” Nick grinned and finished his can of beer, crushing it with one hand. He gestured with his head toward the dock. “Look who’s here looking for a handout. My buddy, Ol Joe.”
Max growled when a large black and orange cat sauntered down the dock and sat less than ten feet behind St. Michael. Nick said, “Maxie, you may be queen of the marina, but Ol’ Joe is king of the docks. That cat is the Scarface of the harbor.” Nick reached in a fish cooler, searched through ice, pulling out a small yellowtail snapper. He slid the filet knife from the leather sheath on his belt, cut the head off the fish, and tossed it to the cat. Ol’ Joe clamped down on the fish head with one bite, held it in his mouth, and strolled back down the dock, a sea gull squawking from one of the pilings.
“Sean, are you expecting a package?” Dave Collins shouted, standing in the center of his cockpit across the dock and one boat away from St. Michael. He held up a brown box.
“It might be my bilge pump,” O’Brien said, walking toward Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, a 45-foot trawler. Nick set Max back on the dock, and she followed O’Brien, pausing a moment to look in the direction she’d last seen Ol’ Joe disappear.
Nick tossed the fish in the cooler and also followed O’Brien over to Gibraltar. Dave said, “Shipping label indicates it came from Pacific Marine. UPS guy left it with me since you weren’t on Jupiter. I signed for it. Let me know if you need any help installing the pump. Not that you’re challenged in that area.” Dave grinned. “How’d you do, Nick?”
“Real good. Caught enough to pay dockage fees, fuel, beer, food—a few bucks to entertain the ladies. What else is there in life, huh?”
Dave nodded, pushing his glasses on top of his thick white hair. He had a matching beard, wide chest, and inquisitive, sea-blue eyes. For a man in his mid-sixties, he kept in shape, jogging daily on the beach, spending time at the gym. He had a passion for craft beers and scotch. He’d spent most of his career in the Middle East, Germany and England before returning to Washington and a desk job at Langley. After retiring, he moved to Florida with his wife of twenty-eight years, divorcing within eight months. The only times O’Brien ever saw Dave sad was when, after a few martinis, past reflection brought out bits and pieces of the story.
O’Brien moved the file folder under one arm and lifted the package. Dave said, “When did you start carrying your newspaper in a file folder?”
“Since an elderly man asked me to search for a ghost.”
“Ghostbusters,” Nick said, smiling.
Dave nodded. “I have to hear this. Nothing like a good ghost story. Come aboard, gentlemen. I’ve had a pot of chili simmering since the pelican crowed this morning. It ought to be ripe about now.”
They boarded Gibraltar, Max following at the rear, her nose going into overdrive as soon as she trotted inside the salon. A crockpot sat on the bar in the salon. Dave went into the galley and came back with three bowls and a small saucer. He lifted the glass top off the crockpot, steam rising, the salon filling with the smell of rich chili. Max stood on her hind legs and glanced at Nick.
“We gottcha covered, hot dog,” Nick said.
Dave ladled chili into the bowls and cut up some turkey meat for Max. He reached inside a small refrigerator under the bar and brought out three cans of craft beer, The Poet, from a Michigan craft brewery. “Let’s eat,” he said, taking a seat on the leather couch. “Ghost stories are told, or received, better at night, but I’m sure we’ll get the effect, Sean.”
O’Brien went over what he’d heard from Gus Louden, showed them a copy of the old photo and the article in USA Today. Dave pushed back from his empty bowl, sipped his beer thoughtfully and said, “The woman in the picture was certainly striking, enigmatic eyes. So all it would take is for you to hunt down her original image captured in oil paints on a canvas somewhere? It could have been destroyed in a house fire, or maybe sold a few times for ten cents on a dollar in a garage sale.”
Nick chuckled. “That painting might be on the wall of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. You see that kind of period Americana art in those places right up there with the old Coca Cola and Burma-Shave signs.”
O’Brien said, “The last time Gus Louden saw it was when he was a kid…he must be at least sixty-five today.”
Dave nodded. “And, now, after all these years, an old Civil War photo turns up from out of the blue and is donated to the Confederate Museum.” Dave looked down at the picture in the newspaper. “But the woman in the photo, although quite beautiful, is as anonymous as any of the many unknown soldiers buried in Civil War cemeteries.”
“Not to Gus Louden,” O’Brien said. “He’s convinced she was his great, great grandmother. But he can’t prove it.”
Nick ladled a second scoop of chili in his bowl. “Maybe you ought to take the job. You’re done with teaching at the college ‘till the winter semester. Your charter fishing biz…” Nick grinned. “Well, the
last time you went out, you caught a submarine on your anchor. Maybe you should do what you’re good at…finding people, finding stuff, not finding fish.”
Dave grunted. “He’s right, Sean. This could be the perfect time to do some PI work. I always said that you’ve got a sixth sense. Might as well be compensated for using it.”
“After years as a detective, I’ve done everything I can to keep from going back there.”
“Indeed,” Dave said. “But, like it or not, you’re often back in that arena. Why not do it professionally, even on a limited scale? Finding an old painting seems innocuous, at least safe.”
O’Brien’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and Kim Davis said, “Sean, I’ve been racking my brain, and now I remember where I saw the painting that looks a lot like the woman in the old photo.”
Nick glanced at the TV screen behind Dave’s bar. “Crank up the sound. Since I’ve been at sea, looks like the hands of time got turned back. Why’re all those dudes dressed as Civil War soldiers? And why is a police crime scene tape around that field?”
“Hold on, Nick,” O’Brien said, trying to hear over the phone as a trawler two slips down fired up its big diesels. “Kim, did you come up with something?”
“Maybe. A few months ago I was antiquing with my friend, Beverly, and we were in this shop in DeLand. On the second floor they have lots of turn-of-the-century stuff, some things from the 1800s. I remember it because Bev pointed out the painting, saying the woman looked a little like me. I didn’t think so, but now I remember where I saw it.”
“What’s the name of the store?”
“Crawford Antiques. Are you going there?”
“Maybe. Dave and Nick think I should work as a private investigator.” O’Brien watched Nick grin and lift up a bottle of The Poet in a mock toast, his eyes cutting back to the TV screen.
Kim said, “Unfortunately, your investigations manage to become very public. That’s how the elderly gentlemen knew about you. Maybe you can find the painting for him, give him some kind of family closure and let it end there. I just hope that old painting is in no way connected to that Civil War movie they’re filming. There’s a news bulletin on now. Talk to you later.”