Sheldon, a self-made billionaire software developer, owned or controlled more than a dozen global companies. He bore a significant resemblance to Liam Neeson. Sheldon sat in a wide leather chair, laptop open, sipping green tea from a cup made in China. His two employees sat behind him, each man reading information on computer screens.
The jet dropped altitude, making a half circle over Jacksonville as the pilot readied to land. Sheldon looked down at the city. In a way, it reminded him of his hometown, San Diego — both near the sea, both with a long maritime and naval history. But it was in Jacksonville where one of the best yacht builders in the world was headquartered. Not only could Poseidon Shipyard custom-build state-of-the-art yachts, the company was one of the few in the world with the expertise to design and construct a wooden schooner from scratch — from yacht-building plans that went back to 1851 when the racing yacht America was launched. After his recent America’s Cup win in late summer, as challenger, beating New Zealand, Franklin Sheldon would be the only man in the world to own an exact replica of the famous race’s namesake, the yacht America.
He thought about that as the jet taxied from the tarmac and eased to a stop. A black CL65 Mercedes pulled up, the driver hidden behind darkened windows. He parked the car, kept the motor running, waiting for the men to disembark from the jet. He didn’t wait long. The door opened, ramp lowered to the asphalt, and the men exited the plane. Sheldon was last. The chief pilot, slender, silver haired, stood just outside the cockpit as Sheldon exited and said, “We’ll be right here when you get back, Mr. Sheldon.”
“It’ll be less than two hours.”
“She’ll be refueled, sir. Congratulations, again, on the America’s Cup win. You brought the trophy back home.”
“That’s the game, Ed. Claim the trophy. Hang the head on the damn wall.”
“Yes, sir.”
Twenty minutes later Franklin Sheldon was at Poseidon Boatyard inspecting the construction of the wooden schooner. It was solid wood, three-mast racing yacht, and almost finished. Sheldon crawled over every recess of the 101-foot yacht, examining everything for accuracy. His staff and two members of the construction team followed him, all the men, except Sheldon, wearing hardhats. The workers took a lunch break as the men made their inspection and tour.
Sheldon wasn’t completely satisfied. He rarely was. He barked suggestions or corrections, the yacht architect and master builder jotting down notes on clipboards, each man nodding as Sheldon went through the schooner, bow to stern. He said, “In September, I want to sail her from the states to England, making the same damn voyage the original yacht made in 1851. Will she be ready?”
“She should, Mr. Sheldon,” the builder said, scribbling a note and underlining a word.
“The word should means nothing to me. Either she will be ready or she will not. Which is it, Don?”
“She’ll be ready for the christening by the end of September, sir.”
Sheldon stood from examining the keel and started a slow smile. “Make it happen, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sheldon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the number of the incoming call and said, “I need to take this.” He stepped away from his party, pressing the receive button on his phone and standing near the bow of the yacht. He said, “I’m here. What do you have?”
“What you wanted.”
“It’s done.”
“Yes.”
“Bring it to me.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Sheldon. I know you want it because it was the last cargo carried by the predecessor of that schooner you’re building. However, it is of great value to its former owner.”
“How much?”
“That’s not a question for me to provide the answer. To the highest bidder.”
“You can’t auction it.”
“Yes I can, and I will. The question, even with your formidable wealth is this: can you out bid the Queen of England?”
“This is not acceptable!”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Listen to me, you worm!” The call disconnected. Sheldon gripped his phone, knuckles cotton white, the pupils in his eyes on fire and no larger than pinheads.
NINETEEN
Professor Ike Kirby stared at the old photograph in silence. He sat at a table on Gibraltar’s open cockpit with Dave Collins, Nick Cronus and Sean O’Brien. Max sat near Nick’s feet, waiting for him to drop a piece of food. She didn’t have to wait long. The men watched, eating quietly as Kirby examined the picture. His silver hair was neatly parted, eyes puffy, a salt and pepper beard covered most of his long, weathered face. “She’s a striking woman. Definitely Civil War era,” he said, tilting the picture, catching the amber light of the sun setting beyond the mangroves, casting a tawny shimmer across the water in Ponce Marina. “I feel like I’ve seen that picture, or one like it, somewhere.”
Dave pushed back in his chair and said, “She’s striking, but she’s an enigma. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to hear the story behind the photo. Since you’re a Civil War scholar, you’ve seen hundreds of Civil War images. The woman in the photo is the kind of beauty that leaves an impression in a man’s memory. I call it the Cleopatra effect. Her identity might point to the grave, or at least the identity, of an unknown soldier. A man who died looking a final time at the woman in that photo.”
Nick grinned. “Dave calls her an enigma. Considering what’s happening — the fella shot on the movie set, the word ghost seems spot on.” He reached down and fed Max a sliver of broiled crab.
Ike Kirby raised his snow-white eyebrows and looked over his bifocals. “What do you mean?”
Dave said, “Ike, Sean can explain that in more detail in a minute. You mentioned earlier that you’re working as a consultant on the movie, Black River. Are you spending some time on the set?”
“Most of my work was in pre-production and consulting with the director and screenwriter. I have spent a few days on set to assist, where I can, with the authenticity. But I’m no set or art director. I’m also speaking at a Civil War history conference in Orlando.” He handed the picture to O’Brien. “I feel as though I’ve seen her face, but I can’t recall the circumstances. The story you told me about how you’re searching for a portrait painted from this photograph is fascinating. Just the fact that the original photo was found on a Civil War battlefield between two dead soldiers gives a world-weary elder historian like me a bounce to my step.”
O’Brien nodded and said, “The thing that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up is what Nick alluded to…how the image of the woman in the picture is somehow connected to the re-enactor killed on the movie set.”
“What’s the connection?”
Dave sipped a glass of chardonnay and looked at his friend. “Sean told you how he came to obtain that photo. But what he hasn’t shared with you yet is its serendipitous link to the accident.”
O’Brien said, “But we don’t know if it’s an accident.” He cut his eyes from Dave to Ike. “What’s your take on the shooting? What’s the talk on film set? Do you think it was an accident?”
Ike cleared his throat. “I was on the set after the man’s death. He had a lot of friends and they all seem very shaken and saddened. Every man and woman I’ve met on that movie seems like they enjoy a real camaraderie, professional and personal. It’s similar to what I’ve seen in mock Civil War battle reenactments around the South and the North. They’re passionate about the Civil War.”