“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.”
SEVEN
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.”
She disconnected and O’Brien said, “Nick, you can turn up the sound.”
“Good,” he grinned. “I’ve been tryin’ to read lips.”
Dave reached for the remote control, turning up the audio. A news reporter stood under some oak trees, red and blue lights from stationary police cruisers flashing, yellow crime tape in the background. He said, “Detectives aren’t calling the shooting death of a Civil War re-enactor a homicide, but they’re not calling it an accident either. They’ve interviewed the re-enactors working on the set of the feature film, Black River, and according to one detective, of the forty-five re-enactors playing Union soldiers, none was aware a Minié ball was in his rifle when the first barrage of gun blasts were fired. All of the rifles were supposed to be shooting blanks. Since this was the first battle scene filmed for the movie, police theorize that the round might have been left over from target practice. However, they say the investigation will continue. To recap, authorities say the victim is a thirty-five-year-old Civil War buff…a man said to have loved re-enacting Civil War battles and collecting Civil War memorabilia. From the Ocala National Forest, Jack Greene, Channel Four News.”
Nick pushed back in his chair, his dark eyebrows arched. “Those reenactors are a funky bunch. Sounds like one dude, the Union guy, forgot the damn Civil War is history. It’s gotta be old wounds, grudges that keep gettin’ handed down, father-to-son kinda thing.”
Dave set his beer on a lime-green coaster that read: Bottoms Down — Key West. He grunted. “Maybe that’s the case, but it’s doubtful. Looks like a very unfortunate accident. Those guys are re-enactors because they love it, and for the most part, they all know each other and are friends whether they’re on the Union side or flying the Confederate flag. Maybe it was nothing more than a bad mistake and the shooter most likely didn’t know he had a round in the rifle.”
Nick shook his head. “Wouldn’t it kick his shoulder harder if it shot a bullet rather than a blank? What the hell do I know? I’m just a fisherman. Looks like, if it was an accident, the guy who did it would step up to the plate and admit it.”
Dave nodded. “That’s assuming he knew there was a Minié ball in the rifle. Those guys are probably using the old Springfield models, or replicas. They spend a lot of time at the shooting range and competitions. It was most likely a horrible accident. And think about this paralleclass="underline" in some firing squads, only one of the shooters has a live round. So no one knows who is firing the bullet into the body of the condemned man. All of those re-enactors out there today can’t be sure if the rifle they were using was firing blanks…so it’s a shared potential culpability. What are your thoughts, Sean?”
O’Brien lowered his eyes from the TV screen, fed Max an oyster cracker and said, “That’s assuming it wasn’t deliberate. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be the first time someone was accidently shot or killed on a movie set.”