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.”

Nick wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, “I couldn’t be passionate about any war ‘cause that’s the human race at its damn worst, so why reenact misery and death?”

Ike nodded. “The Civil War was unique among wars, though. Death was the tragic consequence of attempting to preserve a way of life or an illusion of life. In retrospect, the supposed dichotomy between the North and the South was more political than social or even geographical.” He looked across the table to O’Brien and asked, “What is the association, the photo of the woman and the death on the movie set?”

“It’s the portrait that was painted from this picture, or the original picture. The man that owned the painting, he and his wife bought it in an antique store a few months ago — was the same man killed on the set. And his name is Jack Jordan.”

Ike sat straighter in his deck chair. “That’s sad and a very bizarre coincidence.”

Dave nodded. “After working more than a decade as a homicide detective, Sean would be the first to tell us there are few, if any coincidences in crime, especially murder.”

Ike’s eyebrows arched. He looked at O’Brien. “Do you think the man was murdered?”

“I don’t know. At this point, I’m simply trying to find a long-lost painting for an elderly man with cancer.”

Ike tilted his head. “You mentioned that you and a friend found the spot on the St. Johns River where the picture was taken, correct?”

“Yes, it’s a high bluff on the north side of the river, near a wide oxbow. To the south is where Dunns Creek enters the St. Johns. The river is very wide there.”

Gibraltar rocked slightly as a trawler backed out of a slip, the captain easing the big boat across Ponce Marina, a mild wake rolling over the surface of the water. Ike watched the trawler for a moment and said, “The St. Johns River played a lot of unique roles during the Civil War. The river was the scene of ferocious fighting. Lots of gunboats, torpedo-like mines placed just below the surface. Confederate troops, commanded by one of the savviest leaders the South had, played hell with the Union. The rebels were led by a man the Union called Swamp Fox. His real name was Captain J. J. Dickison. He never lost any of the dozens of raids he led against the Union. He and his men knew the swamps and Florida backcountry. The Union forces were always caught off guard. And none of them could follow or find Dickison and his marauders. But they did kill one of his two sons, and that event made Dickison even a much greater foe to the Union.”

Nick grinned. “So then he really got pissed, kicked butt and took names.”

Ike looked over his bifocals and nodded. “That’s an accurate portrayal, to put it mildly. Dickison commanded a raid called the Battle of Horse Landing on the St. Johns River. After the smoke cleared, his men had sank a massive Union gun, the Columbine. And they did it from the river’s edge. No Confederate forces had ever done that. Dickison salvaged a lifeboat from the wreckage, and he and his men hid it in a creek that flowed into the river. He used that boat to help Confederate Secretary of War, John Breckinridge, navigate south on the river, hijacking a sailboat and escaping to Cuba. Breckinridge later fled to England. Dickison stayed behind in Florida.”

“Did they eventually catch and kill Dickison?” Nick asked.

“No. The war was about over, the South gutted. Dickison just stopped fighting. He walked away. Two weeks later, he was rounded up at his little cottage on the shore of a deep spring called Bugg Spring, imprisoned for a short period and released. A few historians believe the only reason he was held in prison was to interrogate him about the Confederate treasury, what little gold may have been left. Many believe John Breckenridge was traveling with the remains of the treasury. In his escape, he’d have a hard time taking it to Cuba or England later. Some believe he tasked Dickison with the job of hiding the gold.”

Dave said, “Maybe he dropped it into Bugg Spring.”

Ike smiled. “Maybe. The water is crystal clear, but it’s very deep and veers off into underwater passages. No one could begin to treasure hunt there now.”

“Why’s that?” O’Brien asked.

“Because the U.S. Navy conducts most of its ultra-sensitive and ultra-secret underwater sonar tests there. What they learn makes it into navigation systems for nuclear submarines. Anyone going into that spring would be shot.”

Nick sipped a Corona, chuckled and said, “I used to dive for sponges. I can find anything underwater. Even lost submarines, right Sean and Dave?”

Dave said, “Nick’s a human sonar. A porpoise under the sea.”

Ike’s gray eyes ignited for a second. He reached for the photo next to O’Brien. “May I see that one more time?”

“Sure.”

Ike looked at the woman’s picture for a few seconds, her face reflected in the lights onto the lower portion of his bifocals. “Ahh…now I remember. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a painting on the movie set that’s similar to this.”

“Where on the set?” O’Brien asked.

“In an antebellum plantation-style home known as the Wind ‘n Willow near Ocala. The film company is renting it to shoot scenes there. I believe the painting was used as a prop and hung in the great room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano. The painting was used in some of the first scenes they shot. But I don’t believe they’ve finished shooting in the house.”