“On the phone, you said you could tell if the contract is real by doing some tests.”

“I can do a preliminary examination here, but the other testing would have to be done back at the University of Florida lab.” He reached into a pocket inside his coat and pulled out a pair of white, cotton gloves.

Laura stood. “I’ll be right back.”

She returned with a large manila envelope, set it on the table, and carefully removed a file folder. She opened the folder and slid it toward her guest. Professor Ike Kirby glanced down through his bifocals, his pale blue eyes scrutinizing each sentence stopping to read some passages aloud. He lifted the pages in his gloved hands, fingers beginning to tremble as he continued reading. “Extraordinary…” he mumbled.

“What is it? What have you found?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly dewy and distant. “It’s not what I’ve found. It’s what you and your husband found, Laura. If authentic, and on first inspection, it appears to be — this will change the historical narrative of the American Civil War. Because it seems the Civil War, was not exclusively American. The Confederate States of America financed, in part, by another nation — the United Kingdom.” He leaned back on the couch and took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “The science part of the testing begins with handwriting analyses. That signature definitely seems to match known signatures of Jefferson Davis. It’ll probably reflect the same thing for Lord Palmertson. I’ll test the 160-year-old paper and ink. But I believe the science will corroborate what I see here. This is truly an incredible find.”

“What do you need to do now?”

“Take it back to the lab at the University of Florida. The testing won’t take long. Dave Collins had explained the events prior and after the death of your husband. You might want to hold a news conference when we get the results.”

“Why?”

“Because this Civil War contract further validates the existence of the diamond, as viewed on the video with your husband. So if the contract is genuine, it only stands to reason the diamond is as well. Two peas now in an open pod of controversy. A priceless diamond and a Civil War deal involving England. If the diamond your husband discovered is the Koh-i-Noor, what is the repercussion? Laura, may I take this document to the lab for testing? I will do so under the utmost confidentially.”

“Of course. How long will it take?”

“The symposium wraps tomorrow and then I’ll drive back to the university in Gainesville. I’ll begin testing immediately. I’ll call you. In the meantime, I have one more night to stay at the Hampton Inn on LaSalle Street. I’m in room twenty-three. In the event you need to reach me, I’ll write it down for you.” He jotted the information on a post-it note and handed it to Laura. “Don’t hesitate to call, for any reason.”

“Thank you. Please call me as soon as you know for sure — when you know it’s real.”

“I already know, at least I’m ninety-eight percent there. The testing, I believe, will confirm it. You will know as soon as I do.”

Dave Collins sat at the Tiki Bar, eating from two shrimp cocktails while sipping a Guinness and reading an article in Smithsonian Magazine. He wore a white Panama hat, Hawaiian floral print shirt outside his shorts. He glanced up as Kim walked behind the bar toward him. She said, “Must be a good story you’re reading. You’ve barely put a dent into your shrimp.”

Dave looked over the rims of his bifocals and nodded. “It’s an article about the pirate, Blackbeard. The man, more than any other, truly embodied what a real swashbuckling pirate was in that period.”

Kim laughed. “And now they’re lawyers and bankers.” Then she bit her lower lip, inhaled and folded her arms across her breasts. “And they’re stalkers.”

“Did he come to the Tiki Bar again?”

“No. But he left a second rose under my car windshield wipers, and he left another note. Typewritten, just like the first one.”

“What’d he write?”

Kim glanced around the bar, a family of four taking their seats at a far table, ceiling paddle fans circulating the warm air. “All he said was this: ‘Let us go home and cultivate our virtues.’ I can’t even get a restraining order against this guy because I can’t prove it’s him.”

“Have you told Sean?”

“Not yet. I just found the second rose this morning. Sean’s so wrapped up in his investigation that…” She blew out a deep breath.

“Kim, I have a feeling this is or will become part of his investigation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not trying to frighten you, but what if the guy sending you these Confederate roses is the man who shot Jake Jordan on the movie set? And what if that painting Sean’s looking for is somehow a part of this puzzle?”

“I just got a chill and it’s eighty degrees at the marina.”

“Tell Sean immediately.” Dave opened his tablet. “Using the phrase and key words, Civil War, maybe we can find the original source of that last message that came with the rose.” He keyed in the words and grunted.

“What’s it say?”

Dave glanced up and then read from the screen. ‘Let us go home and cultivate our virtues’…it was quoted from Robert E. Lee speaking to some of his men after Lee surrendered to Grant in Appomattox, Virginia.”

Kim shook her head, pulling a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “What’s it mean? Why would some dysfunctional re-enactor write that and think I’d have any clue what it meant?

“Because he’s not speaking directly at you. He’s speaking to a fantasy of you.”

“Dave, that’s so crazy. Why me?”

“I think it’s because he’s the same guy, the same re-enactor, that Sean said had a fascination with the painting that was stolen from the historic plantation where they’re shooting the movie Black River. To some extent, you have a resemblance to the woman in the painting.”

Kim exhaled slowly. She reached under the bar and lifted up her purse. She glanced around the Tiki Bar, opened the purse and pulled out a .22 pistol. “I bought this. I’m taking shooting lessons at a gun range. I will use it if he comes near me.”

“Kim, put the gun away. You have every right to defend yourself. I’m hoping it won’t ever come to that.” Dave punched in numbers on his mobile phone. “It’s ringing.” He handed the phone to Kim. “Tell Sean what you told me. If you don’t I will.”

Kim reached for the phone and raised it to her ear.

A half hour later, Dave strolled down the perimeter dock, Panama hat just above his thick eyebrows, his copy of Smithsonian Magazine in one hand. He walked past a marine broker’s office, T-shirt shop, snow-cone stand, heading to the dock store to pay his boat slip rent. He watched a sixty-foot charter fishing boat, loaded with sunburned tourists, chug into the marina, seagulls squawking and following close behind. He saw two porpoises break the surface of Halifax River, a half mile upriver from Ponce Inlet and the ocean.

And he observed a man watching him.

A tad over forty. Dark hair. A Daytona Beach T-shirt tucked inside his khaki shorts. The man wore sunglasses, sat on a wooden bench, earbuds wedged in his ears, iPad on his lap. He wore boat shoes, an absence of hair near the area of legs where socks would cover, a suggestion he wore socks often.

Dave entered the marina store, paid his rent and exited. The man had moved from the bench. He was buying a snow cone. As Dave walked by the snow-cone stand, the man said, “Allister Hornsby sends his regards.”

Dave stopped, a shadow cast from the brim of his hat and darkening half of his face. “Raspberry is the flavor of the day. May I offer you one?”

“No thanks.”

The man nodded, paid for the snow cone, turned toward Dave and asked, “Mind if I stroll a bit with you?”