The last time I saw Elvis, not the Elvis, mind you, he was sitting on the dock in Key West waiting to see me off. He’d had one of his dreams, and although he knew I was a skeptic, he felt it was his duty to bring me the news. “Wes, your grandfather’s dead.”

It was a cool, sunny February day and I was stowing gear, preparing to take my sailboat, Rough Draft, over to the Bahamas for a couple of months before the hurricane season hit. I thought I’d misheard him. I stopped what I was doing and stepped off the boat and onto the dock.

Elvis was a couple of inches taller than me and much thinner. His head was shaved and polished, and he had a Van Dyke style beard. Elvis wore a dark blue pinstriped suit and white gloves.

He’d brought along a small cooler filled with beer and was sitting next to it on a blanket with his feet hanging over the side of the dock. As I helped myself to a Miller Lite, Elvis took off his jacket, folded it with exaggerated care, and set it on the blanket. He moved it an inch to the right, two inches to the left, a smidgeon up, until it was in just the proper place to satisfy his sensibilities. Obsessive-compulsive disorder will do that to a person. I popped the cap on my beer and sat down next to him.

“Your dream’s a little old,” I said. “My grandfather died seven years ago. The big 'C'. He smoked all his life.”

Elvis was watching a pelican, a big bird with the grace of a slapstick comic and the eyesight of a dive-bomber. As the bird hit the water with an awkward splash, Elvis turned his attention to me. “Not that grandfather. Your father’s father.”

According to my mother, I was a result of a wild weekend in Acapulco with a Vietnam vet she met at a club. I didn’t know my father’s name. I didn’t know where he was from. I didn’t even know if he was alive or dead. At this stage in my life I didn’t really care.

“Never knew him,” I said. “Or anyone else on that side of the family.”

“Maybe it’s time,” Elvis said.

“For what?”

“To get to know your family.”

I looked at Elvis, but he was staring down at the water, avoiding my gaze. “You know I don’t believe in that psychic shit, or ghosts and UFOs for that matter.”

“I thought that after what happened last month, you’d believe me.”

He was referring to a nighttime visit he’d had from the ghost of Celine Stewart, a girl whose death convinced me I no longer wanted to be a P.I. I wasn’t ready to admit that I believed he had real psychic abilities or that he’d spoken to Celine’s ghost, but the information he provided did aid the police in locating her body.

“Elvis, you and I both know there’s no such thing as psychics.”

“How do you explain Celine?” he asked.

“You offered to hire me,” I reminded him. “I suspect you have other detectives working for you. One of your investigators must have stumbled upon something the cops missed.”

Elvis turned to me. “I don’t have any investigators working for me. No bullshit, Wes. I spoke with your grandfather.”

I set my empty bottle next to Elvis and jumped up. “I don’t have time for this, Elvis. I’m going to the Bahamas.”

“He said you need to go to Mobile.”

“Alabama?”

Elvis got to his feet. “He says he can’t rest until the book is found and returned to its rightful owner.”

“I’m not a librarian.”

Elvis shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”

“What book?” I asked, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth.

“He didn’t say.”

“Of course not. And who is the rightful owner—wait, let me guess, he didn’t say.”

Elvis shrugged. “I don’t choose who visits my dreams, and I don’t ask them questions. They tell me what they want me to know.”

“Why me?”

“You’re a detective.”

“Was a detective,” I reminded him. Elvis knew I used to work for my family’s detective agency. He also knew I hated the work.

DDA Security was founded in 1876 by my great-great-great-grandfather, Aaron ‘Dusty’ Darling. Dusty had been a Pinkerton detective, a Wells Fargo shotgun driver, and he even knew Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. When he was forty-five he left the Wild West, moved to Detroit, and started the firm. Back then it was called The Darling Detective Agency. Now my mother ran the agency and my quitting was a major bone of contention between us.

“Your grandfather thinks you can help.”

“I can’t. I’m not a detective anymore.”

“Like I said, Wes. I’m just the messenger.”

I swore and spun away from Elvis and climbed back on board Rough Draft.

When I was young, I’d dreamed of meeting my father. For years I begged my mother for information. She’d always denied knowing anything about him other than that he was a Vietnam vet and that they’d spent one wonderful weekend together in Mexico. She refused to tell me his name.

Somewhere in my middle teens I’d come to accept the fact that I was never going to know my father. Eventually it stopped mattering. At least that’s what I told myself as I picked up the phone and called my mother.

“Yes,” she admitted when I wouldn’t let the subject rest. “Your father was from Mobile.”

“Is he alive?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What about the rest of his family?” I asked.

“I don’t know anything about them.”

I didn’t believe her, but I knew my mother well enough to know I wasn’t going to get anything else from her. If I wanted to know about my father or his side of my family, I was going to have to find out for myself. I hung up the phone, plotted a new course, and finished preparing to leave Key West.

***

Ten days later I was docked at a small marina on the Dog River in Mobile, Alabama. I’d just finished eating breakfast and was sitting in the cockpit drinking coffee when I noticed a tall, dark-haired woman strolling along the dock toward me. She wore faded jeans and a short blue top that showed an occasional flash of skin. To my surprise, when she reached my boat she stopped.

“You Wes Darling?”

When I nodded she shook off her sandals and stepped, uninvited, onto my boat.

“I’m your cousin Jessica Wolfe.” She sat opposite me and pointed to my coffee cup. “Got any more of that?”

“It’s customary to wait until you’re invited before you step onto someone’s boat.”

“Sorry,” she said without meaning it. “We gotta talk, you and me. Family matters.”

I’d grown a beard since leaving Key West, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not. I found myself pulling at it with my fingers while I studied her. I didn’t know what to make of this brash woman who had wandered into my life. Wasn’t sure I wanted her on my boat. Short of tossing her overboard, I wasn’t sure what to do about getting her to leave.

“What makes you think I’m interested in family matters?”

“I heard you been asking around about us.”

“I recently learned my father was from around here. Just because I’m curious doesn’t mean I want to get involved.”

She leaned forward and I caught a whiff of jasmine. “You here about the book?”

I groaned and looked out across the water. I did not want to admit to Elvis that he’d been right—again.

“What book?” I asked.

“When Granddaddy came home from World War Two he brought back a book he took off a dead German soldier. Before he died he told Gran he wanted her to see that it got back to the people it belongs to.”

“How’d you know where to find me?” I asked.

“Your mother called. Took Gran by surprise. She told me she hadn’t heard from your mother in close to twenty years. Didn’t know when you’d get here of course, but it didn’t take me long to find you after you started asking around about the family.”

I stood, picked up my cup, and climbed down into the cabin. It was all I could do to keep from throwing my cup against one of the bulkheads. My mother had admitted to me that my father was from Mobile but claimed she didn’t know anything else about the family. Now I discover she’d been in contact with my grandparents.

I took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and then dragged out a cup for Jessica. I filled it without asking how she liked her coffee and topped mine off before rejoining her in the cockpit.

I handed her the cup and sat down across from her. “Tell me about this book.”

“Do you know what an illuminated manuscript is?” she asked.

“Some kind of handwritten book, I think?”

“More than that. I did a little research on the web after Granddaddy died. They go back to the Egyptians and were the only source of books until the printing press was invented. They were done for royalty or the clergy. Some of them are worth millions. Far as I can tell, this one dates from the Renaissance period, A.D. thirteen or fourteen hundred maybe. It’s what they call a book of hours, a prayer book of sorts from what I understand. This one has some pretty fancy artwork. Granddaddy kept it in a special case in his office. Didn’t let many people see it. He was afraid someone would want to know where he got it.”

I hated to admit it; my curiosity was piqued.

“And where’s the book now?” I asked.

“It was stolen. I was kind of hoping you could help me find it.”

“Why me? Isn’t there anyone else who can look for the book?”

She shifted her body so that she could look out across the river to the marshy grasslands that bordered the marina. I followed her gaze and watched a large gator slide into the water. The boat rocked as a lingering breeze brushed the water into soft chocolate ribbons and nibbled at her hair. The air smelled of salt water, gasoline, burning leaves, and jasmine.

“I don’t know who else to turn to. Uncle Roy, he’s kind of crazy. Has been since he came back from the army in seventy-five. Least that's what Daddy tells me. I’m afraid he might kill someone. I wouldn’t want that.

“Daddy tried to do something,” Jessica added. “He went to see Sam Quinlin, the lawyer we hired to look into finding the rightful owner.”

My mind was a whirl, and not just because I was trying to digest the information Jessica had provided. Since Jessica had referred to me as her cousin, that meant her father was my uncle. But what about this Uncle Roy? Was he my father? Curiosity had brought me to Mobile, but was I really ready to find out? After all, he hadn’t even tried to contact me in over thirty years. Did I dare ask her?

“Are you listening to me, Wes?” Jessica’s voice intruded into my thoughts.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was distracted. Did you go to the police?”

“Granddaddy didn’t come by the book legally. We all thought it would be better if we kept the police out of it.

“The night after he talked to the lawyer, Daddy was beat near to death. That’s the night the manuscript was stolen.”

“So even after someone steals the book and beats up your dad, you didn’t go to the police?”

“Nope.” Jessica took a sip of her coffee and made a face. “Who taught you how to make coffee?”

“I like my coffee. And I don’t see how I can help you find the manuscript.”

Jessica shrugged, a sensual movement that made me wish we weren’t related. Her face was delicately shaped and pale. It was as if it had been sculpted from fine marble. Even her mouth had an artistic, chiseled look about it. But her eyes told the real story. They were blue and fierce, and I could tell by the way she met my gaze that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“All I want you to do is go talk to the lawyer we hired. Sam was going to make some calls to someone he knew in the State Department and see if he could find out who the manuscript belonged to and how we could return it. Next thing we know the book’s stolen. Gran wants to just let it go, but I want to do what Granddaddy asked.”

“If I help you find the book how do I know you won’t just sell it and keep the money? You claim to be my cousin, but I don’t know you from Adam.”

Jessica’s body stiffened and for the first time in my life I understood the meaning of the phrase, If looks could kill. I held up my hands in apology before she could take a swing at me. “Sorry, I’ll take you at your word.” For the time being, I thought, as she continued on.

“Way I figure it, the lawyer has to know something. He won’t take our calls. Besides, no one else knew about this except family.”

“The lawyer beat up your dad?”

She gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. “Not exactly.”

Talking to this girl was like pulling teeth from a rabid dog. I sighed, picked up our cups, and nodded toward the cabin. “I’ll make us another pot,” I said. “You want to come in?”

“I’ll wait out here.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “But when I come out I want some answers.”

As I made a fresh pot of coffee, I gave some thought to her story. She was obviously holding something back from me.

My mother’s father once gave me an important piece of advice: “Whoever speaks first loses.” It was something that had helped me more than once in the past. This time when I sat opposite Jessica I set our cups down, folded my arms, looked her dead in the eye, and didn’t say a word.

“What?” she asked.

“You seem to be avoiding the subject of who beat up your dad.”

“Avoiding is a strong word.”

“So who the hell beat him up?”

“Fish Conners.”

“What kind of a person goes by the name Fish?” I asked.

Jessica sipped her coffee. A breeze passed over her, and her scent made my nose quiver. “Fish got his name when he was younger. He used to fish a lot. When he was a teenager they said he could drink like a fish. The name stuck.”

A pelican made a clownish dive into the river and I shook my head. “You’re a colorful lot down here, aren’t you?”

“Despite what you northerners seem to think, we’re not all rednecks.”

“I never thought that,” I said. “But there have already been a couple of times when I was talking to one of the locals and felt like I needed an interpreter.”

Jessica grinned. “I gotta admit, I was gonna lie to you, cousin. The truth is—Fish is just mean. He never got over the fact that he blew out a knee and got cut from the University of Alabama football team. He’s big and he’s fast, and he’ll do anything for a buck. He’s gotta be working for someone.”

“Which takes us back to the lawyer,” I said.

“Sam Quinlin.”

“And you want me to what? Politely ask him if he stole the book? And if he did, please return it.”

“There you go.” She jumped up and drew a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Here’s my number and Sam Quinlin’s office address. Either way you decide let me know.” Not waiting for my reply, she climbed out of the boat and headed down the dock.

“I really don’t want to get involved,” I called out after her.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Think about it, then give me a call. Don’t wait too long though. If you aren’t going to help, I got to find someone else. By the way, how old are you, Wes, thirty-four, thirty-five?”

“Close,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering how a person your age can afford to buy a sailboat and travel around without working, that’s all.”

“Where I come from we don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

“If you don’t want to answer, that’s okay. But I got a lot more questions for you, cousin.” She turned away and sashayed down the dock, a young woman who moved to the beat of no drummer I’d ever heard before.

I was wondering whether I should run after her and ask her about my father, when she turned the corner and disappeared behind the marina store. As for her story, I wasn’t sure what to believe. I also wasn’t buying her country-girl act. I got the feeling she was a little more sophisticated than what she wanted me to believe.