“Bo seems real nice,” I said, and I meant it. I’m more of a cat woman, personally, but I’ll not begrudge anyone a fondness for a good old mutt.

“Are you Brian Cole?” I asked.

“Oh yes, yes, I am,” he nodded, unsurprised that I knew his name. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Dave Copeland’s niece, Eden. Dave said you might be able to help me out.”

“Dave? Well, I’ll be . . . how’s that old son of a gun doing? Good, I hope?”

“Same as always. Indecent, dishonest, and up to no good.”

Brian laughed. “That’s him, all right. I’m glad to know he’s well. And what can I do for you today, little lady?”

Where to start? And how to phrase it? “See, I was going through some old family things and I kept coming across these vague references to places in Florida—maybe places having something to do with the Seminole Indians, or a guy named John Gray.”

Brian’s eyes went wide. “Whoa, there—John Gray? You want to know about him?”

“Um, I guess so.”

“That’s a tall order of trouble right there, sister. You’re not thinking of getting involved with a group like his, are you?”

I waved my hands in a hearty disavowal. “Man, I don’t know the first thing about him. There’s just a rumor that some cousins of mine were wrapped up with him, and I wanted to know what he’s about—that’s all.”

“Whoa,” he said again, this time as an exclamation and not a suggestion. “Whoa. Not anyone on Dave’s side, I hope?”

I shook my head. “This is on my mom’s side, a couple of generations back. So he wasn’t a real nice guy, huh?” I said suggestively, trying to prompt him to say something more helpful than “whoa.”

“Hold on a second.” He held up a finger and stepped over Bo, who had flopped down beside me and was all but lying on my left foot. “I’ve got a book over here that—yeah, hold on. I got it.”

He went to the rack and pulled out a volume entitled Occult America. Checking the index in the back, he selected a page and let the book fall open to a full-page black-and-white photo of an older man in Native American dress. His light, loose-fitting cloth tunic was decorated with small, ornate bead patterns and woven feathers, and his hair hung in long braids tied up in suede strips. But his skin was quite dark, and his nose was broad, not arched. I traced his full mouth with my fingernail.

“He’s black,” I announced the obvious. “Why’s he dressed like that?”