Black River (13 page)

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.”

Dave said, “If it is this puzzling painting, it means it was bought by Jack Jordan and his wife in that antique store you found, Sean. Maybe, since he was in the movie, he let the art department borrow or buy it.”

Nick said, “Well, if it was on loan, the dead man’s wife still owns it. And I’m bettin’ she wants it back big time.”

“How do I find this place?” O’Brien asked

“The Wind ‘n Willow Plantation is off highway 122. South of Ocala. The street is Dixie Drive. I don’t remember the address. But it’s easy to find.” Ike reached inside his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s a business card for the art director. Guy’s name is Mike Houston. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. Everybody on the set acts a little frenzied, and since the death, they’re quite excitable.”

“Thanks, I’ll drive out there in the morning. Maybe I can wrap this thing up.”

“That’s possible,” Dave said, reaching for a napkin. He watched the rotating beam from the lighthouse for a second. “Sean, if this is that painting, you’ve done what you were commissioned to do. If the widow, or even the film company owns it, your client may want to buy it, or snap a picture of whatever’s written on the backside of the painting. And you, with your first PI job, can quietly walk away. But something is gnawing at my gut and telling me it might not be that simple.”

I
t wasn’t hard for O’Brien to find the Wind ‘n Willows plantation. A bronze plaque near a slate-rock fence on the perimeter of the property indicated the estate was included on the National Register of Historic Places. O’Brien didn’t take time to read the inscription as he followed a film production lighting and grip truck down a winding gravel drive through manicured property that included a grove of pecan trees, stately live oaks, blooming azaleas, and camellias.

A white-columned, Greek Revival plantation home could be seen at the end of a long row of trees. O’Brien parked his Jeep under a century-year-old oak, limbs swathed with Spanish moss, blackbirds squawking in the branches. He got out and began walking down a long gravel driveway toward the great house, the sweet scent of blooming magnolias heavy in the motionless air.

Dozens of production vans, cars and two semi-trucks were parked in an adjacent field. Film crew workers, most wearing shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps, moved around the property, walkie-talkies crackling. Actors dressed in period clothing stood in small groups chatting, some sipping coffee from white Styrofoam cups, others sitting at folding tables beneath large awnings. The crew carried lights, jibs and dolly tracks inside the front door of the old home.

Beyond the mansion, at the end of the pecan grove, an actor sat motionless on a chestnut-brown horse. O’Brien watched him for a moment. Even on a film set, in the midst of art in motion and life fixed on storyboards,
the man on horseback looked somehow out of sync with the rhythm of the movie set.

O’Brien walked closer to the mansion, approaching a college-aged girl, blond hair pulled through an opening in the back of her baseball cap. He smiled and asked, “Are cameras about to roll?”

“Getting close.”

“Are you the director?”

She grinned. “One day, maybe. I’m a PA, short for production assistant. This is my first feature since graduating from film school. They have me working props, shipping and receiving stuff.”

O’Brien extended his hand. “Sean O’Brien.”

“Katie Stuart, nice to meet you. Are you an actor?”

“I don’t have the talent. For you, it sounds like a good start in the biz. Is Mike Huston, the art director, on set?”

“He’s like the big guy in the department. I don’t even think he knows my name. Just a sec.” She held one hand up, listening to chatter coming through a single earpiece connected to a walkie-talkie. Her eyes searched the surrounding area, then she spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I don’t see Phil. He might be in his trailer. I’ll try to find him.” She turned back to O’Brien. “Sorry, it’s typical crazy, but like in a good way.”

“And that’s a good thing.” O’Brien smiled.

She pushed a strand of blond hair back under her hat. “Absolutely, especially after the accident. We’re all trying to move forward. Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“Good. You’re looking for Mike, right?”

O’Brien nodded.

“He’s probably inside the house. I’d lead you to him, but I’m not sure I can do that. Set protocol and whatnot. Also, I need to find an actor who’s MIA.”

“He’ll be back. Actors need some direction to run away. Describe Mike for me.”

She smiled. “He’s not quite as tall as you. Kinda losing his hair. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he’s carrying an iPad. Gotta go.” She turned and left.

O’Brien walked up to the huge front porch, climbed a dozen steps centered between large white columns. Wooden rocking chairs, a porch swing and antique outdoor furniture were tactically positioned on the veranda. He followed power cables into the house, nodding at production assistants, gaffers, and camera and sound technicians going in and out.

Inside, they were preparing to shoot a scene in a great room, one wall lined with old books, a massive stone fireplace, and hot lights shining through diffusion screens. O’Brien tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He watched the assistant director position two stand-in actors as the lighting was set. He remembered what Professor Ike Kirby said:
“I believe the painting was used as a prop, hung in the huge parlor room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano.”