Black River

SEVEN

Nick glanced at the TV screen behind Dave’s bar. “Crank up the sound. Since I’ve been at sea, looks like the hands of time got turned back. Why’re all those dudes dressed as Civil War soldiers? And why is a police crime scene tape around that field?”

“Hold on, Nick,” O’Brien said, trying to hear over the phone as a trawler two slips down fired up its big diesels. “Kim, did you come up with something?”

“Maybe. A few months ago I was antiquing with my friend, Beverly, and we were in this shop in DeLand. On the second floor they have lots of turn-of-the-century stuff, some things from the 1800s. I remember it because Bev pointed out the painting, saying the woman looked a little like me. I didn’t think so, but now I remember where I saw it.”

“What’s the name of the store?”

“Crawford Antiques. Are you going there?”

“Maybe. Dave and Nick think I should work as a private investigator.” O’Brien watched Nick grin and lift up a bottle of The Poet in a mock toast, his eyes cutting back to the TV screen.

Kim said, “Unfortunately, your investigations manage to become very public. That’s how the elderly gentlemen knew about you. Maybe you can find the painting for him, give him some kind of family closure and let it end there. I just hope that old painting is in no way connected to that Civil War movie they’re filming. There’s a news bulletin on now. Talk to you later.”

She disconnected and O’Brien said, “Nick, you can turn up the sound.”

“Good,” he grinned. “I’ve been tryin’ to read lips.”

Dave reached for the remote control, turning up the audio. A news reporter stood under some oak trees, red and blue lights from stationary police cruisers flashing, yellow crime tape in the background. He said, “Detectives aren’t calling the shooting death of a Civil War re-enactor a homicide, but they’re not calling it an accident either. They’ve interviewed the re-enactors working on the set of the feature film, Black River, and according to one detective, of the forty-five re-enactors playing Union soldiers, none was aware a Minié ball was in his rifle when the first barrage of gun blasts were fired. All of the rifles were supposed to be shooting blanks. Since this was the first battle scene filmed for the movie, police theorize that the round might have been left over from target practice. However, they say the investigation will continue. To recap, authorities say the victim is a thirty-five-year-old Civil War buff…a man said to have loved re-enacting Civil War battles and collecting Civil War memorabilia. From the Ocala National Forest, Jack Greene, Channel Four News.”

Nick pushed back in his chair, his dark eyebrows arched. “Those reenactors are a funky bunch. Sounds like one dude, the Union guy, forgot the damn Civil War is history. It’s gotta be old wounds, grudges that keep gettin’ handed down, father-to-son kinda thing.”

Dave set his beer on a lime-green coaster that read: Bottoms Down — Key West. He grunted. “Maybe that’s the case, but it’s doubtful. Looks like a very unfortunate accident. Those guys are re-enactors because they love it, and for the most part, they all know each other and are friends whether they’re on the Union side or flying the Confederate flag. Maybe it was nothing more than a bad mistake and the shooter most likely didn’t know he had a round in the rifle.”

Nick shook his head. “Wouldn’t it kick his shoulder harder if it shot a bullet rather than a blank? What the hell do I know? I’m just a fisherman. Looks like, if it was an accident, the guy who did it would step up to the plate and admit it.”

Dave nodded. “That’s assuming he knew there was a Minié ball in the rifle. Those guys are probably using the old Springfield models, or replicas. They spend a lot of time at the shooting range and competitions. It was most likely a horrible accident. And think about this parallel: in some firing squads, only one of the shooters has a live round. So no one knows who is firing the bullet into the body of the condemned man. All of those re-enactors out there today can’t be sure if the rifle they were using was firing blanks…so it’s a shared potential culpability. What are your thoughts, Sean?”

O’Brien lowered his eyes from the TV screen, fed Max an oyster cracker and said, “That’s assuming it wasn’t deliberate. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be the first time someone was accidently shot or killed on a movie set.”

Dave folded his arms across his chest and settled back into his couch. “Perhaps a dear old friend of mine can shed some light on that, assuming he was actually on the film set at the time. You two may have heard me mention his name — Ike Kirby. Ike’s a history professor at the University of Florida and is recognized as one of the foremost experts on the Civil War. He’s been doing some consultant work for the producers of the movie, Black River. I’ve invited him to dine on my boat tomorrow. Please join us.”

Nick said, “I’ll shuck a couple dozen fresh oysters for appetizers.”

O’Brien glanced at the photograph he set on the bar, smiled and said, “Maybe your friend can tell me more about the lady in this picture. Now that would be impressive.”

Dave chuckled. “Well, look at the irony in this. You have that old Civil War era picture there on the bar in front of you. The Confederate Museum can’t identify the woman in the picture, a photo that was originally found on the battlefield between two dead soldiers, one Confederate and one Union. Now, out there today on a mock battlefield, a Union soldier kills a Confederate in a scene for a movie — a motion picture — cameras all around and no one knows the ID of the person responsible. There’s no tangible relevance, a pure fluke really, but an interesting observation no less.”

O’Brien slid the photograph back in the envelope. “Kim said she recalled an old painting, possibly resembling the woman in the picture.”

Nick leaned forward in his chair. “Oh boy, it’s happening.”

Dave asked, “What’s happening?”

“Stuff. The kinda stuff that happens when my bud, Sean, gets involved. Lemme just say this, shit happens. Okay, tell us…where’d Kim see it?”

“At an antique store in DeLand. I think I’ll visit that store.”

Nick shook his head. “Told you.”

Dave grinned. “So we can assume that you’re taking the job. And to carry the assumption a step further, we can infer that Sean O’Brien is now — record the date Nick — that Sean O’Brien today officially becomes a private investigator. Correct?”

“I’m just going to an antique shop. Nothing more.”

Nick sipped his beer and said, “But if you find the painting you solve the mystery. The old man salvages the family’s good name, and Sean, dude, you pocket some dough for just checking out an antique store. Maybe I ought to trade fishin’ for the private eye biz.”

Dave snorted and lifted Max up to the couch. “But what if he doesn’t find the painting? It’s very doubtful that something Kim saw months ago is really the mysterious woman in the photo. However, Sean, and don’t take this wrong…the nature of private investigating is covert, clandestine work. Your investigations, especially the last one, involved a candidate for the White House. You don’t get any more public than that.”

O’Brien smiled. “Yeah, but I didn’t ask for that. It was tossed in my face. Trying to help an old man locate a lost painting is something I’m stepping into, not something I get by chance.”

Dave said, “Maybe. But what if the door to the antique shop opens a door to the past that has a dark history? What if the search for the painting takes you 160 years into the past, on the threshold of the bloodiest war in U.S. history and you discover something your new client might not like?”

O’Brien got up to leave. “That’s possible, but not probable. If Max can hang here a couple of hours, I’m going antiquing. Maybe I’ll find the painting and some other old treasures I can get on that PBS program, Antiques Roadshow.”

Nick tilted his head and raised his thick eyebrows. “Like Dave says, the old painting might be cursed.” He cracked open another beer. “If that picture was found in the mud and blood of a battlefield, it’s already got a creepy past, and with my man Sean’s luck, it might even get darker.”