Black River

TWENTY-FOUR

O’Brien wanted to spend time at his cabin on the river doing physical work. Sweating. Thinking. In four days, he replaced and stained some of the wooden planks on his dock and cut brush around his property. He now was chopping wood near the river, shirtless, sweat rolling off his biceps and down his chest. He thought about the conversations with Professor Ike Kirby, the director and art director on the movie set — the casting agent.

Where was the painting?

Its discovery might provide Gus Louden with what he needed to prove his relative wasn’t a war deserter.

And it may prove why Jack Jordan died on the movie set.

Just let investigators handle it. Move on.

He lifted the ax above his head, his eyes focusing on the top of a log he was about to split in the side yard of his cabin on the river. He stopped, lowered the ax and reached down scooping a ladybug off the log. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, releasing the insect in the grass. Max trotted over and sniffed. “Leave the ladybug alone, Max. She almost lost her tiny head on the chopping block. She has a second chance.”

O’Brien turned and drove the ax into the wood, splitting the log into two pieces. Max followed him as he pushed a wheelbarrow filled with cut firewood. He stacked it in a bin he’d built near his screened-in back porch. He turned to Max and said, “We’ll get a few chilly nights here in Florida. This half cord ought to last ten years. I always heard that wood warms you three ways: when you cut it, when you stack it, and when you burn it. We did two of them today. How about some lunch?”

Max barked and trotted ahead of O’Brien up the path leading to the back porch. O’Brien loved the way Max enjoyed the outdoors — such a trooper, following him from place to place as he did his chores, like it was her job, too. He showered, changed to shorts and a T-shirt, and then turned on the TV in the kitchen as he fixed Max a bowl of food. The news was on the screen. O’Brien muted the sound and began making a turkey, hot mustard and sweet onion sandwich. He picked his phone up from the kitchen counter and made the call. “Mr. Louden, this is Sean O’Brien.”

“Did you find the painting already?”

“No. I did spend some time following a circuitous path. An antique dealer in DeLand bought it at an estate sale and then sold it, more than eight months ago, to a couple — Jack and Laura Jordan.”

“Do they have it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you going to check?”

“No.”

“May I ask you why?”

“Jack Jordan’s dead. He was killed on a movie set. Police say it was an accident. He’d lent the painting to the movie producers to be used in a few scenes. It was apparently stolen from the set and the theft was reported to police. You can check with the Volusia County Sheriff’s department if you want to. Or you can call the man’s widow, Laura. I have a number I got from the antique dealer, but I’m not going to intrude on her privacy at this time in her life.”

“I understand. I read about that shooting. My heart goes out to his wife and daughter.”

“How’d you know he had a daughter?”

“It was mentioned in the news story.”

O’Brien said nothing.

“Mr. O’Brien, you did a lot…you managed to track it down this far and fast. I will send you a check. You earned it.”

“But I didn’t finish the job and find it. Just send me a check for gas and lunch money. I wish you luck with the recovery of the painting. One other thing, do you know where the woman in the painting — the photo — is buried?”

“Yes, her grave is in a very small cemetery on the grounds of a place now called the Wind ’n Willows. It’s an old plantation on the National Registry of Historic Places. The property has changed hands many times over the years. But, when my great, great grandmother was alive, it was known as the Hopkins farm. Her maiden name was Anderson, and she married Henry Hopkins, the youngest of the three Hopkins sons. All three boys were killed in the war. Henry is the only one not buried in that little cemetery.”

“I wish you the best in locating the painting. You might want to follow up with police and the antique dealer to gather a few details before speaking with the widow of the man killed on the set. A final question, though: In the photo of the woman in the painting…she’s holding a flower in her left hand…do you know what kind of flower it is?”

“Yes, it’s called a Confederate rose. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Thank you, Mr. Louden. I wish you the best.” O’Brien gave him the phone number he’d received from the antique dealer and then disconnected. He looked at Max. “That’s that, Miss Max. No more looking for a mysterious painting. Let’s take out the canoe and fish for a bass. Perhaps we can find one almost as big as you.” Her tail jiggled. Max cocked her head, listening.

“But I keep thinking about something else. Who sent the Confederate rose and that note to Kim? The re-enactor who left a rose in the old cemetery doesn’t match the description Kim gave me. Maybe it was a one-time-thing, and it won’t happen again.” He looked down at Max. “But we both know better, don’t we?”

Something on the TV screen caught O’Brien’s eye. He reached for the remote, turning up the sound. A reporter stood in the Ocala National Forest, a movie crew adjusting lights and cameras in the background. The reporter said, “Although police are still calling the death on the set of the movie Black River, an accident, Laura Jordan, the widow of the man killed, Jack Jordan, said she does not believe her husband’s death was an accident. She told police that her husband, who was a documentary producer as well as a Civil War re-enactor, was working on a documentary about the last days of the Confederacy. Laura Jordan said her husband had been trying to track down the mystery of what happened to the gold in the Confederate treasury. Jordan says her husband stumbled onto something, perhaps even more valuable, a large diamond.”

The picture cut to a woman interviewed in the front yard of a home, a flag at half-staff behind her. The wind blew her dark hair. O’Brien could tell she had been crying, eyes puffy, nostrils ruddy. She said, “Jack and his crew found it in the St. Johns River. It was wedged in mud on the bottom of the river under fifty feet of water. It was a diamond, and Jack believed it was connected to the Civil War and the last days of the Confederacy.”

“Where is the diamond?” asked the reporter.

“Stolen. Jack had it hidden in his van. He was taking it to a gemologist right after he finished the scene he was in on the movie set. My husband never made it because someone killed him. The diamond was stolen. Police say they’re investigating, but so far nothing. Jack was a good man, a good husband, and a loving father to our daughter. Now he’s gone. How do you tell a four-year old her daddy’s never coming back home?” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, ending the interview.

The picture cut back to the reporter. “We talked with detectives, and they assure us that they take Laura Jordan’s assertions seriously. They say they could find no evidence of a break-in on Jack Jordan’s van. Forensics dusted for fingerprints. As far as the reported diamond goes, police say they are watching all pawn shops in the area, monitoring places like Craigslist. Was this alleged diamond part of the Confederate treasury at the end of the Civil War? How did Jack Jordan know where to look to find it in the river? And, if it’s all accurate, who else may have known about it? Now back to you, Karl, in the studio.”

The picture cut to a chisel-faced anchorman in a blue suit. He said, “Let’s hope the movie, Black River, has as much drama as the incidents surrounding the filming of the movie and that documentary. Confederate gold and maybe even diamonds. Now that sounds like an action-adventure movie. Tina James is up next with your weekend weather forecast.”

O’Brien looked at Max. “What do you say we use this TV for a boat anchor, okay?”

Max tilted her head in a dachshund nod.

O’Brien picked his phone up and hit redial. Gus Louden answered, clearing his throat.

O’Brien asked, “Have you called the widow, Laura Jordan?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good. Don’t call her. I will.”

“Does this mean you’re back…you’ll continue hunting for the painting?”

“Yes, that’s what it means.”