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.”
O’Brien looked at the walls, above the piano, over the fireplace. Lots of paintings. Art depicting Civil War era dynasties, landscapes, sailing ships — but nothing resembling the woman in the photograph. He could feel the mood on the set change, like an abrupt change in weather.
The crew seemed to part as a man in his mid-fifties entered the room. He had long limbs, dirty blond hair, and a lined and timeworn face. He walked with a distinct gait across the wood floor. O’Brien assumed he was the director as he stepped up to a man that matched Mike Houston’s description — black shirt, sleeves rolled up. They looked at the monitors together, each man speaking in a low tone.
O’Brien waited for them to finish before approaching. He worked his way around the production crew and actors, removing the photo from the file folder, walking up to the person he assumed was Mike Huston and said, “Excuse me. Mr. Houston, Professor Ike Kirby suggested that I see you.”
“Ike’s been a savior on this film. He has an enormous understanding of Civil War history. What can I do for you…I didn’t catch your name.” The director didn’t acknowledge O’Brien.
“I’m Sean O’Brien, Mr. Houston. Professor Kirby told me about a painting that’s being used as a prop for the movie. It was painted from this old photo.” He extended the photo. Mike Houston held it in one hand. O’Brien continued. “Is it here, on the set?”
“It was, but I’m sorry to say it’s no longer here.”
“Where is it?”
“Stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes, unfortunately. After the third day of shooting, we became aware it was gone when we were playing back scenes for continuity.” He gestured toward a far wall to his right. “It hung above the piano. And it was in every wide shot we took.”
“Was the theft reported to police?”
“Of course. Its owner, a re-enactor we had hired, loaned it to us.”
“Who was the re-enactor?”
Houston glanced at the director for a beat. “His name was Jack Jordan?”
“Was?”
“He died in a tragic accident.”
“The shooting?”
As Houston started to answer, the director said, “This is a closed set, Mr. O’Brien. What’s your real business here?”
“The painting originally belonged to my client’s family. My client is elderly and ill. He wants to find the painting before his death. It has a lot of history and meaning for him. I’m simply trying to locate it, not recover it.”
The director lifted one eyebrow, touched the tip of his nose like he was swatting a gnat. “Client? Are you a lawyer?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Which means you’re not a legitimate police detective. You’re costing me time and money. We have a film to shoot. Leave now or we’ll call security and escort you off the property we’re leasing.” The director turned his back and walked over to the director of photography.
O’Brien glance up at the wall behind the piano, placed the photo back in the folder, and walked out the door. On the porch, he stepped to one side as six actors — four women and two men, dressed in Confederate uniforms and period gowns started to climb the steps. Personal assistants, a publicist, and hair and make-up people followed them. A behind-the-scenes photographer snapped a candid picture of the ensemble before they entered the cavernous mansion.
O’Brien started for his car, his thoughts replaying what Mike Houston had said about how he discovered the painting was missing when he looked at the scene takes. O’Brien’s mind raced. Now I know the painting exists. It was caught on camera…but the camera can’t reveal what was inscribed on the back of the canvas.
TWENTY-ONE
O’Brien was almost to his Jeep when heard footsteps coming from behind him, walking faster. “Pardon me,” came a man’s voice.
O’Brien turned around, expecting to see a security guard. A man wearing a Confederate uniform came closer. He was unshaven, dark whiskers, elongated face damp from perspiration. He said, “Couldn’t help but overhearing you back there on the set. Heard what you said about the painting. Name’s Cory Nelson.”