“Only because the photo recently turned up. If he can match the two it’ll proved his great, great grandfather died a war hero not a deserter.”
He nodded. “I see. Honor is something that gets little attention until it’s lost. Sometimes the genie never goes back in that bottle. That’s why disgraceful people are often more remembered than honorable folks. Go figure. So this friend of yours has been toting the stain on the family name, huh?”
“You might be able to help him put the genie back in the bottle. Do you remember who bought it, or do you have a record of its sale?”
Crawford looked to his left where a steel gray cat jumped from a rocking chair and sauntered from across the floor. “I remember it was man and a woman — a husband and wife. Never saw them before or since. I do recall they paid me cash, the full price, two hundred dollars. He bought the painting and she bought a bunch of old magazines, Saturday Evening Post. Maybe a dozen or more. The magazines and the painting came from the same place.”
“Where was that?”
“An estate sale near Jacksonville. The woman who sold the stuff to me said the painting and box of magazines had been in her grandmother’s attic for a lot of years.”
“Do you recall the name of the woman who had the estate sale?”
“No, hell at my age sometimes I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. But I might have their address.” He opened a scratched and dented black file cabinet behind him, thumbed through tattered file folders, breathing through his open mouth. “Here it is. I bought the painting, magazines and a French end table inspired by Louis Fourteenth.” He wrote down the address on a small piece of paper and handed it and the photo to O’Brien. “Wish I could be of more help. If I see the folks that bought the painting, I’ll call you.” He nodded, his face filling with a look of unease. “I do recall something else.”
“What’s that?”
“A couple of days before the couple bought the painting, a man came in the store looking for Civil War collectables. He saw the painting and wanted it on the spot. But he didn’t have enough to cover it. I offered to put it in layaway for a few dollars down. But he said he always paid in full. Said he’d be back later. It was a few days after that when couple came in and bought the painting. It must have been two weeks later before the man returned. And when I told him the painting had been sold…he…”
“What’d he do?”
“It was the way he looked at me. It was like he wanted to kill me. He left in a huff and said I ought to be careful because an old building like mine was a firetrap. But that’s been months ago so I’m hoping he was all hot air.”
O’Brien gave the man a business card. “Maybe he came to his senses. Thank you, Mr. Crawford.”
He looked at the card through his bifocals. “This says you’re a fishing guide…Sean O’Brien, full and half day fishing trips. Are you good at catching fish?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe your luck will change at finding people…and the painting.”
NINE
Laura Jordan finished eating a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with her four-year-old daughter, Paula. She lifted Paula up and onto a stool next to the counter in their kitchen. “Mommy, can I help make the cookies?”
“Of course, sweetheart. We’ll mix up the dough, add the eggs and chocolate, and blend it all up. Then we’ll roll it on a cookie sheet, press the dough into fun shapes, and put the cookies in the oven to bake. When Daddy comes home our house will smell soooo yummy.”
“Yippee!” Paula Jordan’s cherub face lit up. She clapped her tiny hands, her blue eyes wide, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Can I put the eggs in, too?”
“You can help me crack them. We’ll pull open the shells, and you can let the eggs plop into the mix, okay?”
“Okay.”
Laura draped a small apron over her daughter’s neck and tied the strings behind her back. She glanced up at the clock, calculating the time she anticipated her husband would be home. She wore her light brown hair in a ponytail; her emerald green eyes captured the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window. Her face was almost heart shaped, skin tanned and flawless with no make-up.
“How long do we bake the cookies, Mommy?”
Laura smiled. “The instructions say ten minutes.”
“Will Daddy be home in ten minutes?”
“He might, but I expect him maybe in a half hour or so.”
“How many minutes is a half hour?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Is that long?”
“No, it’s just a blink and it’s gone. I love you, sweetie. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, because you tell me lots of times.” Paula smiled.
“Okay, let’s get baking.”
The doorbell rang.
Laura looked up at the kitchen clock again. “Stay right here, Paula. I’ll see who’s at the door.” She lifted up a clean, white towel and wiped her hands walking to the front door. She looked through the peephole.
Two police officers. Standing on my front porch.
Laura touched her throat with two fingers, hesitated a second, then opened the door. “May I help you?”
The taller of the two men nodded. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Are you Laura Jordan?”
“Yes…why? Is something wrong?”
The taller officer blew air out of both cheeks. The shorter officer with rounded shoulders glanced down at the tops of his polished black boots. He lifted his eyes up, meeting Laura. “Mrs. Jordan, is your husband Jack Jordan?”
“Yes. What is it? Has something happened to Jack? Is he hurt or in some kind of trouble?”
“Ma’am, we’re so sorry to have to tell you this…but there’s been an accident. Your husband was killed.”
Laura dropped the hand towel. Her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She stood there, holding onto the doorframe. Knees weak. Nauseous. She couldn’t walk. Couldn’t move. Paralyzed from the words that hit her with the force of a sledgehammer in her stomach.
The taller officer reached for her. “Please, Mrs. Jordan, sit down.”
She pushed his hand away, breathing fast through her nostrils. She turned, almost stumbled in the foyer, running to the hall bathroom. She jerked the door open, dropped to her knees, vomiting an undigested peanut butter and jelly sandwich into the toilet.
Sean O’Brien followed the GPS directions to a rural neighborhood of older homes in south Jacksonville. He read the addresses on the brick mailboxes, turning into a concert driveway that wound through a large, fresh-cut lawn and around stately oaks up to a 1920’s Greek revival style house with columns shading a wrap-around front porch. Baskets of white and red impatiens hung between each of the round pillars, a half dozen wicker rocking chairs sat motionless on the porch.
O’Brien climbed the four brick steps up to the porch as a breeze tickled two wind chimes, their jingling compositions drifting across lush grass and into the deep shade of blooming azaleas and camellias. He stood at the front door a moment, the sound of a horse whinny in the adjacent pasture. O’Brien pressed the doorbell and could hear the soft cascade of bells followed a few seconds later by the canter of heels on hardwood floors.
A forty-something woman opened the door, partially. Her raven-black hair framed an attractive face filled with suspicion. She wore pearls around her long, slender neck, her blouse exposing full cleavage. Her dark eyebrows were pencil-drawn and arched above ice-blue eyes. “Can I help you?” Her voice was southern, laced with mistrust. “We don’t need a new roof, driveway paved, or the lawn cut at this time.”
“Good, I don’t do any of those things very well.” O’Brien smiled. “My name’s Sean O’Brien. A man who owns an antique store in DeLand, Florida, gave me your contact information. Are you Ellen Heartwell?”