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.”

It 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.”

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.”