“What do you mean?”

“They were quick to rule it accidental…like they were under pressure not to make waves and interrupt the production of a hundred-million dollar movie.”

“You said in your TV news interview that you don’t believe your husband’s death was an accident, but rather a homicide. Beside the theft of a diamond, do you have any other reason to think it wasn’t accidental?”

She said nothing for a moment. “Mr. O’Brien, I don’t want to talk over the phone. Since you were a detective at one time, maybe we could meet. And yes, I do have a reason. It was found in the pages of an old magazine. It’s what pointed Jack to the river…and his eventual death.”

O’Brien didn’t look at his GPS once he turned onto Laura Jordan’s street. Her house was easy to spot. She’d told him it was the third home on the right. From the TV news clip, he recognized the same American flag flying at half-staff. The flagpole was attached to a pale yellow house, the flag hanging straight down, motionless in the early afternoon. He parked on the concrete drive under the limbs of a white oak, carried the file folder with the photograph, and walked down a fieldstone path to the front door, white impatiens blooming under sago palms.

O’Brien rang the doorbell and waited. He could hear the hum of honeybees in the blossoms, the call of a crow in the woods behind the house. Laura Jordan opened the door, holding the edge with both hands, as if she wasn’t sure she would fully extend the door. She took a deep breath through her nostrils, face tight, eyes swollen and drained. “It didn’t take you long to get here.”

“I have an old cabin on the river not too far from DeLand. It’s just Max and me there. She’s my miniature dachshund. Between her naps, Max is housesitting the rest of the afternoon.” O’Brien smiled.

Laura returned the smile. “Please, come inside. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

He followed her, the home neatly decorated with a blend of antiques and contemporary furniture. O’Brien noticed a gun cabinet with vintage rifles behind the glass. There was a painting of Civil War General, Robert E. Lee, hanging on the wall to the right of the cabinet.

A young girl, no more than four, sat on her knees in a chair at the kitchen table, a coloring book open, and a red crayon in her tiny fist. Laura said, “Paula, this is Mr. O’Brien.”

She looked up from the coloring book, her large blue eyes curious. “Are you Daddy’s friend?”

O’Brien smiled. “I wish I could have met your daddy. I’m so glad I get a chance to meet you, though. What are you coloring?”

“A picture. Big Bird. I’m not very good.”

O’Brien looked down at the page, the wings of Big Bird colored in blue, his head and body scrawled in red and yellow. He said, “That’s good. I really like your choice of colors.”

Paula smiled. “I made him blue.”

“Are there any butterflies in your book?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Do you like butterflies?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to draw one for you? Then you can color it, too.”

“Okay.”

O’Brien lifted a black crayon from the table, and on the edge of the page, next to Big Bird, he drew a butterfly. Paula’s eyes grew wide. She grinned. “What colors go on it?”

“You pick. Maybe something bright.”

“I like yellow.”

“Me too.”

Laura poured two cups of coffee, watching her daughter interact with O’Brien. She bit her bottom lip, and blinked back tears. “How would you like your coffee?”

“Black’s fine.”

“Let’s sit at the living room table.”

O’Brien looked at Paula and said, “I can’t wait to see how you color the butterfly.”

“Me, too.” She grinned, dimples popping.

He followed Laura into the living room. She set the cups and saucers on a wooden coffee table, O’Brien taking a seat in a chair across from the couch where she sat down. He said, “You have a sweet little girl. She’s animated and curious, a great combination.”

Laura smiled. “You’re good with children. Do you have kids?”

O’Brien was hesitant a moment and then said, “No.”

“Paula can’t fully grasp the death of her father. And I can’t totally explain it to her. She knows Daddy is in a better place, and one day we’ll all be back together again.”

O’Brien said nothing. He sipped his coffee.

Laura looked at O’Brien over the rim of her cup and said, “Jack was the type of man who would give you the shirt off his back if you really needed it. We were married for twelve years, and never in all that time did I hear him say something mean-spirited about another person. He was remarkable, and he had such a love for life and for his family and friends. He loved doing the Civil War reenactments. Paula and I would join him on some of the bigger ones in the summer. It was fun to reunite with people who came to those weekend camps and battles at old historic sites. Jack used to say he felt the spirits of the dead soldiers when he was on that hallowed ground.”

O’Brien nodded, letting her talk.

Laura looked over to a family photograph on the end table. In the picture, she stood with her husband and daughter in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Jack Jordan was holding Paula in his arms, snow falling around them. “Mr. O’Brien—”

“Please, call me Sean.”

“Sean, you said you were a police detective at one time…”

“For more than a dozen years.”

“Why’d you stop, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My wife, Sherri, she’d asked me to. Unfortunately, she was dying of ovarian cancer when she did. She wanted to spend more time together, to start a family, then she got sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And so now you work as a private investigator, right?”

“Sort of…just starting, officially, but only if I feel I can help someone. That’s why I wanted to show you this photo.” He slipped it from the folder. “The picture was taken on the bank of a river. The painting was made from it. Is this the painting that you had?”

She nodded. “Yes. We never knew that the artist painted it from a photo. It’s a remarkable, almost uncanny resemblance. You said it was found on a battlefield.”

“My client thinks the woman in the picture — the same woman that’s in the painting, is his great, great grandmother. Did you or your husband ever look at the back of the painting?”

“I didn’t…don’t think Jack did either. Why?”

“Because before his death on the battlefield during the Civil War, the man who’d commissioned his wife’s painting had written something on the back of it…and he’d signed his name.”

Laura stared at the photo in silence for a few seconds. “What was his name?”

“Henry Hopkins.”

She touched her throat with the tips of two fingers. “Henry?”

“Yes.”

“If you can locate the painting…maybe it’ll mean closure for Henry’s family after all these years.”

“I hope it happens.”

“I do too. I want closure as well. Not just for me, but for Paula. If her father was murdered, one day she needs to know why. And today I need to know. Sean, I don’t want to impose, and I don’t want to sound like a hysterical widow who just lost her husband and is looking for someone to blame. But because my husband died on a film set where there’s substantial money at stake if they have to delay shooting, I don’t think there’s a lot of motivation to call it a homicide if it can have the appearance of an accident. If you find that painting, maybe along the path you’ll learn whether my husband’s death was really an accident or a planned killing.”

“You said there is something found in the pages of an old magazine that might have played a role in your husband’s death. What was that?”

Laura sipped her coffee, her eyes again looking over to a family photograph on the end table. She glanced up at O’Brien. “The thing that entered our lives began when we spotted the painting. That’s what got our attention. But it was what we found between the pages that left us stunned.”