Floodlight Read online

  Reba Birmingham

  Copyright © 2017 by Reba Birmingham

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Visit Us On Line

  Floodlight

  by

  Reba Birmingham

  Mystic Books

  by Regal Crest

  Copyright © 2017 by Reba Birmingham

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN ISBN 978-1-61929-344-1

  eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-345-8

  First Printing 2017

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Acorn Graphics

  Published by:

  Regal Crest Enterprises

  Maryville, TN 37804

  Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  This book is being published by Regal Crest because Verda Foster believed in it, and publisher Cathy Bryerose took a chance on me. Thank you both sincerely, from me and my characters.

  Books go through a lot of people’s minds as they read the unedited version of your work and tell you what they think. I was honored to have the following folks read and give their feedback to me, which made this a much better book: Beta Readers: Jennifer Onstott Warner, Jennifer Johnson Richey, Zach Birmingham, Judy Baker, Marta Mora, Deb & Mary Love, Billie Sommerfield, Katie Cotter, Mary Artino, Dr. Tina Tessina, and Rev. Mel White.

  I want to especially thank my wife, Audrey Stephanie Loftin, for letting me read her to sleep, and the all-important editors: Content Editor Verda Foster — Eagle Eye Editor Nann Dunne — and Grammar Policewoman, Prof. Susan Gridley who taught me “Writing is Re-Writing.” You are all a credit to your profession and I have great respect. Special thanks to Thea Samaniego, who lived near the Black Forest and advised on my German phrases.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with gratitude to my parents, who both made their transitions this year.

  While they didn’t always understand me, they loved and encouraged me. Thanks.

  Chapter One

  IT STARTED WITH a pendant and an exclamation. “We could all live in there!”

  I was sitting with my wife, Mitzi, and our best friends, Valerie and Juniper Gooden, at Utopia, a local restaurant. We were outside getting ready to order dinner when Juniper suddenly made that observation.

  I put down my drink and asked, “In where?”

  “There!” Juniper pointed to my chest with a long, painted, rainbow nail. Juniper’s always “matchy matchy,” as Mitzi says, her carefully coiffed red hair going well with her green eyes and creamy complexion.

  My hair is, by comparison, cowlicky and never acts right when I comb it. I looked down at my Steampunk Octopus picture in a half bubble of plastic. “My pendant?” I raised my eyebrows.

  Juniper smiled a mysterious smile and Valerie laughed.

  “Why not?” Valerie asked. “All it takes is a little imagination.” A beautiful fifty-something, Valerie’s not quite as flashy as her Juniper. Her dark-blue eyes are kind; her black hair long and silky.

  “Kind of like, an Octopus’s Garden in the Sea,” Mitzi said. She leaned forward, warming to the game. Mitzi was very animated, and her “sticky uppy” brunette hair had two long, beaded braids that glittered in the waning sun.

  I stayed frozen. “It’s a piece of plastic, ladies.” All three women started studying the menus.

  “But I love the Beatles,” I said, finally catching the reference.

  Mitzi patted my shoulder as if she felt sorry for me. She looked at our friends and said, “It’s the end of March, tax deadline approaching, no time for playing word games.”

  “How are we all going to fit in there?” I still held the pendant in my hand off my chest, thinking it through.

  Juniper sighed and picked an imaginary piece of lint off of her colorful caftan. “Panda, Panda, Panda, life should be magical.” A dramatic sigh. “Back to the real world I guess. Anyone have the arugula salad here before?”

  I felt a bit like a killjoy and surveyed the table, warmed by my friends and the fun conversation. Why couldn’t I be more like them? There hadn’t been much time to be silly in my life. I tended to think of all impractical or impossible things as silly. I knew my companions had a flair for adventure and the fabulous, but they were women of great achievement, too. Valerie, a nurse, had seen much suffering. Juniper was curator at the local museum and the one to suggest a universe in a small half globe of plastic over an octopus. My wife, Mitzi, is a tour guide and values all things exotic.

  Her brown eyes appeared over the menu. “I’m having the Japanese eggplant.”

  “Perhaps we could shrink ourselves?” I said, but the moment had been lost, my comment ignored.

  “The arugula is wonderful. It comes from a local organic garden,” Mitzi said. “I love this farm-to-table movement.” Soon the conversation swirled around food, travel, and the latest village gossip, the small globe temporarily forgotten.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Panda, an odd name to be sure, but it could be worse. My mom and dad were children of the 60s, and I have a brother named Brook and a sister named Puddle. The water theme seemed to have run its course—no pun intended—when they became fascinated with mammals. Somewhere in Peru, my parents left this earth while chasing the myth of a hidden Incan village, leaving the three of us with a more conservative aunt and uncle in California. Not all of us took to the Golden State. Brook is now killing it on Wall Street in the New York financial district, and Puddle, the most like our folks, lives in an ashram in India.

  My wife and I live in the city of Merryville, a rather large and busy port with miles of urban sprawl and home of a diverse collection of immigrants, LGBTQ, and city people. Life is pretty good here for a house with Mrs. and Mrs. We live in a midtwentieth-century home, which could politely be described as in a state of arrested decay. Each week is like the next: work, home, work, farmer’s market, work, bridge, work, and work, with maybe a movie and a couple of days to recover. The travel industry has been a bit depressed, so Mitzi has taken to helping me with my job as a tax preparer. We have a store-front business catering to the average Joe who can’t figure out Turbo Tax. It pays the bills.

  Chapter Two

  April First

  Fowler Tax Services

  “WHEN TAX SEASON is over I want to visit Puddle again.” Mitzi leaned on a four-drawer file and picked idly at an Areca palm in the corner of my office.

  “India’s hot,” I replied automatically, not looking up from the Fabishes’ joint return. “Do you see a W-2 floating around for the Fabishes?”

  She languidly reached to the floor in front of my wooden desk and picked up said W-2. I wondered anew at her fluidity; how did she get so graceful? Oh yeah, yoga.

  “How about Bali?” she asked. This woman was relentless.

  “Same thing.” I peered over the top of my glasses. “And too expensive.”

  Sound of the calculator.

  Not wanting to be dismi
ssive, I said, “What do we have planned this weekend?”

  Silence.

  I sensed a shift in our conversational rhythm and looked up with my whole head.

  Mitzi was frowning at a piece of mail, and she handed it to me dramatically. “Maybe this!”

  I took it and read the invitation:

  This ticket will admit Panda and Mitzi Fowler and two guests to the Garden Circle in Hercynian Forest.

  The day is that of the dog sun.

  Choose well...

  I knew that look. Mitzi was intrigued.

  The light flickered. Always thinking monetarily, I said, “Did we forget to pay the light bill?” My attempt at changing the subject didn’t deter my wife.

  “Panda, this is interesting. I wonder who sent it? Maybe Val and Juniper want to go.” She snatched the message back.

  I looked down at my desk, which had piles of paper, and the ever-present April 15th tax deadline loomed large in my mind. I gestured with both hands at the mess. “Go where? Listen, darling pie, let me finish these returns, and we can talk about it tonight.” A pause, then my fakish smile. Again, the killjoy.

  She laid down the invite and picked up her purse and keys. “Okay.”

  Uh-oh, that was abrupt. I got a quick kiss and put my hand on her arm.

  She leaned over me and picked up the invitation.

  “Just don’t be disappointed is all I’m saying.”

  She fixed a gaze on me with her warm brown eyes. “All I can say is I’ll be really glad when this season is over.”

  My resolve wavered. I wanted to follow her out the door and never look back. Instead I said, “I promise, baby, we’ll do something fun.”

  She paused, and a beat passed while she wrestled with my response. “Sure.” Time froze in the way it does between couples sometimes. You notice everything; she was letting me off the hook, again. One of the things I loved best about Mitzi was her ability to see the positive in virtually everything. I shook my head as she danced out singing, “Hercynian Forest, here we come!” Her hair beads swung around, and I promised myself to think up something really special for us to do once the work was done.

  THE SUN SET and the clock docked a few more hours. I stretched and prepared to leave. The SHUT sign had long been turned to the outside, so I was startled when I heard a knock.

  I peeked between the metal slats on the door and saw Lulu, our Samoan security guard, all in what my wife would call a twoozle. She shifted her considerable girth from one foot to the other and appeared to be in great distress. I put up an index finger while I searched for my big circle full of keys. After negotiating the deadbolts, thinking she had to use the restroom, I opened the door. “Hello, Lulu.”

  “Oh, Miz Fowler, I’m sooo glad you iz still here.” Her eyes were very wide. “I jes found somethin’ that don’ seem right. Can you come?” Her flashlight beam went wide as her arms flailed a beat to her special patois.

  “Sure,” I said and locked the door behind me. “Where?”

  “Follow me.” She moved with surprising speed.

  My tax office is in a strip mall, tucked in between a hair salon and a Brazilian jiujitsu place. There are bright street lights and a few anemic meshed rectangles of illumination on metal poles, which could use a couple of coats of paint from our stingy landlord. The asphalt was striped so patrons could park in front of the storefront they wanted.

  Cell phone poised, ready to dial 9-1-1, I loped along behind her, thinking that ten o’clock in this neighborhood wasn’t the greatest place to be.

  The normally talkative Lulu was stealthy, and she suddenly stopped short, with me bumping up behind her. “What?”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Look”

  I peered around her and at first saw nothing. The strip mall was dark, except for the feeble illumination in the parking lot. Lulu's light swept the shadows and stopped at the bushes near the end of the businesses. The beam sparkled on a jewel, embedded in a two-inch hilt, attached to a blade lying in the dirt. “What’s that?” I said, and moved to pick it up.

  “Don’t! They may still be around.”

  “Who Lulu?”

  “Him.” Lulu pointed her flashlight on what appeared to be a garden gnome. He stood perfectly still, his blue eyes fixed on me. Stunned, I shook my head; maybe Mitzi was right and I was working too hard.

  “It’s not real and he can’t hurt us.” This was a spontaneous mantra from childhood. I had no idea if it was true.

  “Why he have a knife then?” Lulu fixed her big brown eyes on me.

  “It’s probably a harmless toy.”

  I looked at the gnome and he blinked. “What the—” His expression reminded me of a deer caught in headlights. He didn’t move, but his gaze changed from me to Lulu and back to me again. Then he glanced at the little dagger and inched toward it. My mouth went dry and I tried to swallow. My rational mind told me that gnomes aren’t alive, but the reality was standing right in front of me.

  “You see dat,” Lulu said. “Your garden gnome’s walkin’ jes as purty as you please.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. He inched closer still, the dagger halfway between us now. I took a step back and my heart pounded so loud it echoed in my ears. I thought I was going to pee my pants. Suddenly he dashed forward, picked up the dagger, and fled.

  Lulu turned to me, as if doubting her own sanity.” Did you see dat?”

  “I’m not sure what I saw.” My go-to emotional state is to shut down. “It’s late and I have to go home.”

  She walked me back muttering, “I din want to call that in.” Her radio squawked as if in reply.

  “I don’t blame you. They’d think you were still drinking.” Why did I say that? My heart was starting to return to normal, but my mouth was running.

  She got serious. “No way, Jose! You would smell it.”

  I remembered that being drunk could get her fired, and there was a little history there. “I didn’t mean I thought you were drinking. Oh, never mind. Why didn’t you get the Brazilian boys?” This was referring to our strip mall jiujitsu studio.

  She motioned with the flashlight to the storefront two windows down. “Closed. You the only one still here.”

  I looked around at the abandoned mall, and it occurred to me I’d been working really hard.

  “Makes sense. That’s about the only thing that does. Weird.” Then after a beat, I said, “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Oh yeah.” She flashed a broad grin. “Now that I seen the little fella, I can take ’em.”

  “You sure? You want me to call anybody?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Oh hell to the no. Who you gonna call? This what I do—I protect! That just threw me a little is all.” She gave me a little back hand wave as she returned to her duties.

  I locked up and when I looked around she was on patrol, trusty flashlight in hand.

  I ARRIVED HOME and was met by Brutus, our Bengal cat. I’d wanted a dog, Mitzi wanted a cat, and he was the compromise. As usual, he waited in the garage and walked me inside. “Hey, Brute, How you doing, little boy?”

  He looked up at me with his golden eyes, big ears, and wide nose, looking for all the world like a miniature cheetah. I got a hearty purr and a face rub on my overloaded arms as I wrestled with my key ring.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Mitzi about the strange visitor we had at the strip mall. It seemed surreal, and I needed my rock of sanity to bounce it off of.

  The house was semi-dark. After rewarding Brutus with a treat for his comforting companionship, I laid down my folders and purse, took off my clunky shoes, and tried to tiptoe into the bedroom, where Mitzi was sleeping.

  When you’re trying to be quiet, everything sounds loud. I opened the dresser drawer as softly as I could to get my pajamas. “Hi, babe,” Mitzi said sleepily from the pillow.

  “Sorry, hi, are you awake?”

  The blanket stirred enough that I could see her eye roll. Brutus took it as an invitation to jump on her chest and star
e down. His dense, spotted coat made you want to run your hands through it.

  “That’s okay, I had to get up anyway because some lady just came in all noisy.” Mitzi gave him a pat.

  Feeling cute, in my best Groucho Marx imitation, I asked, “What time does your wife come home?” We kissed and I sat on the bed. “Mitz, the weirdest thing happened tonight. Lulu had me go with her to check out a disturbance, and we saw what looked like a living, breathing, garden gnome. I know that sounds really strange but—”

  “Oh, Panda.”

  “What?”

  Mitzi laughed. “She got you.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s April 1st, April Fool’s day, you tax nerd.”

  “April Fool’s? Oh my God! Are you freaking kidding me? If so, I don’t know how she could have pulled it off.”

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that in the weeks before April 15—the center of my universe—others did celebrate April Fool’s Day and played silly jokes on one another.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” I said, relieved. “I thought we were having a mass hallucination.” I pulled my pajama top on. “I didn’t think Lulu was that complex. She sure got me. I wonder how she did it.”

  The light snapped off and I heard a muffled voice say, “Samoan midget. Don’t know, don’t care. Now come to bed.”

  I climbed in next to Mitzi and fell into a deep sleep from 1040-inspired exhaustion, thinking about what I would say to our night guard the next time I saw her.

  I AWOKE TO pans clanging in the kitchen, a marvelous sound. The aroma of coffee wafted through the hallowed halls of our humble home. Brutus was asleep on my hip, presumably protecting me from all enemies, foreign and domestic. In a frayed kimono, Mitzi brought me a steaming mug of caffeine and said, “It lives.” I must have looked a sight with my hair going in all directions. I took a sip and practically purred. Then she dropped a minor bomb. “Babe, I forgot to tell you this weekend is Juniper’s Superstar Artist showing at the museum, and we promised to attend.” She looked so pretty; how could she make me do these things?