Floodlight Read online

  I groaned. “What day?” I asked, knowing this was work-every-day-through-the-15th season. I pulled the blanket over my head.

  Mitzi uncovered my face and kissed it. “Don’t be like that—she’s our best friend. Besides, it’s going to be really interesting. Saturday night she’s showing an installation called Floodlight!” She motioned to the newspaper folded neatly on our quilt. “It’s even in the paper.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that.” I picked up the cup and leaned to blow steam off the hot liquid. “That lady from New York who lights up dark places and films what she finds.”

  Mitzi settled in with her favorite pastime, Sudoku. “I know. It’s called, Floodlight, yep.”

  “Sounds kind of dangerous.”

  Eye roll and sigh. “You are so dramatic.”

  “Moi?”

  “Aren’t you the one who came home last night babbling about dwarves?”

  “Garden gnomes, and there was only one.”

  “Thank you for the clarification. That’s so much saner.” Just then the phone rang. While Mitzi went to answer it, I opened the paper and searched for any reference to the Saturday event. Page three in the Weekend Edition had a full spread on Juniper’s celebrity artist, the current darling of the art world.

  MERRYVILLE MUSEUM TO HOST FIONA CASTLEBAUM’S “FLOODLIGHT!”

  The art world has been buzzing since Fiona burst on the scene two years ago. Her first, and now infamous, project involved Paris alleys. “Let’s throw some light on it and get at the truth!” The truth, it seems, is that alleys are the highways of criminals. In France, Castlebaum caused a sensation with her images of the seedier side of the City of Lights when she exposed the child sex trade. Faces were clear and some notables were literally “caught in the act.” It’s true, Interpol cops have become art lovers. But not everyone is a fan of her work, and in fact, she has had death threats. Castlebaum laughs them off. “Of course art is dangerous, darling.”

  Mitzi called from the living room, “It’s Babs from the office. There are several walk-ins.”

  “Dang, I was hoping we could have a leisurely breakfast together. I didn’t even finish this article.” Mitzi soon returned with an “Egg in a Nest,” one of my favorites.

  “Go,” she said and handed me the toast. “It’s good to be so popular.”

  “Why, Mrs. Fowler, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

  “Oh sure, my girlfriend will be over shortly. If you want to stick around and do manual labor instead of taxes, I’m redoing the garden so we can have our own garden-to-table veggies.”

  Our backyard was going through a rough transformation. A number of attempts had been made to turn the clay soil.

  “Is that why it looks like a war zone?”

  “Ha-ha, I’m going to fill in the holes but have more research to do. Do you know there really is a Hercynian Forest? It’s also called the Black Forest, and it’s in Germany.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled on my socks. “Didn’t you go there once?”

  “Oh, yes! It was awesome, but apparently I didn’t do the right tour. Let me read to you from Google: The Black Forest region is supposedly blessed with a rich mythological landscape. It is said to be haunted by werewolves, sorcerers, witches, and the devil in differing guises.” Her brown eyes fixed on mine as she delivered the last line, “Helpful dwarves try to balance the scales.”

  At that, I caught the twinkle in her eyes. I never know whether she’s teasing me or getting one of her wild ideas. Part of our relationship is that she keeps me guessing...I guess. Although weekends should be for rest, it was that time of year for me to use every moment to stay on top of tax season.

  “Well, the more I work, the closer we get to our next trip.” I grabbed the egg and toast and gave her a quick kiss. “But I’m thinking somewhere warm might be nice. Cabo San Lucas?” She just smiled and went back to her research, which always makes me nervous. Our friend Juniper says the most dangerous thing in the world is a woman quietly sitting in the corner smiling.

  Great. The Black Forest has dwarves. That Lulu—she had gotten me good.

  UPON ARRIVING AT the office, I had no time to muse over unexplained events or what my lovely wife might be up to. A smiling longshoreman came in with an untidy shoebox of receipts and statements and thrust it at me, as if to say, “Here, fix.” I have many different clients, but they come in two sizes: “anal” and “hot mess.” He was in the latter category.

  Babs kept the coffee going all day, and it was after seven p.m. when we turned the sign to SHUT.

  She said, “I’m leaving now. Do you need anything else?” She looked as tired as I felt. She had already worked too much for what I paid her.

  “No, thanks. Do it all again tomorrow?” I asked, our standard joke.

  “If I don’t win the lotto tonight,” she said. We both laughed as if it hadn’t been said a hundred times before. Babs tended to her elderly father, and I knew her night shift had just begun. I made a mental note to ask Valerie about home services that might be available for him.

  This night there was no unexpected knock on the door and no Lulu as she didn’t start her rounds until nine-thirty p.m. I was getting out early for this time of year. I decided to stop by the French bakery—run by Mexicans—on the way home for a little dessert surprise for my long-suffering spouse.

  Fowler Tax Services had no parking garage, and as I pulled away from a curb where I’d parked, two streets away, I noticed a piece of paper flapping under my windshield wipers. “What now?” I said aloud.

  Since the side street was quiet, I stopped and got out, thinking it might be a ticket. Instead, in the same eerie script as the invitation that had come in the mail yesterday, the paper said:

  The Witching Hour.

  I made a note to check into mental health services for Lulu—or me—balled it up and threw it in the back of the car.

  The weather this week had been gorgeous, which is another reason we’re so attached to this place. I put the top down on my smart car. Needing to be grounded, I punched the numbers for my favorite nurse on my car Bluetooth and called my pal, Val, who answered on the third ring. “Whatcha doing?” I said, navigating around bicyclers.

  “Trying to save our orchids. It got a touch too hot this week.” I could picture her in her and Juniper’s back bathroom. Covered with windows, it doubled as a very suitable, makeshift greenhouse.

  “Well, it is the dead of spring. I see you’re still healing—just not people this time.”

  “Ha-ha, true. I can’t believe you’re not at the office. Is this a holiday?” Sounds of a water spritzer.

  “Knocked off early. I don’t want Mitzi to forget what I look like. Are we all set for Saturday? Was Juniper able to get us on the list?”

  “Yes, darling, she remembers the little people,” she said in her best Gloria Swanson voice.

  I winced inwardly about little people—shades of dwarves and gnomes.

  Valerie laughed her musical laugh. “But of course. But, babe, I gotta tell ya, this is the hottest ticket in town.”

  “No kidding. How did Juniper do it? I read the article this morning, well, at least some of it. This is going to be a crazy mob scene.”

  “I know. Juniper’s down at the museum right now seeing to all the details—security, media, parking.”

  “The devil is in the details they say.”

  “You’re right, love. Just check in around seven. Your names are on the list.”

  “Cool. I feel like a celebrity.”

  “See you, babe.”

  “Ciao, bella!” When did I start talking like this? Oh yes, after Mitzi made me take Italian with her.

  I would prefer to stay home and sleep next Saturday, but Mitzi was so charming and excited about the event, it was contagious. Truthfully, life has to be about more than work, and this was not an opportunity to be shunned. Juniper had taken over the local art museum a year before, and her events were all the buzz. While the fo
rmer curator showed respectable, if predictable, art installations, Juniper had an eye for the off-center and trending. How she snagged an artist of Fiona Castlebaum’s stature to appear at our modest museum was nothing short of amazing.

  ALONG WITH MY early arrival, the pastry did the trick. I left my briefcase in the back of Sweetpea, my smart car, and Mitzi and I spent the evening talking and watching recorded Modern Family episodes. Our favorite thing to do is to laugh together, and lately there hadn’t been enough time to do that.

  “What all did you do today? Are we ready to plant?” My feet were curled under me as we sat on the couch and ate our éclairs.

  Mitzi reached for another delicious mini-delight. “No, it was actually kind of bizarre. Remember we were just talking about the German trip I took during undergrad?” She stuck out her tongue to catch a drip of cream. “I got a call from Madame Dresser, who financed the whole thing for my college.”

  “Doesn’t she live in New York?” My hands were sticky, and I was wishing for a damp cloth but didn’t want to move. Brutus licked some cream off my finger.

  “Yes, and other places. She’s got to be a hundred and not very sociable. I was really surprised. She said she wanted to see me this weekend. She’s ‘schvinging through Los Angeleeees’ on her way back from Asia. I don’t know how she even found me.”

  “Isn’t she royalty or something? What does she want with you?”

  I ducked as Mitzi threw a pillow at me.

  “So I’m not good enough for royalty to come calling?” she asked playfully.

  “Babe, of course you are. I mean, you’re royalty to me.” Yes, I’m a total suck up. “Did she say what was on her mind?”

  “Kind of. She wants to see my pictures from that trip. I told her we could just digitize them and email them, or I could have copies made, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s coming out to California anyway for something. I dunno...we talked. It will be fun to pull those photos out. Remember when we used film and had to get them developed?”

  It wasn’t just Madame Dresser who was getting old. Something else niggled just at the edges of my mind. My stoic and pragmatic gut was tingling. Too many strange things had happened this week, but I didn’t want to rain on Mitzi’s parade. She loved the exotic and unusual, and this certainly fit the bill. “When do you see her?”

  “She’s coming here Sunday, before she leaves for Baden-Baden,” Mitzi said, imitating the old woman’s thick German accent, “to take in the Schpa.” I smiled. The spa.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess we need to break out the white gloves and give this place a good cleaning.” Surveying the tchotchke-dotted living room, I saw that would be quite a task. We looked at each other and simultaneously laughed. It wasn’t going to happen. Every time we traveled, some precious find would come back with us, and the result was, um, eclectic but us. The rest of the night was pretty ordinary, and we ended it spooning as the moon rose over our little place.

  Chapter Three

  SATURDAY WE ARRIVED at the museum at seven on the dot and stood in a line before the check-in table. Mitzi waved and hugged her many acquaintances as I stood there smiling when appropriate. I hoped I didn’t nod off during the show.

  On the open green space in between museum buildings, a stage was set up for the local politicians to blah blah to us, the captive audience. Hundreds of conversations took place at the same time, and it took Garcia, the MC, a minute to calm the excited crowd.

  Garcia, Juniper’s right-hand man, said into the mic, “Ladies and gentlemen, before we enter the installation, we have a proclamation from the mayor and the city council member for this district. First, we will hear from Gary Smithers, our city councilperson.”

  Ugh! This man was the closest thing our liberal city had to a right winger. He limply grabbed the mic and blathered on about the importance of art. Yawn. Most folks continued grabbing canapés and chatting among themselves. A small group of intent watchers consisted of people who would normally never be caught dead at an avant-garde event, but who knew they couldn’t afford to miss it. This wasn’t lost on Mr. Smithers, who, while not endorsing Ms. Castlebaum, at least could muster some enthusiasm for art in general.

  Mercifully, his stint was short, and he handed the mic with two fingers to Garcia, an openly gay young man, who announced, “Without further ado, our mayor, Tom Reed.”

  Mayor Reed fairly knocked the curly haired MC out of the way, grabbed the microphone, and launched into his standard fare: “This is a proud moment for Merryville. Our fair city, under leadership of the current administration, has attracted business, reduced crime, and now it can add, is becoming a cultural beacon!” It was bombastic but, to give him his due, effective.

  I could see Juniper fighting an eye roll. She’d never been a fan. Here he was, practically taking credit for Fiona Castlebaum’s installation, and we knew the only “art” at City Hall was a very old, white-bread series of pictures about our founding fathers. I surveyed the crowd, noted the usual suspects, and saw Phillip, a writer from the Fishwrap—our affectionate term for the local Merryville Bee.

  PRESS: Check. Society maven Charlotte Windingle—you could find a Windingle building just about everywhere in Merryville.

  MONEY: Check. Up and coming museum board member and Juniper nemesis, Linda Chicolet, who was busy pressing the flesh even though the mayor was still talking.

  NARCISSIST: Check. A number of those who just can’t stand to miss an opportunity to see and be seen and had the money to get on the list. Oops—I guess that was me and Mitzi, too.

  LOCAL NOTABLES: Check. There were people I didn’t recognize, some dressed rather strangely, but that was to be expected—right? Fiona Castlebaum was from another country, Ireland I think, and I could only describe these folks as foreign.

  I felt a rib nudge, got a pay-attention smile from my wife, and tuned back in.

  “...yes, art is good for business!” The crowd roared, but my A.D.D. (Squirrel!) drew me back to the people. I’d done taxes for many of the locals and smiled to see that Merryville cleaned up pretty good. Valerie wended her way through the crowd and brought us a couple of sparkling ciders. “Isn’t this great?”

  I nodded. “Thanks for the drink.” Mitzi leaned over to gossip in whispers with Valerie about Linda Chicolet, who must be green with envy at Juniper’s artistic coup. As the mayor droned on, I noticed a rather large police presence, which made sense given what the article said this morning.

  The mayor said, “And we hope this is the first of many such events, placing Merryville squarely on the national map for artists.” He closed with his usual “let’s say it together.” The crowd joined in for a rousing “Paris! London! New York! Merryville!” This time I saw Juniper cough and look down, just as Valerie said, “She hates that.” We all giggled and watched as Juniper took the microphone. She looked dazzling in her evening gown and trademark big hair, expertly coiffed. Photographers’ lights flashed. Diamonds sparkled at her earlobes. She did a little throat clear, and you could feel the crowd lean in.

  “No one was more surprised than I,” she said, “when Fiona herself called last November.” The crowd reacted with a cheer. This was the biggest thing most could remember in Merryville since Snoop Dogg. Juniper stood there until you could hear a pin drop, then continued. “This event puts us on the world stage.” Another cheer.

  “We’ve been working with Ms. Castlebaum for the last four months to show her work as well as our fair city”—a glance at the mayor—“in the very best light, pun intended. You all know the stories, and they’ll be covered in a short film once you’re seated. Without further ado, I give you Fiona Castlebaum.”

  Juniper looked to her left, and we were all puzzled, as the star of the art world was nowhere on the stage. The air was chilly now that the sun had gone down and the wind blew in from the ocean. The crowd murmured, and those on the dais looked left and right as if the artist were hiding among them. Was this real or just part of the show? Juniper whispered to Garcia.


  Suddenly all the lights went out. The police looked to be on high alert until, a beat later, floodlights lit up the bluff. Over the loudspeaker, we heard what I presumed to be Fiona’s lilting voice: “Follow the light, children. Come see what’s in the bushes, only a stone’s throw away.” The crowd roared, loving the unexpected. Ushers with flashlights appeared to safely guide the audience past the stage and to the railing over the back of the green space. Cops relaxed.

  Lit below was an area that most locals didn’t even see anymore because it was just part of the landscape. Fiona Castlebaum was on a cherry picker that rose up from the beach below to the level of the crowd. She wore a shimmering gown and a headset worthy of Madonna. “I give you, a hidden world,” she said dramatically.

  The crowd gasped as the many floodlights exposed the bluff in excruciating detail, revealing hundreds of feral cats fleeing in different directions. Trash littered the underbrush, including abandoned bowls from people who fed the colony, and one homeless man blinked at the intense light.

  Fiona’s voice continued. “When I come to a town, I want to see its underbelly, sometimes it’s benign neglect, sometimes pure evil. Merryville is no different.” Jaws dropped and I saw the mayor and Smithers making their way through the crowd toward the parking lot. No way were they going to be a part of this unscripted embarrassment.