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  “Paris, London?” she said mockingly, her voice blaring at the crowd. “Try Calcutta.” Now there were angry murmurs.

  A spotlight painted her face as she floated above the crowd, otherworldly. “This is just a taste of what I do. More will be revealed. Right now you have seen hundreds of cats, breeding unchecked, using the bluff that’s a stone’s throw away from your beautiful museum as a litter box. You see a human being living there, in that filth.” Her ice-blue eyes glittered dangerously. “And I’m just getting started.”

  Like many others, I was paralyzed. What would happen next? The feeling was unsettling and, I imagine, what made her so effective.

  She turned a spotlight on Juniper: “In agreeing to have me here, you gave me artistic freedom, and for that I thank you.” Juniper looked betrayed as photographers snapped the surreal scene. Fiona addressed the crowd. “Trap, spay, and release. Go to the dark places, find the human beings there, be creative, but take care of the problems in your city.” She shaded her eyes. “Where is Mayor Reed? Can we find the mayor?” she said mockingly. The cherry picker lowered her onto the grass by the invitees, who were now confused and a little bit frightened. As she alighted, a spotlight searched out the mayor and caught him getting in his car. He turned and seemed torn whether to stay or flee. He acted like he hadn’t heard her, and the car door closed. Moments later, the vehicle sped off.

  Police radios crackled, and we all seemed to be released from whatever spell was upon us.

  Fiona’s microphone was working well as she strode through the crowd toward the museum. “All those with courage and a desire to know the capital ‘t’ Truth, follow me.” Pandemonium ensued. Many followed her, raised their drinks, and shouted in an anarchic thrall. Many headed to the parking lot, women with purses held close to their bodies, husbands with protective arms around them.

  “Girl knows how to thin out a crowd,” Mitzi whispered to me. We watched the defections as some of the more-conservative members of the board followed the mayor out. Linda Chicolet looked delighted as we heard her explain to another, “I told you this was going to be a disaster.”

  I heard more than one say variations of “crazy” and “how insulting.”

  “This ain’t New York,” one ironically said.

  “Nope, still Iowa by the sea,” I said to no one in particular. The police seemed nervous and added to the tension of the departing crowd. Valerie said nothing but looked grim.

  The light followed Fiona to the entrance of the art museum, cum theater, where she turned, pulled herself to her full height and said, “Time for the show, enter if you dare!” She walked into the exhibit/theater, and the remaining folks surged behind her, apparently fascinated, not sure if this was an art show or a car wreck.

  Phillip was on the phone off to the side, uploading pictures to the Merryville Bee. He was open-minded and an animal lover. I felt he would be fair. Mitzi grabbed my hand, and we followed Valerie to her frazzled wife.

  When we caught up with her, Juniper was talking to Dick Mortimer, chairman of the museum board. “Of course we knew what we were getting—this is what she does. It’s art for goodness sake. Don’t leave. It won’t look good.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We’re well beyond not looking good.” He favored traditional art shows and hadn’t voted for Juniper to take over the chief curator position. “We’ll speak Monday.” He turned on his heel, lips so firmly pressed they were white. He seemed to have another thought and spoke over his shoulder in a fierce whisper, “If we lose one quarter as a result of this—well, we’ll just talk Monday.”

  He stomped off to meet Mrs. Windingle, the museum’s biggest patron, who clutched a glass of wine and looked a bit dazed. Uh-oh. All three of us eavesdropped intently and tried to look like we were having our own conversation.

  Dick opened his arms like he was just so sorry. “Mrs. Windingle, I hope you know this was a surprise to us, too. We really appreciate you underwriting this event.”

  The older woman silently looked at him, eyebrows raised. He went on. “I assure you, we will be back to the normal classic art we made our name on. This,” he said and motioned to the pandemonium, “is an aberration.”

  After a pause, Mrs. Windingle said, “Dick, I give to art because I love art. Artists allow us to see the world in ways we don’t otherwise. You of all people should know that.” With her very white teeth and cultured voice, it was difficult to know what was behind her words. This was clarified momentarily when she turned to our friend and gave Juniper a big smile. She clasped her hand in both of hers and said: “It’s about time someone paid attention to the feral cats and homeless. I didn’t expect it to happen this way, but good on Fiona! I’m going in.” Then, to Dick, she said, “Lighten up.” She whooped with laughter and her entourage followed suit.

  Dick mouthed to Juniper, “This isn’t over,” before leaving with Linda Chicolet and others of a more conservative vein. The police presence did nothing to calm fears, and all those uniforms made the situation seem more dangerous than it was. Some probably left, not sure of their safety. Every time it seemed things were calming, Fiona’s voice boomed from the loud speakers, “That’s right, no one is safe, people of Merryville.”

  Dick walked over to try to catch some of the departing patrons. I shrugged and turned toward Juniper. “Shall we?” I indicated the installation.

  She looked a bit overwhelmed but said, “Might as well, it can’t get any worse.”

  Inside, the energy was insane. A DJ was set up just beyond the door with two turntables blasting music.

  The little theater was packed, but there were fewer folks than had been on the lawn. “How are you doing?” someone asked Juniper as we sped by.

  She flashed a smile. “Well, the overcrowding issue is resolved. I just hope I have a job on Monday.”

  Little did Juniper know, this was to be the caption under her picture in the Merryville Bee, but I’m getting ahead of the story.

  Mitzi and I worked our way into the middle of the seats and glued our eyes on the screen, not sure what would come next. As the lights dimmed, the planned fifteen-minute-intro movie, which had been in the museum’s script, began. The basics of Fiona Castlebaum’s life were recounted: born in war-torn Ireland, raised in the slums of New York, and her arrival as darling of the avant-garde art world years later in Paris. Her installations were always surprising, fresh, and poked power or evil with her insightful commentary and a “bath of light.” Her goal: always to leave the places changed for the better.

  After the short film, the screen rose into the ceiling and the back wall parted, as it was only a curtain in this makeshift theater. The installation itself consisted of picture after picture of deeds of the dark thrown into the light. Many had quotes about the power of light attached to them. It was weird and utterly compelling. Wasn’t that the famed, married football star with a groupie in a compromising position outside the downtown arena? How about our mayor, still blinking from the light, posing with a dead deer at the NRA convention? Many of these images were already known, but the local stuff was new.

  The crowd was subdued, and a lot of alcohol was consumed as we wandered the walls. “This is very different from last year,” was all I could say. Mitzi and Valerie were talking about the quality of the photography. Juniper, consummate actress, was mingling and seemed to be enjoying herself. The series on cats and the homeless really was astonishing. Cats at the marina, cats in the garbage when we sleep, pictures of cats on death row at our Merryville “No Kill” shelter. It made you want to weep. A final series showed homeless people at the base of our new courthouse being shooed away before the official day began.

  The hour got late and the crowd naturally dwindled. We sat with our friends as we did an autopsy on the night and ate leftover canapes. I said to Juniper, “Did you have any idea she wasn’t on the stage when you introduced her?”

  “Panda, that would be no. It’s part of her process, not to say. She just shows up and does her thing. I must a
dmit the cherry picker was new.”

  “Where is she now?”

  With her inimitable timing, Fiona swept through the museum doors, followed by a coterie of foreign-looking people and a few of Merryville’s more adventurous.

  Juniper got back on her heels and approached the woman, who had just finished what must have been a very amusing story.

  Juniper stood there, and for a second I thought she might slap Fiona, who looked much older close up.

  “You couldn’t have told me about the cherry picker?”

  In the beat that followed, we overheard departing guests still talking about the dramatic opening.

  “Did you see the look on the mayor’s face when the spotlight hit him? Priceless.”

  “You’re welcome.” Fiona laughed and went out to her waiting limousine.

  THE NEXT MORNING the headline of the Merryville Bee screamed,

  Merryville Called Out on its Feral Cat and Homeless Problem

  and the inset with Juniper’s picture was all about,

  Trouble on the Board at the Merryville Museum

  “Did you see this?” I held up the article. “Juniper is described as ‘the embattled curator.’”

  “I know. Linda Chicolet is probably drinking champagne and celebrating. Are you on your way to work?”

  “Yes, you coming with?”

  “No, remember I’m expecting Madame Dresser today. I’m about to get up and dig out my college photographs.”

  I got to the storefront about nine on, yes, a Sunday, and proceeded to do what I do. Babs was still having her weekend, and I could be alone and just power through.

  By lunchtime, I’d finished the Fabishes and was starting my next project when the phone rang. Valerie said, “Have you seen the headlines?”

  I was typing with the phone wedged between my right shoulder and ear. “Yes, I’m so sorry. How’s Juniper doing?”

  “She’s depressed. The board wants to see her tomorrow.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “Probably not. The Monroe County Register’s headline is:

  MERRYVILLE, the new CALCUTTA

  I groaned in sympathy.

  “Hey, where’s Mitzi? I’ve been calling your house all morning.”

  That figured: my wife and Val were the usual exchangers of community gossip, not me. They know my head is in tax season. I’ve been told during this time of year I’m not very fun—sticking to the facts and all. Not great at multitasking, I absentmindedly said, “She should be home. Did you try her cell? She was meeting there with Madame Dresser, an old acquaintance.”

  Valerie sighed. “Maybe she’s just not answering. I don’t want to be a stalker.”

  “Let me try her. Now you’ve got me wondering. She usually at least calls to see if I’m hungry.”

  “Aaah, the famous Panda stomach clock. Speaking of that, I better go and bring my own madame a tea. She’s really distraught.”

  “Oh, man, please give her hugs. Tell her after the fifteenth we can plan a trip somewhere—would do us all good. Mitzi’s been chomping at the bit to get on a plane.”

  Val rang off and I tried our home number, then Mitzi’s cell, then the home number again, to no avail. The clock and my stomach said one-thirty p.m., later than my usual lunch hour. I looked at the pile on my desk and decided it would still be there when I got back. I locked up and checked for gnomes. Seeing none, I chuckled to myself and drove the six blocks to our home.

  Mitzi’s car was in the driveway, and I was annoyed that she’d probably gotten sidetracked with her exotic guest. Annoyance turned to puzzlement as I noted the front door was open. “Mitzi! You’re going to let Brutus out.” I locked the door. The cat was nowhere to be seen either. Damn. I bet he got out. “Mitzi!”

  Then it hit me. The house was way too quiet. I heard a faint meowing and followed it upstairs. Brutus was in our bedroom closet and fairly lunged at me when I opened the door. “Brutus, baby, what happened?” The bed was still unmade, which sometimes happens on a weekend, but that tingle I felt the night before was turning into a serious alarm. Had Madame Dresser come and gone already? Did they leave in her car for lunch? Why didn’t Mitzi call and tell me that?

  I forced myself to calm down, but it was hard with the cat circling my legs and meowing loudly. I wish I could speak cat. I returned downstairs, and the disarray told a story. The kitchen table was covered with shoe boxes. It appeared Mitzi had at least started looking for her old Germany photos. The coffee pot had long since turned itself off, and the two cups on the table were cold. Two cups...

  I walked to the neighbors on the left and right, in turn; no one had seen my wife other than to give a wave while getting the morning paper. Then I tossed the house for a note, thinking she probably just went out and I was being an idiot. That’s when I saw it. A note all right, but not written by any hand I knew.

  The Witching Hour 12 April.

  It couldn’t be Lulu this time; she didn’t even know where we lived. Something was seriously wrong. I picked up my cell and called 9-1-1. The conversation went something like this:

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “It’s my wife. I think she’s missing. I just got home and she’s not here.”

  “Your name?”

  “Panda Fowler, nine Thistle Drive. You have my phone number.”

  “The name of the missing party?”

  “Mitzi Fowler, my wife.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “Well, uh.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “This morning.”

  A beat. “Ma’am, is she an adult?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she disabled, mentally or physically?”

  “No.”

  “You need to give it twenty-four hours before we can take a missing person’s report. Go to the station if she doesn’t come home by then.”

  I could tell by the change in tone that the operator didn’t think this was an emergency.

  “But I think there’s been foul play.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a note when I got here. Someone left one like it on my car and mailed one to my office.”

  “What does it say, Ms. Fowler?”

  “It’s an invitation of some sort.” I realized how I sounded. “You know what, I’ll call after twenty-four hours have gone by.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  There was no way I could explain this to anyone but Val and Juniper. My next call was to Juniper’s cell. It rang and rang then went to voice mail. The message box was full. Next I called Valerie, who answered.

  “I tried Juniper’s cell, but I couldn’t leave a message.”

  “She’s not answering today. It’s been rough after last night, and we finally just shut it off.”

  “Sorry to intrude, but I’ve got an emergency here. Mitzi is missing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story. Can you guys come over? I hope I’m being ridiculous but...just come.”

  IN LESS THAN ten minutes, Juniper’s Citroen roared up our driveway and parked behind Mitzi’s Miata. It took longer than that just to tell them about the original invitation, Madame Dresser, and Brutus being locked in the closet. Both women kept interrupting with questions and more than a few “are you sure she just hasn’t...?” inquiries.

  By now it was three, and still no word from Mitzi. I found her cell phone in the house next to her keys, so there was no point in calling it. I knew something bad happened. She always had her cell phone with her. In fact, she was the first person I had ever known to own a cell. I could tell Jun and Val were worried, too.

  Valerie got a sketchpad from their trunk and spread the paper on the dining-room table. “Okay. What do we know?”

  I needed this approach; my head felt like a popcorn popper of ideas going in too many different directions. Brutus stood in my lap and swirled his tail over my neck and chin. He was showing solidarity bu
t had pent-up energy. I knew how he felt because I wanted to do something, but what? Val had offered a way to organize.

  I said, “Mitzi was supposed to be home today showing pictures to Madame Dresser. I don’t know exactly what time because I was working today.”

  Juniper shot me a look then wrote:

  Madame Dresser to meet Mitzi.

  “Who is Madame Dresser? I don’t recognize that name,” Valerie asked.

  “She’s an old German woman who financed Mitzi’s anthropology class to Germany when she was in grad school.” I stood up to go into the kitchen and get the pictures, and Brutus jumped on the pad to sniff the marking pen.

  There really weren’t that many pictures. They took up a third of a box, once I figured out which box. They appeared untouched.

  “Weird, nobody looked at these today. It was probably a ruse to get her to meet this woman.”

  Val looked at a photo closely. “Are we sure it really was Madame Dresser?”

  My heart sank into my stomach. “Oh my God, I told her that lady must be a hundred by now. But why would someone pose as such an obscure figure from the past?” A beat while we all thought. “Wait, the call came in Friday.”

  Juniper said, “Get her cell phone. Let’s see if her number is on it.”

  I smacked my head like the V8 commercial. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Juniper patted my hand. “You’re worried, dear.” I was touched that both dear friends had put aside their current crisis to help me with ours.

  Valerie scrolled through recent calls and reported, “Okay, you’ve called her forty-seven times.” She laughed. “And there’s a number in the 510 area code.”

  “That’s her mom.” Oh crap, what was I going to tell her mom?

  “Any out-of-country or New York area codes?” I grabbed the phone before I could stop my impulse. “Here’s one. I’m calling it. Area code 212 is New York, right?”