Floodlight

by Reba Birmingham

  “Give her a chance,” someone said. “Besides, it’s already been in the paper.”

  Juniper stood up and nodded to Garcia, who stood by the light switch in the corner of the board room. He looked haggard. “Lights, please.”

  The video shown was new to everyone in the room except Juniper. It showed the original Floodlight exhibit that had apparently been filmed secretly.

  The board members gasped. One asked, “How did you get this?”

  Juniper turned to them and said, “Did you think Fiona Castlebaum would let her greatest California showing go undocumented? Please.”

  The film was, oddly, without its own sound. As if made from a 1920s reel-to-reel, the background music was from a circus or carnival, but it seemed appropriate to the strange events as the cherry picker arose from the beach with Fiona on it and the crowd started to panic.

  “This is the opening film clip that will introduce the new visit. Commentary by Fiona, who is being interviewed about it in Sweden, is coming up next.”

  The film switched from fleeing patrons to Fiona, sitting in a chair on a set, being interviewed by a young man. “Unterbauch” was written in anarchic spray-paint letters across the backdrop. A rolling hand-graphic translated it to mean “Underbelly.” The clip started mid-interview.

  “Brilliant! Now let’s turn to your work in the United States. What did you think of this,” the interviewer said and looked down at his notes, “Merryville town in California?” He was hip looking, all in black with round, black glasses. He had some sort of accent that indicated English wasn’t his first language. “I understand some of the locals were not so pleased.” He giggled.

  A clip was shown of angry groups outside Councilman Smithers’ office, chanting and bearing signs. Afterwards, Fiona turned her face directly to the camera and said, “It’s time to make this project clear. It was never my intention to harm anyone, only to throw light on their local problems of feral cats and homelessness.”

  She looked old in the set lighting, but her blue eyes were sparkling and intelligent. “There is not a city in the world that doesn’t have problems. I want to make sure there’s balance about what I found. My next exhibit there will show the amazing resilience of the people of Merryville.”

  “Oh, that sounds dull.” The interviewer wrinkled his nose and looked confused.

  “It’s okay. I made several friends there. One was named Panda, who showed me that ordinary, so-called dull people are the salt of the earth.”

  The film faded to black, and statistics with snapshots of volunteers and soup kitchens rolled, showing the efforts of the Merryville Homeless Coalition, the “Cat Ladies” Coalition, a Merida Shore resident who dedicated hundreds of hours to cleaning up the beaches, and other noteworthy organizations and individuals. What made it cool was the music turning from circus to some Snoop Dogg rapping (Fiona touch), then some Beach Boys, ending in a rousing cheer led by Mayor Reed. “PARIS! LONDON! NEW YORK! MERRYVILLE!”

  Juniper said, “Lights, please.”

  Garcia wasn’t there; it was an odd time to leave, but one of the other board members switched them on.

  Lucas Windingle, member at large on the board, sat back in his leather chair and removed the pencil eraser he was tapping against his white teeth. “I must say, I’m impressed.”

  Maribel, sitting next to him, said, “It’s an olive branch. I think.”

  Juniper turned to the rest of the board. “It’s about the closest thing to apologizing Fiona Castlebaum has ever done. What do the rest of you think?”

  “You know what I think, but I guess that doesn’t matter now,” Linda Chicolet said. “Dick hated that woman. Be honest. We all did—even you, Juniper, after the event. Why bother with this installation?”

  Juniper sat down at the head of the table, Dick Mortimer’s seat. Linda shot her an evil glance. “Linda, Dick’s gone. It’s an epilogue. The past is past. I was pretty pissed at her, too. But this is bigger than our egos or personal feelings. In fact, it’s the one way we have of achieving closure after the problems she highlighted—showing the community that we’re telling the narrative, that we’re not afraid.”

  Linda’s face showed rage. “We have reason to be afraid. There’s a maniac out there killing board members!”

  Lucas, a millennial, leaned forward. “One board member. We have no information that any of the rest of us are being stalked.”

  “I’ve had enough of this. Just do what you want to do. What else have you got?” Linda folded her notebook with a snap. “I have a funeral to attend.”

  A few board members looked up at the ceiling. They were all going to go as fellow board members, but everyone knew Linda Chicolet had been involved with the now deceased board chairman and had to be hurting. Thankfully, no one said anything.

  Juniper continued. “The rest of the show is the history of the community that Dick started. My additions just dig deeper into the installation already showing.”

  “Well, let’s go see it,” Maribel said. Others nodded. “We have about a half hour before the memorial.”

  Juniper stood and crossed her arms. “I need to know right now if you all trust me. This is an exhibit that is under my artistic purview. Garcia’s helping me, and I won’t show anyone else until the opening. If you don’t want me as your curator, now’s the time to say so.”

  Juniper looked from face to face and saw ordinary people who were just trying to do the best they could. They looked tired and had been through hell after Fiona’s “Floodlight!” exhibit.

  “Oh what the hell, it’s kind of nice for a museum as old as ours to be edgy.” This, from Lucas. “Did you see the article Phillip wrote for the Bee? A lot of folks are saying it’s about time we took the lead on social issues.”

  “Do it, Juni,” Maribel said.

  Juniper noted she had started putting green highlights in her hair, something she never would have done with Dick Mortimer at the table.

  She also noted that Maribel usually voted with Lucas Windingle, and today was no exception. Juniper hoped the young man realized someday that Maribel had a crush on him.

  Lucas looked around the board. It was silent.

  It was a little over the top when Maribel then added, “I vote yes. Art should be fearless!” but Juniper appreciated the support.

  “Let’s get T-shirts that say that,” Juniper said. “Linda?”

  “Do you need to ask?” Linda looked like a grumpy cat.

  “Okay, one no. Anyone else?” This was the fish-or-cut-bait time. Juniper was ready to walk out, but she really wanted to stay. The board had the power.

  In the end, it was ten to two to go forward on Juniper’s terms. The exhibit would open the following Saturday.

  THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH chosen for the memorial was over a hundred years old and had the most handsome wood gingerbread over the marble surfaces. The Vanderhoovens and others who’d been in town for generations had their names on tiny brass plates at the end of certain pews. There was no Fowler pew, alas. Mitzi made me laugh sometimes when we went to a wedding pretending to look for it. She was surprisingly funny for such a pretty woman.

  The memorial was well attended, as one might expect for such a notable, who was—whisper—murdered. The front row held Beatrice Vanderhooven-Mortimer, who was swollen-faced and holding her little Blanca. The Windingles shared the pew with her, and Lucas, the youngest, kept handing tissues to his elders.

  Father Bennington, often referred to as “Father Benadryl,” for his sleep-inducing sermons, presided. I saw him in the back, speaking to the ushers as the service was about to begin. A huge picture of Richard Mortimer beamed his famous smile from an art easel near his coffin.

  Gigantic sprays of daisies, lilies, orchids, and roses decorated the steps that led up to the altar. Valerie and Juniper had donated their prize orchids, and my heart warmed at the gesture. The crowd, I noted ironically, was about the same as the crowd who came to the Floodlight exhibition. There were some extras, however. Dete
ctive Potts was in the back of the church watching everyone who entered. This time, mercifully, the police didn’t form a ring around the audience.

  St. John’s Episcopal Church had an original, real, pipe organ, and the bellows started “For All The Saints, From Whom Their Labors Rest.” The verger led in the choir. Lay ministers and priest followed with great ceremony. A thurifer swung a pot with incense. Yes, all the bells and smells were out for this important man.

  Funerals are funny that way. I really didn’t know Dick Mortimer, and he’d had my wife and me arrested the same night he was killed, but we were here. Thankfully, that little factoid about the arrest hadn’t been in the press.

  All in all, affair and arrest notwithstanding, he was part of our Merryville community and local parish. I wondered what people would say and think about me at my funeral, and I squeezed Mitzi’s hand.

  Most folks were already seated when Linda walked in, and there was a bit of a murmur in response. She was alone and wore a hat that covered most of her face. She made her way to an empty spot in a pew a few rows in front of ours. The woman she sat next to scooted farther away. Mitzi looked at me and silently mouthed, “Wow.” I noted it was the Vanderhooven pew and hoped Beatrice Vanderhooven-Mortimer didn’t see that.

  The service was nice: Old Testament readings, a short sermon, and even communion. Linda didn’t go up for communion, and I was grateful for her tact. The last thing Dick’s widow needed was a scene.

  Finally, there was time for remembrances. Dick’s brother from out of town went to the front and said something appropriate and bland, followed by an old fraternity brother and various pillars of the church. Notables of the community then went up, as well as museum members, including Juniper, who spoke about Richard Mortimer’s longtime commitment to Merryville and the arts.

  It was warm, and my attention was starting to drift when Garcia made his way to the podium. Garcia? From what I knew, he was just some young guy who adored Juniper and didn’t care for Dick at all. At his approach, Beatrice Vanderhooven-Mortimer gave a look that could kill to the usher, who tried to stop the young man, but he was having none of it. Garcia was younger and quicker. He ducked around the coffin and went to the waiting microphone. He held a can of spray paint and put a large red X on the picture of the deceased. The congregation gasped, but nobody moved. He moved quickly to the podium.

  The microphone squealed at the loudness of his tirade. “Dick Mortimer was an asshole and a racist who betrayed my mother, an artist who died in poverty. He was a big phony. He was my father,” he sobbed. The ushers and Detective Potts broke their seeming paralysis and subdued him. As he was led away, he said again, more quietly, “Dick Mortimer was my father.” A hundred spontaneous conversations ensued. The vicar woke up from his glassy reverie and nodded for the organist to play. Caught by surprise, the drowsy musician launched into “Hail Thee Festival Day” which, although not appropriate for a funeral, is a favorite of Episcopalians everywhere.

  Dick’s widow, Beatrice, was livid, and Charlotte Windingle was doing her best to hug the large woman and simultaneously keep her in her seat. Lucas wanted to help, but the whole thing was just awkward, and after all, he was only twenty-four. It was tough to tackle a three-hundred-plus-pound widow. Detective Potts returned to ask everyone to stay seated for a few more minutes.

  Juniper looked stunned. She was sitting in a pew with other board members, as Valerie had to work. She fanned herself maniacally with the program.

  Mitzi and I searched out Linda Chicolet, who was gathering her things and preparing to bolt. Stunningly, someone had already pointed her out to Beatrice, who was making her way laboriously to the younger woman. I saw the exact moment when it registered upon the older, larger woman’s face that Linda was in the Vanderhooven pew. Linda was sobbing, and ushers rushed to intervene in what surely would be a train wreck.

  Reverend Bennington took the pulpit as strains of the hymn died down and said, “Let’s all just calm down. A reception is set in Vanderhooven Hall. Please join us there to celebrate this man’s life.” Then he said, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” Again the organ started and people reluctantly filed out, encouraged by six ushers, their necks craning back to see the fireworks.

  Mitzi and I left, too, but not before I saw Blanca run ahead, barking and growling, and leap on Linda.

  THE CROWD DRANK punch and ate cookies as they shared remembrances, along with some cheap shots, as people are wont to do in situations like this. Garcia and Detective Potts were nowhere in sight. In the reception hall, pictures of special moments from Richard’s life were displayed. “The Dash,” the famous funeral poem, was projected onto a white wall. An art enthusiast, Dick’s career as a painter of still life was chronicled, as well as his sterling teaching career at the local university. There were pictures of him addressing the State Senate to promote decency when the NRA flap was the big thing in the 80s, as well as shots of Dick and Bea at their fabulous St. John’s wedding, many years and a few hundred pounds ago. It was sad for her that her husband’s final public appearance was marred by this outburst. Was Garcia really Dick’s son?

  Board members and nosy questioners surrounded Juniper, presumably asking what she knew about her devoted sidekick’s outburst. She looked distraught and seemed to be saying she didn’t know. We gave her space, and Mitzi and I drank our punch and coffee from the sidelines.

  An hour later, when Beatrice still hadn’t made an appearance, the crowd started to dwindle. Finally, Father Benadryl, I mean, Bennington, arrived to say, “The family needs peace now. Thank you all for coming.” Little did we know that at the time, the paramedics were taking Beatrice, Linda Chicolet, and Charlotte Windingle to the Emergency Room. Apparently, we missed quite a brawl.

  Mitzi and I drove home and thanked our lucky stars we were lesbians. Not that lesbians don’t have drama, but usually children from former relationships that no one knows about don’t show up. We just have griffins and elves and evil empires to thwart, Mitzi reminded me, which made us laugh.

  Tax season was over, but I still had bookkeeping to do. So the following Monday I parked on a side street and entered Fowler Tax Services. Mitzi stayed at home to spend some time with Puddle; Babs and I were back in our orderly kingdom. Routine can be a good or a bad thing. Today it felt marvelous.

  “How are you, Babs?” I asked, coming from the tiny back room with my coffee.

  “Good, boss. BTW, I love those little people you hired.”

  I almost spit out my coffee. “Ekk? And what’s BTW?”

  “BTW means ‘by the way’ and Elsa, too, is just great. You know they’re a ‘thing,’ right?” She smiled conspiratorially.

  “Yes, right. In fact, you should know Ekk may be helping here from time to time. We need to get him his own desk.”

  “How fun—we need to find him a little tiny desk!” Babs was already Googling.

  Things were what passes for normal again, and I smiled as I checked my email and returned messages.

  At Home

  MITZI’S WINGS HADN’T unfurled for a long time. She stood in front of the mirror at home and caressed her nodules, which seemed to be retracting even further. She didn’t know what to think about the whole thing. Was it all a weird fantasy? No, she knew it happened. All she had to do was put her hand on the pendant she now wore 24/7 and feel it tingle. Nothing would ever be quite the same.

  In the Interrogation Room

  AT THE PRECINCT, Detective Potts sat down across from Garcia at the scarred metal table.

  “That was quite a show you put on at Richard Mortimer’s funeral.”

  The younger man picked at a piece of missing paint on the table with a chewed fingernail.

  Potts went on in a kindly tone, no stranger to recalcitrant arrestees. “So, you believe the board chair of the Merryville Museum was your father? How did that come to be?”

  “My mom...” Garcia’s lip trembled, then he looked up. Clear brown eyes peered from his Latino features, and he st
arted again. “He was a guest lecturer for Art History at Merida University, and my mom was a student. He was pretty famous in the art world, and my mom was young. Do you have any water?”

  Without taking his eyes off of his suspect, Charlie Potts got up and rapped his knuckles on the two-way mirror. “Can we get some water in here?”

  In a couple of minutes, a uniformed officer came in with a Dixie cup full of water and set it down in front of Garcia. He took a sip with shaky hands, put it down, and continued. “When she talked about him, she would never say his name. She died without telling me his name.”

  “When did you find out about the relationship?”

  “You mean, how did I find out he was my dad?”

  “Yes.”

  Garcia hesitated and rubbed his face with both hands. “After my mom died, I found letters from him. They had broken it off, but she never told him about me. She still followed his career and his marriage to that Vanderhooven woman. My mother loved him, and he used her like a piece of disposable trash.”

  “How did you get the job at the museum?”

  “Merida University has always had a strong relationship with the Merryville Museum. Merryville used to be called Merida, you know. I was an art student, too, like my mom.”

  Potts was getting restless. “Can we fast forward a bit?”

  Garcia shifted in his seat. “Sure. Linda Chicolet.”

  “From the museum?”

  “Yes. She was liaison with the university and hired me. Before you ask, she didn’t know about all this.”

  “So you’re his kid, you find that out, then what happened?”

  He took a deep breath. “I worked at the museum for Juniper Gooden. I really like her. Linda, not so much. It was clear that she and my father wanted Juniper out. Then Floodlight happened.” He smiled. “Fiona Castlebaum was so over the top.”