Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  Over the last year and a half, two great tragedies have happened in my home—horrors I refuse to talk about. If this house hadn’t been Peter’s dream, I might have left it long ago. I can’t leave.

  “Wow,” Catherine said. “This is a blast to the past. I haven’t been in here since I was a kid.”

  I looked at the twenty-five-year-old. She still looked like a kid to me. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I used to think this was the biggest house ever built.” She set her duffel on the first tread of the stairs and walked into the living room.

  “It’s more than big enough for me.” I walked through the entry. An antique mirror given to me by my parents last Christmas hangs on the wall. The image staring back was frightening. My hair hung like spaghetti, my eyeliner was now more smear than line, and my clothing, which had dried in the warm car, looked as if I had pulled them from beneath a rock. Halloween had come early.

  “How have you been able to look at me and keep a straight face?” I asked.

  “I’m an actor. Besides, I keep seeing poor Ed floating in the pool.”

  “I’m amazed the medical examiner didn’t take me away instead.” I meant it to be funny, but it flopped. Neither one of us was in a joking mood.

  Pulling away from the mirror, I said, “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you your room, then I’m going to take a shower and change clothes. I’ve had all of me I can stand.”

  Catherine followed up the stairs, and I showed her the guest room, the bathroom, and the closet where I keep linens.

  “You should call your parents,” I said. “It’s better they hear the news from you than through the media.”

  “Do you think they’ll hear about it all the way up in Boise?”

  “You’re a national name now, sweetheart. I’m afraid if word gets out, the whole country will know. It’s been my experience that media goes wherever you don’t want them to.”

  I left her on her own and made my way to the master bath. A few moments later I was disrobed and standing with my head beneath the pounding stream of the shower. The water was hot enough to make my skin sting. Steam rose in embracing billows, but it couldn’t drive the chill of terror that lingered from my up-close-and-personal experience with the corpse of Ed Lowe.

  This morning I had coffee with mayors from around California as we discussed recent legislation about how the state controlled local taxes. Since then I had flown back from Sacramento, gone swimming in a pool laced with the pink of blood, been interviewed by my friend and homicide detective Judson West, and now I stood in the flow of a shower while my cousin, one of Hollywood’s hottest properties, sat in my house.

  I was unsettled. At first, I attributed the feeling to being on scene at a murder, but there was a nagging something pulling the strings at the back of my mind.

  I thought of Catherine and how well she was handling the event. Aside from the scream on the staircase, she had been rock solid. It was easy to see the strain on her face and in her body language, but . . . but what?

  The inkling slipped away like the shower water cycled down the drain. Adrenaline was driving my brain, I decided. I allowed myself another five minutes in the warm womb of the shower before setting to work with soap and washcloth. Fifteen minutes later, I walked down the stairs, wrapped in a cozy terrycloth robe and my hair wrapped in a towel turban.

  Catherine sat at the dining room table eating an apple she had cut into thin segments. A few slices of cheddar cheese were on a small plate. The portions were lined up like yellow-orange soldiers. Next to the plate was her cell phone. I was barefoot so I made little noise as I crossed from the stairs, through the living room, and to the edge of the dining area. She was staring out the rear sliding glass doors, watching the surf roll to the shore and the white gulls soar over the sea.

  I started to say something, then stopped when Catherine took one cheese slice from its column and rank on the plate and placed it on one of the apple segments. She did so with agonizing precision. Once she positioned the cheese just right, she raised the morsel to her mouth and took a small bite.

  “I see you found something to eat,” I said.

  Catherine let out a yelp and sprang to her feet, spinning to face me. Her eyes widened and her mouth hung open, barely holding its cargo of snack.

  She swore.

  “Whoa, easy there.” I felt horrible. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Maybe I should wear a cowbell.”

  She raised a hand to her chest as if doing so could slow her heart. She took a few deep breaths, and I was afraid she was going to aspirate the apple and cheese.

  “You scared me.”

  “I noticed. I’m sorry.” I watched her for a moment, then went into the kitchen. “How about some tea?”

  Her jaw began to work again: chewing had resumed. A good sign.

  “Got anything herbal?”

  “I got it all. Herbal, black tea—”

  “Cranberry? I like tea with cranberry.”

  “One of my favorites. Cranberry it is.” I put the pot on the burner and began heating water. From the pantry I pulled a box of Celestial Seasons Cranberry Cove and set it on the counter. “So, is that comfort food?” I nodded at the cheese and apple slices.

  “Comfort food?”

  “Food we eat because it makes us feel good. I’m prone to chocolate, grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, chocolate, Mexican cuisine, and occasionally I eat chocolate.”

  Catherine laughed. “I guess apples and cheese qualify. It’s my father’s favorite snack.”

  “Did you call them?”

  “Yes. They’re worried like everyone else, but I told them I was with you. That made them feel better.”

  “I’m glad.” I walked to the table and sat down. Catherine took her seat again. I looked out the glass doors and watched a brown tern dive-bomb headfirst into the ocean only to reappear a moment later. Politics was tough, but at least I didn’t have to get wet with every meal.

  “What do you think will happen next?”

  “West is a good detective. Very thorough. He’ll look into every detail. You can expect to be interviewed again. Probably a couple more times.”

  “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

  “I do. I’ve seen him in action twice before. He’s smart, polite, and dogged.”

  “He started to call you ‘Maddy.’” Catherine studied the cheese as if her startled leap from the table might have jarred things out of place.

  “We’re friends, which is sometimes awkward.”

  “How is it awkward?”

  I waited for her to start nibbling again, but she made no move for the food. “He’s a detective on the police force, and I’m the mayor. In a way, I’m his boss, even though I don’t and can’t interfere with police investigations.”

  “He’s sweet on you,” she said with a thin smile. “I could see it in his eyes.”

  I shrugged. “We had one date, but it was uncomfortable.”

  “He didn’t try anything.”

  A laugh slipped out. “No, not at all. We just had pie and coffee. You know how these things go. That was months ago.”

  “So you’re still footloose and fancy-free, as my mom used to say.”

  This conversation was going down a path I didn’t want to walk. I was doing my best to find a way to change the subject when the phone rang. I was thankful for a convenient out. Rising, I walked to the kitchen counter where rested one of my cordless phones. I answered.

  “Why is Doug Turner calling me about a murder and mentioning your name?”

  It was a very familiar voice. “Hi, Nat. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Don’t be coy with me, kiddo. I know where you live, work, and have access to your campaign funds. What happened? Doug Turner called me through the campaign office. He’s trying to reach you. I’ll bet he’s been calling city hall as well. Have you checked your messages?”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “He used the word m
urder, Maddy. Please, oh please, tell me you didn’t trip over another body.”

  “I have never tripped over a body.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I did know. In January of this year, I went to work and found someone had parked an ugly green AMC Gremlin in my parking place. The someone was still in the car. He was also dead.

  There was a long, dark pause on the other end of the line. Natalie Sanders is my campaign manager. A former news anchor, she is beautiful, brilliant, tech savvy to a fault, a research genius, opinionated, and driven. She is all that and more. Those who meet her for the first time may notice the wheelchair, but not for long.

  I filled her in. “You say Doug Turner knows about it?”

  “Oh yeah. He knows, and I’m betting other reporters will know soon enough, and most of them aren’t weighed down by scruples like Doug.” There was a pause, and for a moment I thought I could hear the motor of her mind humming. “You dove in the pool?”

  “I thought I saw him move and thought he might still be alive.”

  “That might be the angle.”

  “What angle?”

  The doorbell rang. Catherine was up and moving to the front door. I followed, the cordless phone still pressed to my ear.

  “I’m thinking of how to spin this so it doesn’t look like you attract dead bodies like sugar attracts ants. Who have you spoken to?”

  “Who is it?” Catherine asked at the door.

  I heard a muffled, “Um . . . Floyd . . . Floyd Grecian.”

  I put my hand over the phone and whispered to Catherine. “Let him in.”

  She did.

  “We need to be ahead of the curve on this, Maddy. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I have company.” I told her about Catherine.

  “Why does that name ring a bell?”

  “She’s the actress.”

  “She’s at your house?”

  “Yes. She’s my cousin.”

  “Whoa!” Floyd Grecian said. He looked at Catherine, then at me, then back at Catherine.

  “Come in, Floyd.” I motioned him in with my free hand. He gave me a strange look. It hit me: my aide had never seen his boss barefoot, in a robe, with a towel perched on her head.

  “I’m . . . um . . .” He looked at Catherine. “You’re . . . um . . . I mean . . .”

  Floyd is a wonderful assistant. Newly graduated from college, he was attentive, loyal, hardworking, a whiz on the computer, and sharp—sometimes. He was also one of the few innocents left in the world. At times he was clumsy, easily frustrated, and like now, a little tongue-tied.

  “Hi, I’m Catherine Anderson.” She held her hand out to Floyd.

  Floyd stammered. “I know . . . I mean, it’s good to meet you . . . no, great to meet you. I saw your movie three times.”

  “May I come over? I have other news.”

  I wanted to ask what news, but I was in a three-way conversation and had only two ears and one brain. “Sure. I’ll find something for dinner.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll pick up something.”

  “Nothing too spicy.”

  Nat promised to be prudent in her food selection and rang off. I turned my attention to the two young people standing in my foyer. “Someone want to close the door?”

  “Oh,” Floyd said. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . just . . .”

  “Floyd,” I said, “close the door.”

  He did, then turned and looked at me, then at Catherine. His brain was overloaded. Movie star to his right, robe-clad mayor to his left.

  I fought down my rising embarrassment at being seen fresh from the shower by an employee I worked with daily.

  “As you can tell, Floyd, you caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “Floyd, what are you doing here?”

  He blinked several times as if he had to think about the answer. “Oh, I was worried. Doug Turner has been calling you at the office, and I tried to call to let you know. You didn’t answer your cell phone, and when I called the house all I got was your answering service. I called the airport, and they said your plane landed. Mr. Turner said he wanted to talk to you and that it was very important.”

  “My cell phone is working. You shouldn’t have had any problem—”I frowned at myself as I realized the problem. “I turned it off on the airplane and forgot to turn it back on.” And I accuse Floyd of being flaky. “Doug didn’t say what he wanted?”

  “No,” Floyd answered. “You know how he is. Reporters want answers but never want to give them.”

  “Doug Turner?” Catherine asked.

  “He’s—”

  “He’s—”

  Floyd and I spoke in unison and stopped on the same syllable.

  “Go ahead, Floyd.” It was his chance to impress Catherine.

  “Doug Turner is the lead reporter for the Santa Rita Register. He covers politics and major crime. Actually, he covers whatever he wants.”

  Catherine looked at me. I watched her face pale. “He’s a reporter?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That was my campaign manager on the phone. He’s been calling her too. She’s coming over and bringing dinner.”

  “How did he find out so soon?” Catherine asked.

  “I imagine the newspaper uses scanners to monitor police calls. Most news media do.”

  “I was afraid of this.”

  “What?” Floyd asked. “Police? Scanners? Reporters? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain,” I said, “but not while standing in the foyer. Let’s at least go to the dining room and sit at the table . . . Better yet, I’m going to go get dressed. Catherine can explain things. You feel up to that?” I looked at her.

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  I headed up the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  I slipped into jeans a size too large and therefore reasonably comfortable, a pair of canvas deck shoes, and a sweatshirt with Temple University emblazoned on the front. I didn’t go to Temple. I graduated from San Diego State University. I had the Temple sweatshirt for the same reason I had one from Yale, Princeton, Brown, Baylor, and a dozen more. I collect them. I’ve been asked why I collect them, but I have no answer. Some people collect snow globes, others souvenir spoons, and still others dolls. I collect college shirts because I want to.

  Catherine and Floyd were seated at the dining room table when I reemerged. Both had a cup of tea in front of them. I had forgotten about the teapot. It was a good thing Catherine hadn’t.

  The scene was amusing. Floyd was leaning over the table as if he needed to be a couple inches closer to Catherine to convince himself that she wasn’t an illusion, a fantasy conjured up by his twenty-something mind. The funny thing was the teacup. Floyd doesn’t drink tea. I guess he couldn’t tell Catherine no.

  Catherine exuded poise and confident self-awareness. She was comfortable before a camera, a theater filled with people, or an audience of one. I felt pride rising like the tide.

  “Do you have dinner plans, Floyd?” I entered the kitchen and prepared my own cup of tea.

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Join us tonight. I’m sure Nat will bring enough for you too.”

  He beamed. Christmas had come in October.

  Over the next thirty minutes, I pumped Floyd for information about the office. While I was in Sacramento, I had called him daily, but now I wanted to know all the dull details. Besides, it was far more pleasant than talking about a murder victim in Catherine’s pool.

  Catherine sat in silence, a slight smile on her perfect face, as she feigned interest in city government. Ever the actor.

  I heard the honk of a car horn from the front of the house.

  “I bet that’s Nat,” I said and rose from the table. “Come on, Floyd, you can show us that chivalry isn’t dead by carrying the food in.” He was up in a second. Catherine followed.

  We stepped onto the front stoop just in time to see the side door o
f the van open and a metal lift emerge. A blond woman in an electric wheelchair moved onto the flat metal bed and the unique elevator lowered her to the grass strip that separated the street from the sidewalk.

  “She’s crippled,” Catherine whispered as Floyd moved to greet Nat.

  “After you get to know her,” I said, “you’ll never use the word to describe her again.”

  Nat said something to Floyd and he disappeared into the van, emerging moments later with his hands filled with white paper sacks. Once he was out of the vehicle, Nat pulled a small remote from a cloth bag that hung from the right armrest and pressed a button. The remote activated the lift, which rose and disappeared into the van. The door closed as if by magic.

  Nat approached and stopped at the four-inch-high stoop. I stepped down to the walkway and moved to the back of Nat’s wheelchair. I put a foot on a small bar that protruded from the back of the chair and pushed down on the handles by her shoulders. The chair rocked back, and I pushed it forward until its front wheels were on the concrete porch. I lifted as Nat powered the chair, and a second later we were inside the house.

  The evening was warm for October, and the breeze that had chilled me at Catherine’s had settled to a whisper. We moved out to the deck at the back of the house and set up to eat. The sun painted an amber racing stripe on the surging, darkening ocean.

  I made introductions while I unpacked the sacks of food Nat had brought.

  “Grinders!” I grinned as I pulled one long sandwich out. “I love these. Did you get them with olive oil?”

  “Jimmy won’t let you leave the restaurant without it,” Nat said. “I ordered them over the phone, and they brought them out to me.”

  “We always called these hoagies,” Floyd said.

  “Hoagies, grinders, submarine sandwiches, call them what you will, but they’re great. Especially if Jimmy made them.” I passed the sandwiches out, then took my place at the redwood table that took up a third of my deck.

  Catherine took hers and slowly opened the wrapper. She moved with such deliberateness she made me think of someone trying to diffuse a bomb.