by Alton Gansky
“When I first became interested in acting, I thought how wonderful it would be to be recognized on the street, to sign autographs, do talk shows and everything else that goes with it, but that got old quick.” She paused as if remembering something painful. “I learned it wasn’t popularity I crave, but art. I love acting. I want to be the best actor I can be.”
I nodded. “I once met a novelist who told me the same thing. He said he couldn’t wait to do a book signing, but after a few episodes of that he decided that he was much happier putting words on a page than signing his name.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Catherine said. “I enjoy being well known, but it isn’t what drives me. I’m doing the play because I feel like I owe my friends in Santa Rita something and because stage acting is more challenging than movies. When you make a film there is no audience except the crew, and they’re paid to be there. Onstage you can hear the audience and get immediate feedback. There’s nothing like it. Does that make sense?”
I told her it did, then added, “It’s similar in my world. I hate campaigning. I prefer to be busy with governing rather than running for office. Still, it’s the price I pay for my passion.”
“We all pay a price,” she said. “Some days are more expensive than others.”
That sounded heavy with history. I cut my eyes her way, then returned them to the road. I kept silent to allow her time to elaborate but nothing came. There are awkward times when I don’t know whether to push for more information or back away. To do the former could be construed as prying, the latter as being insensitive. I had been with Catherine less than thirty minutes, and even though she was family we had never been close, certainly never confidantes. It wasn’t time to press.
She broke the silence. “I’m sorry. That sounded heavier than I meant it to. So tell me about the campaign. How’s it going?”
I changed lanes again. “Not great,” I said. “The general election is less than a month away, and I’m behind in the polls. Not much, but enough to make sleeping difficult.”
“My mother told me that you won the primary by a big margin.”
“She heard that all the way up in Boise, did she?”
“Your mother is proud of you,” Catherine said. “She calls my mom and talks about you, and then my mother talks about me.”
“Where would we be without mothers?”
“Someone has to start the fan clubs.”
I smiled at that. “Well, your mother was right. When they counted the votes, I was the Republican nominee for the vacant house seat, and Robert Till has gone back to being a county supervisor.”
“So now you’re running against the Democratic contender?”
“Garret Kinsley. He’s a powerhouse. Well funded, heartthrob handsome, educated, and a dynamite speaker. He served as ambassador to Argentina. He’s a well-tanned Adonis with brains and has a political organization some consider the best in Southern California. He demolished Assemblywoman Wilma Easton in the primaries. Her political life is in a coma. I may be next.”
“How big is the gap in the polls?”
I was impressed with the question. Catherine was more politically savvy than most people. “The Santa Rita Register did a poll last week. Kinsley leads me by 6 percent.”
“That doesn’t sound like much,” Catherine said.
“It’s huge this late in the game. My campaign manager thinks the poll is flawed and badly constructed, but I think she’s just trying to keep my spirits up.”
“You’re not giving in, are you?”
“No way. I’m committed to the goal. It’s not over until the votes are cast.”
“Can I do anything?”
I hadn’t expected that. “I appreciate the offer.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help. Does your campaign need funds? I want to contribute. Money’s not a problem.”
“There are limits on how much an individual can contribute to a candidate, but every little bit helps. We’re having one last fundraiser to raise money for television time and one more direct mail.”
“Maybe I could come to that. Would that help?”
I paused. “Yes, it might, but I don’t want you to think that—”
“Of course not. I asked you; you didn’t ask me. When is it?”
“A week from Monday night.”
“The next exit is mine,” Catherine added calmly.
“Nuts, I wasn’t paying attention.” I checked my mirrors. Getting over to the exit lane would require the help of several kind drivers or some pushy driving on my part. I planned on the latter, signaled, and began a steady merge to the right. To my surprise no one honked. Such is driving in Southern California.
After I successfully elbowed my way to the exit, Catherine said, “You’d do great in New York. It takes attitude to drive there.”
“It takes body amour to drive here,” I said. “Would a week from Monday work for you? What about the play?”
“The theater is dark Monday and Tuesday. I’m free that night. I might have to show up a little late if they call me to Hollywood for a script meeting, but I should be back by late afternoon.”
“We’re holding it at the Spaghetti Warehouse. It begins at six o’clock.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem then. Take the exit and stay right. It’s not far.”
I did as instructed. I also made a note to call Nat as soon as I could. Natalie Sanders is my campaign manager and the last-minute addition of movie star Catherine Anderson would thrill her and send her scrambling to get word out. I just made her life much more difficult.
I felt good.
Chapter 3
That’s odd,” Catherine said as I turned into the long drive that led from Virgil Street to her house.
I had successfully negotiated the freeway off-ramp and pressed the large SUV up the hill to the rarified air of Oak Crest Knolls, one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in Southern California. I live in a three-thousand-square-foot house built by my late husband. It sits right on the beach. Most consider it a luxury house—I know I do—but in the “The Knolls” it would be considered a starter home.
We had just driven through the land of Mercedes, Humvees, and homes one could buy beginning in the low seven figures. It was the area of the city that if you had to ask how much it cost, you didn’t belong. It was also a land of political hostility toward me. I was persona non grata here. Last year, the residents felt their five- and ten-thousand-square-foot mansions deserved the prestige of a Santa Barbara address. They petitioned to be annexed by Santa Barbara city and found open arms and smiles, and why not? Homes that large on five-acre lots could bring in a lot of revenue.
I wasn’t keen on letting my city lose the revenue and surrendering a few square miles of prime property to boot. I led the fight against the homeowners’ association and the city to the north. The entire council backed me on it. It was one of the few times we’d agreed on anything. Since then, the residents have harbored a well-oiled hatred toward me. I had learned to live with it. I couldn’t help noticing that many of Garret Kinsley’s contributors had addresses from this little section of paradise.
“What’s odd?” I asked as I pulled along the drive.
“The limo.” She pointed. A black, stretch Lincoln Town Car sat on the sweeping drive in front of the house.
I hadn’t noticed it. My eyes were glued to the monster before me. A massive, two-story, French country chateau sat—no, loomed before me. I wasn’t certain what I expected. A large home, sure, but this stunned me. It stood like a castle on a bare lot. Landscaping was in place but had yet to fill out the grounds. Thin trees seemed intimidated by the gentle breeze: ground cover lay in clumps as if gathering strength for the job that lay before them. A year from now, the property would be verdant beyond anything I’m capable of imagining.
“What about the limo?”
“Ed didn’t answer his cell phone when I called, so I tried the house. When he didn’t answer there, I assumed something was wrong with his
cell service and that he might be on his way to pick me up.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“How did he get back before us?” She shook her head and frowned. “I don’t think he left at all. I wonder if . . .”
I started to press for the rest of the sentence but decided I was again being too nosy. Pulling behind the limo, I parked, set the brake, and slipped from my seat. Catherine was already out.
I took a step back and looked at the house. It was two stories tall with an elegant hip roof dressed with dark, flat tile. Stark white trim accented the windows and a large arch that led to the front porch and entry door. The walls bore stone of various shades of gray and charcoal painted siding. The windows were an assortment of shapes: oval, square, and arched.
“Come in and I’ll show you around,” Catherine said. “I need to warn you that we got final inspection just last Friday and there’s still a lot of cleanup to do.”
“I understand,” I said, following her to the front door. I expected her to produce a key, but instead she pressed the buttons on a small numeric keypad. I heard a click and a thunk as the door unlocked. “Cute.”
“The house has a top-of-the-line security system. I enter a code here and it not only unlocks the door but it turns off the alarm. It also records when the code is used and stores the information on a device that can be read by my home computer. If someone tries to defeat the system, it records the number of attempts, the time of day, and activates the security camera.”
“I don’t see a camera.”
“That’s the point.” She smiled. “There are security cameras in several key spots around the lot. They’re not working yet, but should be by the end of the week.”
“There’s always something left undone when building a new house.”
I followed her into the entry. I’m used to entering a large home, but this house took my breath away. Black marble covered the floor; the Venetian plaster wall to my right boasted several arched niches tall and wide enough to hold a child. They were empty. Before me was an open, sweeping staircase that led to the floor above. The stringers were a curved, dark wood that I didn’t recognize. I guessed mahogany.
It took ten steps to cross the foyer and plunge into the living room. The space was enormous and a thick mottled blue carpet covered the floor and ran up the center of the stairs. Empty bookshelves lined one wall and two white half-hemisphere chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling.
To the side of the staircase was a raised planter and fountain that curved in harmony with the stairway. Aside from that, the room was empty.
“Furniture is due to arrive over the weekend,” Catherine said. “It looks pretty empty now.”
“You’re staying here without furniture?”
“The bedroom has most of its furnishings,” she said. “It’s all I need right now. The interior designer is pulling everything together. I have no head for those things. I grew up in a small home, so this is all new to me.”
I remembered her house, a sixteen-hundred-square-foot Craftsman-style bungalow in one of the city’s early subdivisions.
“How many rooms?” I asked as I moved to the center of the living space.
“Six bedrooms, an office, a rec room, a media room, and a den, plus the usual kitchen, breakfast nook, dining room, and five bathrooms.”
“And you plan on living here alone?” I tried to imagine the place filled with furniture. Over my head hovered an open beam ceiling. Across the long wall were thick, ivory-colored drapes that reached from the floor to a rod ten feet above. Above the cornice were a series of narrow rectangular windows. Wood blinds that matched the stairway blocked the light. The wall faced west, which meant the afternoon sun would pour in.
“I hope not,” she said.
I turned to her. “Oh?” I smiled. “You have a husband-to-be waiting in the wings?”
She chortled. “No, Maddy, I don’t. Not that I haven’t been asked. In fact, I get about twenty proposals a week from love-struck fans.” She stepped to the stairs, bent, and picked up a small plastic device that looked like a television remote. She pressed a button and the dark wood blinds opened. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in. I could see a few shreds of clouds ornamenting the sky.
“If not a husband . . .”
“I’m hoping to convince Mom and Dad to move back to Santa Rita. It’s one reason I built my home here. They’re not getting any younger, and I would love to have them around.”
“You’re a good daughter,” I said. “Not many people your age would want to have their parents around. It would cramp their style.”
“I don’t have a style; I’m just a very fortunate performer. No one knows how long fame will last. This time next year, I may be a used-to-be.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
She frowned and glanced around. “I wonder where Ed is. We’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Bathroom?” I suggested. “Or the media room?”
“There’s nothing in the media room yet,” Catherine said. She returned the remote to the third tread. “I’m going to take a quick look around. I’ll be right back and we can continue the tour.”
“Okay.” I watched Catherine move up the stairs with an easy grace. What a young woman she had become. The best I could tell her fame and newly earned wealth had not gone to her head. Her comment about wanting her parents around warmed my soul.
I surveyed the empty room and rocked on my heels. I felt like an empty bottle floating on the wide ocean. There was no place to sit, no magazines to read, no . . . nothing. I thought of the landscape I had seen out front and wondered what lay behind the house. Surely there was a pool, and I was willing to bet next week’s salary the lot had one of the best views in Santa Rita.
Catherine had opened the blinds over the transom windows with a remote. I directed my gaze back to the stairs and saw the plastic device right where she had placed it a moment ago.
I could have just walked to the draped wall and pulled on the curtains until I found where they met, then peeked at the backyard, but then I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to play with the remote. What fun was that?
I studied the gizmo and it looked straightforward enough. It had two sets of long buttons. Each end of each button had an arrow: open and close. Simple.
Pressing the right side of the top button, I watched the wall, ready for the curtains to part. Instead, the wood blinds closed again. A fifty-fifty chance and I blew it. For me, luck is a word you find in the dictionary and little more. I depressed the lower button and drapes parted like curtains on the stage. Apropos.
The wall of curtain pulled back to reveal tall and wide windows overlooking the ocean and a broad and deep backyard. The diminishing light had changed the cobalt blue of the ocean to a churning green-gray. A few miles off the coast, heavy clouds gathered, preparing themselves for the near daily entrance to shore. Marine layer, meteorologists call it. In Santa Rita we wake up to it almost every morning and watch it slip in most evenings. It was part of life on the coast.
I let my eyes trace the rear yard. Dark brown pavers covered a rear patio that was circumscribed by a short curving wall of flagstone. To one side a portion rose higher than the rest of the wall. Water poured from it and into what I assumed was a pool. I couldn’t actually see the pool since it was sequestered behind the landscape wall. Several young trees populated the edge of the landscaping near the house. Any farther out and they would block the view of the ocean and no one committed such a crime in Santa Rita.
In the middle of the window wall was a pair of tall French doors. I approached and opened them. The fountain played music with its water. There’s something about the sound of running water that puts me in a good mood.
I started across the threshold, then froze midstep by a knife-sharp scream.
For half a second I thought I set off the security alarm, but then I recognized the unique human timbre. I snapped around, my heart knocking like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings
.
Catherine stood on the stairs a half-dozen steps down from the second floor balcony that ran the length of the living room.
“What?” I shouted.
Her hands were at her mouth, her eyes wide. The color drained from her face like water from a sink. I sprinted toward her, stepping up the treads as fast as I could. I took her by the shoulders. “What? What is it?”
She shook her head. Her shoulders began to shake. I looked up the stairs and along the balcony. I saw nothing. Then it occurred to me that I was facing the wrong direction.
My stomach fluttered and my mind told me not to turn around. I turned anyway.
From the elevated perch of the stairway I could gaze through the window, over the landscape wall, past a terrace I hadn’t seen from ground level, and into the large, oval pool.
In the middle of the pool, facedown, floated a man. He wore dark pants, dark coat, and dark shoes. And something else was dark in the clear, crisp water—blood.
My fluttering heart seized. My quivering stomach turned to lead. I could feel blood draining from my head.
“Ed?” I asked softly.
Catherine whimpered, “Yes.”
My gaze was glued to the still figure. Less than a second passed when I thought I saw his arm move.
“Call 9–1–1.” I scampered down the stairs and started for the open door. I took a moment and stole a glance over my shoulder. Catherine hadn’t budged. I turned and pointed at her. “Call 9–1–1. Do it now.”
She looked at me, then blinked. Her mind reengaged. She started down the steps.
I resumed my course, shooting through the open door. Had I seen him move? Was there still a chance that he was alive? I bolted over the patio and down a short run of stone steps. Stopping at the edge of the pool I hoped to see him move again. Nothing. I scanned the area, looking for a long pole to pull the unconscious man to the side. Didn’t pools have rescue poles or was that just public pools?
Seconds mattered. Seconds meant life or death. Every atom in me said not to do it. It was too much to expect of anyone. No one would blame me if I waited for the professionals.