Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “The landscapers are scheduled to put down sod next week,” Catherine said. She seemed sad. The bruised ground, along with the tape remnant, was a reminder of what she had experienced the day before.

  “It will be beautiful when it’s done.” I hoped the kind words would be salubrious words.

  She tested the door and found it locked. At least West and his team locked up after leaving. Catherine punched in her code on the keypad and the same “thunk” I heard yesterday sounded again. We walked into the foyer. She stopped suddenly and looked around. Black smears were on the walls. Fingerprint powder. We walked into the living room and saw the same thing. They had gone over the house from top to bottom.

  The curtains were still open and my eyes were drawn to the patio, terrace, and the pool I knew to be just out of sight. An arctic wind blew through me, and I tensed. It was all coming back in nauseating detail. I tried to force the memories from my mind.

  “There’s still police tape around the pool,” Catherine said. She had already started up the stairs and apparently was no more successful at not looking than I had been. I could see she had blanched as she gazed through the windows.

  I walked up to meet her. From her position on the stairs we could see down to the pool. She was right. Several pieces of outdoor furniture had been moved close to the pool’s edge and used as support for the tape.

  “Why would they do that?” she asked.

  I knew and felt worse for knowing. “Your chauffeur . . . bled in the pool. The pool will need to be cleaned. There are businesses that specialize in . . . residue cleanup. That’s what the police call it. State law requires that the cleanup crew be certified.”

  “I guess you have to know almost everything to be mayor,” Catherine said. “I would never have thought of it.”

  I didn’t tell her that I once had such a crew in my own home. “Let’s get your script and get going.” She went upstairs as I descended, found the remote control that operated the drapes, and closed them. There was no need for Catherine to come home to that sight again.

  I waited. I heard a door slam, then another. Catherine appeared at the top of the stairway. “I can’t find it. I know I left it in my bedroom, but it’s not there.”

  “Did you check the other rooms?”

  “Yes, but it’s not there. Since they’re empty, I had no reason to put it there. I’ve even checked the bathroom. It’s gone.”

  She scampered down the stairs and searched the lower floor. A few minutes later she came back empty-handed.

  “Nothing?” I asked.

  “I don’t understand. I have a place in my bedroom where I keep it. I know it was on the nightstand when I left for rehearsal yesterday morning.”

  “Did you take it with you? Could you have left it in the limo?” I sounded like my mother. When I was young and lost something, Mother always started a litany of possible places I could have misplaced it. It annoyed me then. Now I was annoying myself.

  Catherine thought for a moment, then said, “No. I didn’t take it with me.”

  “Would Ed have moved it? Maybe he planned to bring it to you when he picked you up yesterday.”

  She moved outside. I followed her to the parked limo and watched as she tried to open the rear passenger door. It was locked. She tried another door but with the same result. I approached as she rounded the vehicle. The tinted windows made it difficult to see in. Placing my hands to the window, I peered in and was able to make out the seats and a few other familiar items, but no script.

  “The car is locked.”

  I started to ask about the keys but thought better of it. Most likely, Ed Lowe had them on his person when he was shot and killed.

  “I need that script.” She was coming unglued. I walked around the long, black car and placed my hands on her shoulders.

  “Can you get another one?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I can call and the studio will send out another, but they won’t be happy.”

  “Things get lost. They’ll understand.”

  “No, you don’t get it. Scripts are secret. Producers and directors don’t like the public getting their hands on early scripts. It can lead to all kinds of problems.”

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You need to be at the Curtain Call pretty soon, so I’m taking you there. You focus on the play. I’ll call Detective West and see if he or any of his people took the script. Perhaps they took it for some kind of evidence or something.” I was making it up as I went. “While I drive you to the theater, you can call your producer or director or whomever and ask them to send you a new one. They can email it to me if they want.”

  “They won’t email it, especially to a stranger. I’m telling you, Maddy, movie people are paranoid about these things. You should see the contract I had to sign, preventing me from revealing any thing about the movie, shooting schedule, actors, or anything else until they give me the go-ahead.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s all I can think of to do right now.”

  A sigh escaped her lips. “You’re probably right. The police must have it. I can’t think of what else could have happened to it.”

  We locked up the house and started down the drive. As we did, a thought rose within me. Would someone kill for that script?

  When I reached the end of the driveway, I turned to my right.

  “That’s not the way we came,” Catherine said. She was searching her purse for her cell phone. I hoped that hadn’t gone missing as well.

  “I know. I’m taking a different way out. We’ll end up on the freeway at about the same time. I should have you at the theater a few minutes early.”

  “Okay.” She found her phone and began entering numbers. A few moments later, I heard her give her name and ask for Charles Buchanan. She sat in silence. I assumed she was on hold. Moments later, Catherine launched into the story about the missing script. I could only hear one side of the conversation, but I was able to glean that Buchanan was conciliatory and perhaps worried about Catherine’s well-being. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.” She said that ten times if she said it once.

  My mind began to wander. We had been driving for only five minutes when I pulled to the shoulder. Catherine gave me a funny look. I mouthed, “I’ll be right back.” She continued her phone conversation as I slipped from the driver’s seat.

  I felt chilled despite the fact that it was a warm October day. Along the coast of Southern California, October isn’t that much different from May. Days are shorter. Nighttime temperatures are a little lower. But that’s it. My chill came not from a breeze but from what was before me. I walked toward a gray metal railing. Posts rose every six feet. The railing was shaped like a rounded W, attached to the posts by thick carriage bolts. The rail was separated from the uprights by a block of wood. The bolt traveled through the metal rail, wood block, and metal uprights. I peered at the back of the post. The bolt was attached with a large washer and a pair of metal nuts. With the right tools, it would be easy to remove the rail.

  I walked a few feet farther along the road and stopped in front of three twisted and bent posts. Their rail was nowhere to be seen. Just beyond the posts, a steep, heavily planted slope shot downward. Some of the plants had been uprooted, and I could see gouges in the bare ground where something hard had impacted the earth.

  This was where Doug Turner’s car had plummeted off the road. The bent metal uprights had been unable to stop it. I shivered. It was a long way down Aberdeen Canyon. It was amazing that Doug was only in a coma and not dead.

  I pulled myself away from the sight and walked back to the car. Catherine was off the phone.

  “Why did you stop here?”

  “A rail is missing,” I said. “I wanted to look at it.”

  “Doesn’t the city hire people to do that?”

  “Yes, we do.” I started the car. “How did the call go? Are they sending a script up?”

  “Yes, and a new driver. Since I have to be in Hollywood in the morning and b
ack in time for opening night, they’re sending a new chauffeur. The script and chauffeur will arrive by dinner tonight. They’re going to meet me at the theater.”

  “So I don’t need to pick you up.”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re welcome to stay with me again.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be okay . . .” She paused. “Okay, maybe one more night, but I have to leave early in the morning.”

  “I rise pretty early. It won’t be a problem. Dinner?”

  She shook her head and her long raven hair shimmered in waves. “Remember? Harold is buying the cast dinner tonight. Do you want me to see if I can get you invited?”

  “Sounds fun, but I still have some catching up to do. I’ll wait up for you, and we can have hot chocolate or something.”

  “Okay. I shouldn’t be late. I need my sleep.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Catherine at the front door of the Curtain Call theater.

  Chapter 10

  I made it back to the office in time to gather and review my notes, making changes based on the business license information Floyd had compiled. The speech would be short, and then I’d entertain questions. I was to speak after lunch, which meant that I’d eat very little. Most public speakers forgo eating right before they speak. It cuts down on throat clearing and sleepiness. It was bad enough when the audience dozed off after lunch; it was unforgivable when the speaker did so.

  On my drive from the office to the Ocean Green Country Club—a golf course with a meeting room large enough for the active members of the chamber—I kept noticing guardrails. Some were different than what I had seen a couple of hours before. The rails were wider, some fixed to wood posts instead of metal, and some higher. All my life, I had passed these low-lying barricades that line streets and freeways and had never taken notice of them. Now I couldn’t stop thinking of them and when I did, I was immediately immersed in thoughts about the murder that took place at Catherine’s and her missing script.

  I forced my brain to change gears. I was about to speak to the business leaders of Santa Rita, and I needed to be at my best. Some of the people had contributed to my campaign for congress, others opposed my election. Some were CEOs of billion-dollar businesses, others were struggling mom-and-pop shops. All deserved a mayor who was prepared and had something to say.

  As I pulled into the parking lot of the country club, I could see I should have left sooner. The lot was full. Either there was a major golf tournament I didn’t know about, or I would be speaking to a packed house. I hoped for the latter. I found a spot at the far end of the lot, guided my Aviator into the stall, and marched across the pavement to the country club meeting hall.

  The place was abuzz. One reason people join the chamber is to network. When I walked in I saw hands being shaken, cards being exchanged, and pats being delivered to backs.

  It was showtime.

  Ileft the country club feeling good about the speech. No one dozed off, no one made snide remarks masked as questions, and no one asked a question I didn’t have an answer for—always a danger. My relief was short-lived as thoughts of what remained in the afternoon loomed before me. I had a two o’clock with the Community Development Department and a briefing meeting with the council. I should head straight back to the office.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I called Floyd and asked him to push the CDD meeting back fifteen minutes, then I directed my vehicle toward Pacific Horizon Hospital.

  PHH is a four-story structure that sits on the east side of the freeway, hunkered down in the gentle hills. It is a glass and concrete structure that refuses to blend in with its surroundings. It had all the style and form of a refrigerator. It wasn’t pretty to look at, but those who worked within its walls made the place memorable and the architecture forgivable. PHH boasted some of the best-trained and brightest minds in medicine. Only high-end research hospitals could brag about a better staff, and even then, they would get an argument from the patients.

  I parked and walked into the lobby. My head was down, and I realized that leaving the world of the well for the cosmos of the afflicted had unsettled me. It wasn’t that sick people made me uncomfortable; it was that I spent time here this past winter, and it held a negative association. I had anchored my past uncomfortable experience with PHH.

  The lobby was expansive. To one side was a group of worn and faded chairs and sofas. The room could seat fifty or sixty people, but only a handful of people populated the area, sitting in clumps like mushrooms on a spring lawn, each group as far from the others as the furnishings allowed.

  I set a course for the information desk manned by two silver-haired ladies dressed in pink. They had kind eyes afloat on dour expressions, as if waiting for this morning’s prune juice to do its work. One was short and thin as if crafted from drinking straws. The other was broad from shoulder to hips and her cheeks bore several layers of rouge. Hospital volunteers. Women who chose public service to pass hours otherwise spent alone in front of a television. As I stepped to the oak desk, they looked up at me but said nothing.

  I smiled. “My name is Madison Glenn. I’m here to see Doug Turner.”

  “Is he a patient?” the thin one said.

  I blinked. “Yes, he’s a patient.”

  The thin woman asked, “What is his name?”

  I smiled again. “Doug Turner. Maybe Douglas Turner. He was admitted last night.”

  “Is that Turner with a T?” Before both women were clipboards with several sheets of paper. I could see patient names and room numbers.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s Turner with . . . a T.”

  “Here it is,” the broad woman announced with a forced smile. The thin pink lady frowned as if she had just been trumped in bridge. “He’s in ICU. You’ll need to check in with the nurses before going in. There’s an intercom in the ICU waiting room. Just push the button and a nurse will talk to you.”

  “What did you say your name is?” The thin pink lady picked up a black felt-tip pen and a sticky-backed name tag.

  “Madison Glenn.”

  “That’s a lovely name, dear,” the broad woman said.

  “Our mayor’s name is Madison Glenn,” the thin one announced. “Did you know that? You have the same name as the mayor.”

  “Imagine that,” I replied.

  “She’s not going to be our mayor for much longer,” the wider lady said. “She’s running off to congress.”

  She wrote down my first name, then stopped. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” her partner said. “I’m going to vote for that nice-looking Garret Kinsley. He has kind eyes.”

  “Mary Jane! You’re a Republican. Kinsley is a Democrat. He’s going to steal all your Social Security.”

  “But he has the kindest eyes,” Mary Jane countered. “I trust a man with kind eyes.”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “My name tag.”

  The larger woman looked at me, then cut her eyes to her friend. “Some women lose all common sense when they get old.”

  There was no reply to that. “My name tag,” I said again.

  The thin woman frowned at me like I was a nettlesome child interrupting an adult conversation. “What did you say your last name is?”

  “Glenn.” I started to tell her that I spelled it with two n’s, but was afraid of where that would lead.

  “That’s right, just like the mayor.”

  I didn’t argue.

  With my name badge glued just below my shoulder, I marched down the corridor and took the elevator to the fourth floor. My time was tight when I arrived; it had been made worse by the kind pink ladies.

  The ICU unit was behind closed doors. Just as the volunteer had said, there was a waiting room with an intercom and a white button. A sign attached to the wall gave warning that the ICU was off-limits and admission required permission from the nursing staff. I pressed the button. A moment later a tinny voice erupted from the small speaker.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice.


  “Madison Glenn to see Doug Turner.”

  “Are you family?” the disembodied voice asked.

  “No . . . , a friend.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but visits are restricted to family and—”

  The voice cut off. I was afraid this would happen, but I felt compelled to try. I started to leave, when the distant voice returned. “Okay, ma’am. Come in.”

  I stepped from the waiting room to the wide double doors that separated the controlled environment of the Intensive Care Unit from the rest of the hospital. A three-inch-square metal panel was fixed to one wall. Red letters on its surface read: Press to Open. I reached for it, but the doors swung open before I could lay finger to the button.

  I started forward and stopped when I noticed a tall, good-looking man in a white smock standing in my path. He was my age, sported sandy blond hair and deep brown eyes. There was a glint in the eyes and an easy smile on his lips.

  “What’s the password?” he asked.

  “Um, Vote-for-Maddy?”

  “That’ll work.” He stepped forward and gave me a hug.

  “I take it I have you to thank for getting me in here.”

  “That’s true, and your debt to me continues to grow.”

  He looked good to me. Seeing Jerry Thomas was a tonic. His smile was the best thing I had seen all day.

  Dr. Jerry Thomas was several steps beyond a good friend. A pediatrician, he frequented the hospital as well as running a medical office on Castillo Avenue. His humor was sharp, his kindness boundless, and his heart as expansive as the sky. We dated in high school, but as with most such relationships, it evaporated under the heat of growing up. The tides of life forced us to drift apart. He married and seemed happy for the first few years, but it was one-sided. His wife, unable to endure the long hours required of a young doctor, left him for another man with more time and money. I had married Peter and was blissfully happy until his murder. Over the decade since those events Jerry and I remained friends. He pressed the relationship, trying to lay spark to the kindling of love. I resisted at every turn, but Jerry is nothing if not an optimist.