by Alton Gansky
“I can’t believe this,” Harold said. “I can’t believe it. It’s not possible.”
I wanted to tell him that I had stared at the lifeless face with a neat, round hole in the forehead, but I restrained myself. Harold looked brittle.
“Do you know who the victim is . . . was?” Neena asked.
“His name is Andy Buchanan. His father is Charles Buchanan, the director of Catherine’s new movie.”
“Do I want to know how he died?” Harold asked.
“Gunshot to the head,” I said.
“What’s this world coming to?” Harold said. “It seems that every year humanity moves one step closer to complete insanity.”
I couldn’t argue. “I’m trying to gain a better understanding of what happened tonight.”
“I can’t tell you much,” Neena said. “I was in the office helping with receipts during most of the play. I was with you when Harold told me about Catherine running off.”
“That was miserable.” Harold pushed back and sucked in air as if he had been holding his breath for the last five minutes. “She ran off in costume. We had to scramble to come up with something for the understudy to wear. Jane did a wonderful job, considering the short notice. The crowd knew something was up when I announced the change in cast. They were kind.”
“At least none of them asked for their money back,” Neena said.
“Will Catherine be available for tomorrow’s performance?”
I thought of West’s intimation that Catherine might somehow be involved in the murders. The thought made me angry. “I don’t know. She’s been through a lot.” That was vague enough.
“Of course, of course,” Harold said. “I just thought it might help get her mind off things—well, it would be good for the production too, of course. I just mean . . . I don’t know what I mean.” He rubbed his face. “I suppose I should get the gown back. Jane is going to need it tomorrow.”
“That may be a problem,” I said. “The police have taken it as evidence.”
“Evidence?” Harold snapped. “Evidence of what?”
“It had streaks of what looked like blood,” I said.
“Nonsense.” He swore. “Idiot police. It’s stage blood. One of the cast was messing around backstage and broke one of the packets on a table. He was sitting next to Catherine. That was right before that, that script arrived and ruined everything.”
“Do you know who delivered the script backstage?” I asked.
Harold gazed at the floor. He fell silent.
“I do,” Neena said. “Her name is Bobbi Millard. She works the small gift shop just off the lobby. She’s been with me for better than ten years.”
“Is she still here?” I hadn’t seen a light from the little shop and was worried that she had left.
“I think so. She usually helps the kitchen crew clean up. We let her take home a couple of plates of food. She’s looking out for elderly parents and she doesn’t earn enough to keep body and soul together. Do you want me to get her?”
“That would be nice.”
Neena excused herself and I focused on Harold. I felt sorry for him. He had spent months pulling this play together and years writing it, and opening night fell apart like Tinkertoys in a hurricane. “Are you okay?”
He looked at me. “No, I’m not okay. This night has been horrible. We pulled it off, but there’s a good chance that tomorrow night will be an abysmal failure, especially if Catherine isn’t here. There are going to be reporters, right? There are always reporters when there’s been a murder. Think of the feeding frenzy that will surround this. I can see the headline now: Famous Actress Flees Theater to Murder Scene.”
“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Jerry said. “Maybe the news will draw bigger crowds.”
The scorn on Harold’s face was frightening. “It’s not about money, Doc. It’s about the play, the art. I poured my life into this project. I almost had to beg Neena to let me produce the play here. The news may put more money in her coffers, but my play will always be associated with murder—no, correction—two murders.”
“Certainly you’re not blaming Catherine.” I struggled to keep my words even. “She’s more of a victim than you.”
“What? Blame Catherine? Why would I .. . ? Of course not. Catherine is my only claim to fame. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t blame her for anything. I just wish she had waited until after the play to run off.”
“She was frightened out of her wits, Harold. She may be an adult, but only barely so. I wish she hadn’t run off either, but she did. We’re left with that.”
“Here she is,” Neena said. “This is Bobbi Millard.”
Jerry stood and offered his seat. He then scampered down the stairs and brought up another chair.
“What is this all about?” Bobbi looked nervous and I could guess why. She had been pulled from whatever she was doing in the back and summoned to center stage to be asked questions. Her eyes moved from person to person as if one of us might be holding a weapon. Bobbi Millard was tall, thin, and well into her fifties. Black hair that looked like it might be a wig sat atop her head. Her face bore the deep lines of a lifelong smoker. Her sandpaper voice furthered the assumption.
“Hi, Ms. Millard,” I said. “May I call you Bobbi?”
“Um, sure. Why not?”
“Thanks. I’m Maddy Glenn.”
I watched as she lowered herself into the chair that moments before had been occupied by Jerry. “Maddy Glenn. Like Madison Glenn, the mayor?”
I smiled. “You’d be surprised how few people know the name of their mayor. You’ve made my day, Bobbi.” She relaxed a little. “Not only am I the mayor, but I’m also Catherine Anderson’s cousin. I was here watching the play tonight.”
“She’s an odd one, she is,” Bobbi said. I detected a touch of British accent long worn down by American English.
“I understand you delivered a script to her.”
“I don’t know if ‘delivered’ is the right word. I walked it from the lobby backstage and gave it to her. Someone else brought it to the theater. All the color from her face ran to her toes when she saw that thing. I thought I had done something wrong. I figured I was in for a chewing out, her being famous and all.”
“Do you know the person who brought it?” I asked.
“Never seen him before. I thought it a tad late for deliveries but I guess some of these services deliver until well after dinner. I’ve had them come to my door as late as eight o’clock, but that was close to Christmastime so I guess—”
“Which delivery service was it?” I asked before she could regale us about last year’s Christmas deliveries.
“UPS, I guess.”
“You’re not certain?”
“He wasn’t wearing the usual brown uniform. I suppose it could have been DHL, but they wear yellow, don’t they?”
“I think so,” I said. “The person who delivered the screenplay wasn’t wearing a uniform?”
“No. Just jeans and a pullover shirt.”
Jerry asked, “So the script was in a package. Did you unwrap it before taking it back to Catherine?”
“Of course not. That’d be like opening someone else’s mail. I have better manners than that, thank you very much.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “Just one last thing: could you describe the delivery person?”
“I don’t see why not.” She looked up as if his picture were somewhere among the lights. “He was young with thick curly brown hair and had several earrings. I don’t think men should wear earrings. It don’t look right.”
The room chilled like a freezer. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“Sure. He was dressed all in black. Even his tennis shoes were black.” She studied me. “You don’t look so well, Mayor.”
I didn’t feel so well. Bobbi Millard had just described the corpse I had seen—Andy Buchanan.
Once back in the car I placed another call to West. I had two reasons for the call. First to tell hi
m I had just learned it was Andy Buchanan who delivered the script, and, second, to see if I could pick up Catherine and take her home.
On the first point, West chewed me out for meddling. I expected that, but I had done nothing more than ask questions about Catherine. I knew that West would interview everyone at the theater. He was that thorough.
On the second point, I was surprised to learn that Catherine was already gone, dropped off at my house.
“So you’re ruling out her involvement in the murders,” I said.
“I’m not ruling anything out. For now, she’s not a likely suspect but I’ll keep her on my radar. We tested the dress and discovered that the blood was, well, not blood. Nor could we find any gunpowder residue on her hands or on the dress.”
“Who took her to my home?” I asked.
“I did. She said she had a key.”
“She doesn’t.” My words were a breath above a whisper.
“What?”
“I said, she doesn’t have a key. I never gave her one.”
“Why would she lie about that?”
“I have no idea. You didn’t watch her go into the house?”
“No. She said her key was for the back door. She went around back.”
I rubbed my forehead. “The only back door I have is a sliding patio door. It unlocks from the inside and doesn’t use a key. How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen minutes. I just got back in the office.”
My heart was having trouble finding its rhythm. “Jerry and I are headed that way now, but you need to get someone over there and make certain she got in.” Make certain she’s still there, I thought.
West hung up without a word.
“What’s up?” Jerry asked.
“We need to get to my house as fast as possible. Catherine is up to something. She lied about having a key to my house. She let West drop her off, knowing that she had no way in.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you don’t plan on going in the house.”
“Maybe she just wanted out of the police station. I can’t imagine a girl her age finding the interrogation room an attractive place.”
“No one would find it attractive. I’m worried that she’s going to do something stupid.”
“Like what?” Jerry said as he pressed the accelerator down.
“Like run away.”
Chapter 24
When we arrived on my street, I saw a police car out front. A uniformed officer came from the side yard and marched to his car. Jerry pulled in the driveway and we exited. The officer eyed us suspiciously, then recognized me as I stepped into the penumbra of a streetlight.
“Hello, Mayor,” the officer said. His nameplate read David Blake.
“Did you find anything, Officer?”
“No, ma’am. I got here a couple of minutes ago and rang the bell. No answer. No lights. I searched around back but didn’t see anyone. The call said to look for a woman outside the house, is that right?”
“Yes. My cousin.”
“White female, early twenties—”
Another car drove up. I recognized West’s sedan. He parked behind the patrol car. “Anything?”
“Nothing, Detective. I was just telling the mayor that I searched around back.”
“Thanks, David. I’ll take it from here. You can go 10–8.”
“Yes, sir.”
Officer Blake entered his car. Before he could start the engine, West was moving to the front door. “Let’s check inside.”
Jerry and I followed behind him. I started to insert my key when he stopped me. He bent forward and studied the doorknob, then shook his head. “Nothing. Go ahead.”
I did and swung open the door. I stepped in and flipped the foyer light switch, then moved to the alarm. It was still set with no indication of open doors or windows.
“Does she know the security code?” West asked.
“No. If she came in, the alarm would be sounding and the alarm company would have dispatched one of your men.”
West groaned. “Why would she tell me she had a key when she didn’t?”
“To get away from you,” Jerry said. Uh-oh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” West turned to face Jerry.
“Don’t read anything into it, Detective. It’s just that you asked some pretty invasive questions. After something like that, I imagine that even your dog would want to get away.”
“I was doing my job, Doc. Nothing more.”
“I wasn’t insinuating anything more.”
It was time to step in. “What about her house? Could she have used her cell phone to call a cab and return there?”
“I just talked to the head scientific investigator. They and a few officers are still checking the grounds and house for evidence. I’m due back over there in a few minutes. They checked. She hasn’t shown up.”
“Maybe she will,” Jerry said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I should have seen her to the door and all the way inside,” West said. “I just didn’t anticipate this kind of deceit.”
We moved into the living room. I waited for Jerry to jump on West’s admitted oversight. To my relief, he said nothing.
I crossed the living room, turning on all the lights. I did the same in the dining room and kitchen. I also switched on the rear deck lights.
“What are you doing?” Jerry asked.
“If I was dropped off at a house I couldn’t get into, I’d wait for the owner to return. I’d also take a walk along the beach to think things through.” I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the deck. The salt air swirled around me and the gentle symphony of two-foot waves stroking the sandy beach played along the shore. Jerry and West joined me.
“So the lights are your version of a beacon calling her home,” Jerry said. “You never cease to amaze me.”
I strained my eyes against the darkness, hoping to see Catherine’s thin form walking along the sands. I was disappointed. Then I gazed out to sea and tried to force out the image of her swimming out to meet death, propelled by guilt or fear. The cold of the thought made my bones ache. I shivered.
“Come inside,” Jerry said. “I’ll make some tea. We’ll wait together.” He turned me around and led me into my own house. West closed the door.
“I’ll make the tea,” I said. “It’ll give me something to do. Besides, your tea always tastes like coffee.”
“That’s because it is coffee.”
Jerry and West sat at the table. I started fussing in the kitchen. The open floor plan allowed easy conversation.
“Let me ask you something, Doc,” West began. “This stuff that Maddy was saying about Catherine and OCD, could that have anything to do with the murders?”
“To make sure we’re clear on this, Detective, I’m not saying Catherine suffers from OCD. I’m just saying that she might have some version of it. I’ve not spoken with her about it. I’ve not had more than a few minutes of opportunity to observe her. Besides all of that, I’m not an expert in the field.”
“But you’ve seen it before.”
“Many times. Obsessive-compulsive disorder afflicts children too. Usually when I see it, I refer the family to a child psychiatrist where they can receive specialized treatment.”
“Children come down with this?” West asked.
I set the teapot on the flames and joined them at the table.
“Most cases begin in adolescence or early adulthood. It affects about 2 percent of the population. It can be so severe that it requires hospitalization or light enough to be little more than a nuisance.”
“Then it is a mental illness?” I said.
“Absolutely. It is called obsessive-compulsive because the patient obsesses over something. It can be anything from locks, to germs, to sex, to the fear of hurting someone. Patients feel compelled to repeatedly react to the obsession. For example, if my obsession is cleanliness, then I might sink into a cleaning ritual where I
wash my hands twenty or thirty times a day—until my skin is raw and bleeding—but never feel clean. If I have an obsession about locks, then I might spend hours locking and unlocking doors trying to convince myself that they really are secure.”
“But Catherine hasn’t shown any signs of that,” I said. “At least not that I’ve seen.”
“Again, I’m not saying she is OCD, and if she is, it might be mild. In her case, it appears she doesn’t like to eat in front of people. Her obsession might be a fear of ridicule and her compulsive response is to avoid eating in public.”
“How does someone come down with a disease like this?” West wondered.
“It’s not like catching a cold, Detective. The disorder seems to be a combination of psychological and biological influences. Researchers have done brain scans on people with OCD and have observed unusual activities in the orbital cortex, cingulated cortex, and the caudate nucleus—”
“You’re losing me, Doc,” West said.
“Sorry. There’s clinical evidence that part of the problem is rooted in certain brain activity, but there’s also a link to some psychological causation. Something bad happens to a child because a door wasn’t locked; something especially obnoxious gets spilled on a child and now he never feels clean.”
“I hate to think what might trigger an eating condition,” West said.
“It may not be that she ate something horrible. Maybe as a child she got sick at school and threw up on herself in class. The kids all laugh and tease her and she anchors that embarrassment to eating in public.”
“Is there a treatment available?” I asked. The teapot began to boil but I held my seat. I wanted to hear the answer.
“Some. Every case is different. Sometimes psychotherapy and psychoactive drugs work. Some doctors use what’s called ‘exposure and response prevention.’ That treatment requires that the patient be exposed to the obsession but prevented from engaging in the compulsive ritual.”
It took me a second to translate that. “If I have an obsession about germs, the therapist might . . . what? Dirty my hands and then deprive me of a sink in which to wash?”
“Exactly,” Jerry replied.
“What about medications?” I asked.
“There has been success with certain serotonin reuptake inhibitors like Prozac or Luvox and a tricyclic antidepressant, like Anafranil. About 80 percent show improvement with medication and therapy, but relapse if they stop taking their prescriptions. Exposure and response prevention works about 60 percent of the time.”