Director's Cut (13 page)

Russ lowered his eyes and frowned. I didn't like the look.

“It doesn't matter,” Jon said before Russ could open his mouth. “We need to be prepared for a little legal kung fu to make certain that blame doesn't fall on us but on the hoods that did this.”

“I'm asking Russ, Jon,” I said, dragging out each word. “I'd like to hear from him.”

“I'm not a lawyer,” Russ said, “so I'll leave the determination of liability up to Fred and others but . . .” he trailed off.

“But what, Russ?” I pressed.

“It's amazing how you never think of these things until there's a problem.” He released a humorless chuckle. “The signs could have been installed to make it much more difficult to remove them.”

“How?” I asked.

He took a breath. “Street signs in the city are attached to four-by-four wood posts with a pair of carriage bolts or to what is called a U-channel post. A U-channel is a metal post.”

“I've seen them,” I said. “So what's the problem?”

“Many cities, the county, and the state use the same basic system but they use different fasteners. With a simple carriage bolt system, all it takes to remove the sign is a wrench to remove the bolt's nut and maybe a hammer to drive the bolt back out of the support. There are several other ways of doing this, all of them much more difficult to remove.”

“Such as?” Titus asked.

“Star bolts that require special tools to remove, pyramid nuts that can only be removed by a special wrench or expanding blind rivets. There are a dozen choices. The problem is, most of our city signs are simple carriage bolt and nut systems. Anybody can take one off. For that matter, to make it more difficult to remove signs, some crews just take a hammer to the threads of the bolt after the nut is tightened.”

“Uh-oh,” Jon said.

“What?” Tess asked.

“It's simple. A good lawyer could cite cities and counties that use the devices Russ describes and it will make us look careless. We don't want to look careless.”

“Why hasn't public works been using the bolts and nuts you described?” I asked.

“Because it's easier to repair or change signs with the system we use, but to be fair, Mayor, we've never had a problem before.”

“The good news is that no one has been hurt because someone drove through an intersection because a stop sign was missing,” Larry said.

“True,” I said, “but Doug Turner is in ICU because a guardrail was stolen. What about the guardrail, Russ? Could we make those safer?”

He studied me, then the others. “Yes.”

“Let's not forget any system can be beaten,” Jon said. “A reciprocating saw with the right blade could make short work of any bolt.”

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

Chapter 12

I
settled into my office chair and let the cool, padded leather do its job. I had been seated most of the day, exchanging the car seat for a seat at the head table of the chamber luncheon, and then sitting through two meetings, but sitting in my office chair was different. I felt most in control when sheltered behind my desk and nestled into a chair that fit my body as if it had been custom designed to match spine, shoulders, and hips.

The clock read four, and I was ready to call it a day. The travel, a week of meetings, the pressure of campaigning while running a city, and the stress of swimming with a dead man began to weigh on me like a lead sweater. I shook off the weariness and examined tomorrow's schedule. The only pressing thing I had on the agenda was a campaign meeting with Nat.

Floyd poked his head in the office. He looked like his best dog had just died. “I wanted to thank you for buying lunch for Celeste and me.” His words flowed like cold honey.

“My pleasure. How did it go?” I was pretty sure I knew.

He shrugged. It was pitiful.

“Come in, close the door, and sit down.” He did but once seated he looked at his shoes and not at me. “I assume it didn't go all that well.”

“She's mad at me.”

“So has she been dating another guy?”

He shook his head. “She said no. You were right. When I called that time and she said she was too busy to talk, she was helping her mom with something.”

“See. Just as I figured. So why is she mad at you? What happened?”

“I don't know. We were just talking and then she got up and stormed off.”

Not good.
“Floyd, what were you talking about?”

“Just stuff.”

“Uh-huh. What kind of stuff?” I pressed.

He shuffled his feet. “I was just telling her about things. You know, about meeting Catherine Anderson, and having dinner at your place.”

I knew where this was going. “Tell me what you told her.”

Some more shuffling. “I don't know why she got so mad. I told her how neat it was to meet someone special like Catherine and how beautiful she was and how I couldn't take my eyes off her.”

“Oh, Floyd.” I raised a hand to my forehead and fought the urge to say what I really thought. Floyd is a young man of pure heart and not even a tinge of guile. “And you can't figure out why Celeste is angry?”

“No. It doesn't make sense. Everything I said was true.”

It wasn't that Floyd was not bright; he was. It's just that his bulb flickers from time to time. “Floyd . . .”
How do I begin?
“Floyd, you made the effort to call Celeste, to invite her to lunch and not just any lunch, but a meal at one of the best restaurants in Santa Barbara. That's pretty special to a woman, especially a young woman like Celeste.”

“Yeah.” His face was a blank canvas.

“Yeah? Floyd, you spent your time with her talking about how enamored you were with Catherine.”

“I thought Celeste would be interested.” I could imagine the fog thickening in Floyd's brain.

“How often did you date in high school?” I asked.

“Not much . . . never.”

“And college?”

“A couple of times, but girls just weren't interested in me.”

I ached for him. Floyd was a faceted diamond. In the right light he could shine beautifully. Like many highly intelligent people, he was socially awkward and mired in admirable innocence.

I started to speak when the phone rang. Floyd stood and picked up the receiver on my desk. “Mayor's office,” he said. He listened for a moment, then said, “Please hold.” He set the hand piece back in the cradle. “It's a Mr. Harold Young.”

“That's the man who's directing the play,” I explained. I raised the phone to my ear. “Mr. Young. How are you?”

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mayor, but I didn't know who else to call.”

“Is there a problem?” I looked at Floyd and shrugged. He tilted his head to the side as if doing so would allow him to hear the conversation on the other end of the line.

“Yes . . . well, I think so. It's Catherine. She's locked herself in her dressing room and won't come out.”

“What happened?” I pressed.

“We had just finished dress rehearsal. I planned a little party, then the dinner theater was going to provide a meal. You remember that I invited you. You're still invited.”

“Thank you, Harold, but what happened to Catherine?” Floyd moved to the edge of his seat.

“Like I said, we had just finished rehearsal and resetting the stage. A young man came in and handed something to Catherine. I was on the other side of the theater but it looked like a script to me. Catherine seemed glad to see him and even gave him a peck on the cheek. The guy left and Catherine sat down at one of the tables and started looking over the pages. Five minutes later she lets out a little scream and runs backstage. I've been trying to get her out of the dressing room ever since.”

“I'll be right over.” I hung up.

“Is Catherine all right?” Floyd stood when I did.

“I don't know. Apparently, something has upset her. I'm going over there now.” Floyd cast a woebegone look like a fly fisherman casts his line. I bit. “Want to keep me company?”

“Absolutely. Give me a second to shut down the computer and lock up.”

Floyd moved with rare speed, closing the blinds, turning off the computer, putting away a few wayward files, and transferring the phones to the message server. When he was finished, I said, “Come on, Galahad; let's see if we can't rescue a damsel in distress.”

My words were light for Floyd's benefit, but there was a sharp-toothed nagging nibbling inside me. I kept my calm mask fixed on my face but caught myself walking faster than normal.

Five minutes later we were in the car.

T
he parking lot of the Curtain Call dinner theater was bare except for a dozen cars belonging to actors and office staff. Tomorrow night, autos would blanket the lot to its edges. I had never attended a play here, but I knew the place had a stellar reputation, and its plays garnered good reviews in the
Register
.

I parked near the door and exited. Floyd scampered from his seat, rounded my SUV, and hurried to catch me. He looked worried. His appearance matched my gut feeling. We exchanged the preevening sunshine for the dim lights of the dinner theater. I led Floyd through the foyer, past the hostess stand, and through a pair of double doors that opened to the dining area.

It had only been a day since I was last here, yet it seemed more like a week. On my first visit, the dining area was deserted except for Harold Young who had been standing near the stage. Now the place was abuzz with a dozen actors and stagehands standing in small clumps of humanity, talking and at times laughing. The long center table that ran the middle of the lowest level was covered in white linen. Bread plates, drinking glasses, butter dishes, and silverware decorated the surface. A hunger-activating aroma filtered through the air. I guessed prime rib. There were glasses filled with wine and bottles of beer here and there. Whatever had upset Catherine had not delayed the party.

“Madam Mayor, I'm here.”

Harold stood center stage and waved. He marched across the boards and down the right-hand stairs. A moment later I was eyeball to eyeball with the director.

“Thank you for coming.” He looked stressed. “I hated to bother you at the office, but you being family and all . . .”

“It was no bother. The workday was just about over. Tell me again what happened.”

“Sure, sure. Um, can I get you anything? Beer? Wine?”

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

He looked at Floyd.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This is my assistant, Floyd Grecian. He and Catherine met last night at my home.”

Harold asked if Floyd wanted a beer. Floyd declined.

The director seemed disappointed. “Nothing has changed since we spoke on the phone. Catherine got what I think is a script, looked through it, got up, and ran backstage in tears. I can't get her to open the door or to talk to me. Neither can any of the actors.”

“Is there a key to the room?” I asked.

“I'm certain there is. The stage manager should have one.”

“Okay, let's get that. But let me talk to her first. It would be better if she opens up to me on her own.”

“I understand.” He turned and scanned the room. “Gill! Hey, Gill. You got a sec?”

A squat, barrel-shaped man broke away from a gaggle of young actors and moved toward us. His head was covered with thin, dark hair, and his face bore the wrinkles of at least four decades of life in the sun.

“This is Gill Dysert, the Curtain Call's stage manager. Gill this is Mayor Madison Glenn and . . . and . . .”

“Floyd Grecian,” I filled in.

“Yeah, Floyd Grecian, the mayor's aide. Mayor Glenn is related to Catherine. She wants to know if you have a key to the dressing room.”

“Yup. I got it right here.” He patted the right front pocket of his loose-fit jeans.

“I'll show you where she is,” Harold said.

We followed him through the dining area and up the short rise of stairs that led to the stage. The stage area was set up like the living room of a New York apartment. A sofa, coffee table, and love seat dominated center stage. At the back a plywood and two-by-four wall ran the length of the stage. It had a door that looked like it swung on real hinges and window that could be opened. The window had no glass, just the frame and white mullions. Beyond it was a backdrop of a cityscape.

Harold led us to the right, through an area defined by black curtains. He pushed the drapes aside and held them as we crossed from the world of imagination to the world of production. The stage out front had been neat and orderly; backstage looked like the aftermath of an earthquake. I adjusted my thinking. While there was indeed a clutter of furniture, costumes, lights, ropes, and several things I couldn't identify, there was a logical arrangement to it. What had first struck me as a packrat's garage had a system underlying it. I would have loved a formal tour, but I was there for a different reason.

Behind the backdrop was an open space about the same size as the stage. I could imagine actors lining up, listening for their cues, and stagehands at the ready to lower a curtain or raise a backdrop. Out front was illusion; back here reality. There was sadness to it, like learning a magician's trick; once known, it ceases to impress.

Another black curtain divided the backstage from rooms just a few feet farther on. A wall ran the width of the building, marked off by several doors. In the middle of the wall were two doors. One read Men and the other Women. Not much guesswork needed there. To the right of the women's restroom was another door with a sign: Dressing Room 2. Harold stopped a foot away from the door.

“I was expecting several rooms with stars on them,” I admitted.

Harold gave a polite but knowing smile. “This is dinner theater, Mayor, not Broadway. The men dress in that room over there.” He pointed at Dressing Room 1.