Director's Cut (15 page)

“Stage makeup never looks right up close, but it keeps the theater lights from washing out the actor's expression.”

“Well, you start scrubbing, and I'm going to make a call.”

“To whom?”

“Detective Judson West. He needs to know about this script. I'll admit that it has me a little on edge, and I'd feel better if West were involved. Besides, it's tied to a murder he's investigating. We have to tell him.”

“I understand.” She began to wipe off her makeup. “I'm sorry you've gotten involved. Maybe I shouldn't have come back.”

“This is your home, and no one is going to run you off.” I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed. “Besides, you promised to raise millions of dollars in my last fund-raiser.”

“I said I'd show up if it would help. I said nothing about dollar amounts.” She grinned.

“No, I distinctly remember hearing the phrase ‘millions of dollars.' Maybe it was ‘billions of dollars.'” She laughed.

A few seconds later, I had West on the phone. I gave him a thirty-second summary.

He was not happy.

Chapter 14

W
e walked into the dining room just as the meal was being served. The actors and behind-the-scenes people were seated along the long table. Wine glasses, tumblers of water, bottles of beer, and sodas formed a forest of glassware. Before each of them was a plate of London broil—I had been wrong about the prime rib—garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus spears with hollandaise sauce. Salad bowls were being gathered by the servers to make more room. A basket of rolls was set before each group of four.

To Catherine's credit, she walked in with her eyes dry and her head held high. Everyone turned our way as we entered, but no one said anything or fired any questions. It's a rare thing to find a group of people who know when an event is none of their business. Of course, there is always an exception. Franco sprang from his seat.

“Catherine, baby, are you all right?”

“Did everyone get to meet Franco Zambonelli?” Catherine said, diverting Frankie Z. “Take a good look at these guys, Franco. Some may be your clients soon. They're all wonderful actors.”

The group gave a happy rumble.

“Let's sit down,” she added and took Franco by the arm. Soon we were all seated. Harold eyed Catherine and me. I gave him a slight nod. It was reassurance enough. He dove back into his meal.

I hadn't planned on staying for dinner, but West didn't want us to leave. Nor did he want us to talk to anyone about the script. He officially gagged us. Before coming out, I made a side trip to the kitchen, a much larger affair than I imagined, and asked one of the cooks for a large Ziploc baggie. He had one and was kind enough not to ask why. I slipped the script into the bag and carried it with me to the dining room, being careful to set it on my lap. I wanted to know where it was at all times.

I caught Franco studying me, then Catherine. To him, I was an interloper. To me, he was a pain. His expression said he knew he was out of the loop but that he was in the wrong place to talk about it. Barring the door to him may have cost me a few points on his admiration meter, but somehow I didn't care.

Fifteen minutes later, Judson West walked in. I had just finished my salad and Catherine had finished pushing hers around with her fork. I didn't count, but I don't think she ate more than three or four bites.

“Good evening, Madam Mayor,” West said as he stepped to my side. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him towering like a redwood tree. “I wonder if I could bother you and Ms. Anderson.”

I excused myself from the table. Catherine did the same. Holding the script in the plastic bag, I rose. I noticed Harold studying West, but he said nothing. Franco, however, blurted, “Who are you?”

“I work with the mayor,” West said. He withdrew my chair for me.

“What's that got to do with Catherine?”

“She has some information for me,” West said and offered nothing more.

Franco was becoming agitated. “If it concerns Catherine, it concerns me.”

“Sit down, Franco,” Catherine said sweetly. “I just want to talk to Mr. West for a moment.”

That didn't work. Franco rose. “I'm not sure I like your attitude, West.”

I glanced along the table. No one was eating. No one was moving. West pulled back his suit coat, revealing a shiny bronze badge. I also noticed that he pulled the coat back far enough to reveal his gun. Franco blanched and oozed down into his chair. West has a way of smiling that is unsettling, a smile that has its origins someplace other than the funny bone.

“Ladies,” West said and motioned for us to follow him from the land of tables to the land of booths, the more expensive seats. I slid in the U-shaped booth. Catherine took the place to my left and West to my right.

“Is that it?” He nodded at the plastic-sheathed screenplay.

“Yes.” I pushed it across the table toward him.

“Whose idea was the plastic bag?”

“Maddy's,” Catherine said. “I wasn't at my best.”

“Who's handled it?”

“I have,” Catherine answered, “and Maddy too. Oh, and the guy who delivered it.”

“Tell me about him.” West studied the script, and I could see that he was dying to open it. He looked over at the feasting actors. They had been watching us, but as soon as he directed his gaze their way, they decided their meals were more interesting. Only Franco maintained his stare.

“His name is Andy Buchanan. He's the director's son.”

“Can you describe him?” West pulled the still-wrapped script closer.

“Of course, I just saw him an hour ago.”

West gave a genuine smile. “I mean, would you describe him to me?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Catherine blushed. “He's a couple of years older than me, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He's three or four inches shorter than you.”

“Hair? Eyes?”

“Thick brown hair, naturally curly. I think his eyes are blue.”

“White?”

“Yes, white. Why are you asking these questions?” Catherine asked. “You don't suspect him, do you?”

“Is there some reason I shouldn't?”

Catherine looked shocked. “He's . . . he's the director's son. Why would he torture me this way? And I know he wouldn't kill Ed.”

“How do you know that?”

“He's a good kid. What would his motive be?”

“I don't know, Ms. Anderson, but he did have possession of the script prior to you. I've arrested a lot of good kids. Some aren't as good as they appear.”

Catherine bit her lip. Before West could ask another question, a server appeared with a wide round tray on one hand and folding metal stand in the other. With a practiced motion, he set the stand down, opened it, and then lowered the tray. Three plates of food waited to be lifted to their final resting place. Within seconds, all three plates were plunked down in front of us. A basket of bread and a small silver tray of butter followed. He also laid down linen napkins and silverware.

“No, thank you,” West said. “I didn't come to eat . . . Is that London broil?”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.

West leaned over and took a sniff. His eyes widened. “Well, okay.” He slid the script from the table and set it on the seat next to him. West began to cut the meat, Catherine stared at the food, and I did something that still seemed new to me: I closed my eyes and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. When I opened my eyes, both West and Catherine were staring at me. I said nothing.

“Why was he delivering the script here?” West slipped a piece of the beef into his mouth. “Hey, this is really good.”

“The one I brought with me was missing. I have a script meeting tomorrow, so I called and asked for another.” Her hands rested in her lap.

“Remember, I called you to ask permission to go by her house to pick up the script,” I said.

“I remember. What does young Mr. Buchanan do for the movie biz?” West tasted the potatoes.

I tried a bit of the food. West was right, it was wonderful.

“Like I said, he's the director's son. He's on the learning ladder. You know, working his way up. He runs errands, gets coffee, and carries messages. He also gets to hang out on the set and watch how it's done.”

“You told me he just finished film school,” I said.

“That's right. In New York. He was a party animal the first few years but then settled down. Chuck says he has a lot of talent.”

“Chuck?”

“Charles Buchanan. He's the director and Andy's dad,” Catherine explained.

West continued to question Catherine, and I sat listening and consuming the meal before me. West ate during the answers. Catherine didn't touch her food.

“So, what happens now?” Catherine asked.

“I take the script to the lab guys and see if they can tell me anything. At the very least we should be able to lift some prints. I'll need a set of your prints, Ms. Anderson.”

“Why?” She leaned back.

“You touched the script. We need to be able to distinguish your prints from any others on the paper and those found at your home.”

“Maddy touched it too. Will she have to be fingerprinted?”

West cut a glance at me. “Actually, we have her prints on file. She was fingerprinted last year to help out with a case.”

“It doesn't take long,” I said. “It's kind of interesting, really.”

The server returned and removed my plate and West's. He reached for Catherine's and stopped when he saw it was untouched.

“Was there something wrong with the food, ma'am?” the young man asked.

“Oh no. It was fine. I'm just not hungry.”

“May I bring you something else?” he offered.

Catherine declined. After he left, she looked at me. “I'm still a little upset about the script. I can't eat when I'm upset.”

“I understand,” I said. “Oddly, I sometimes eat more when I'm nervous or frightened.”

West brought us back. “I'm concerned about your safety, Ms. Anderson. Clearly, some nutcase is drawn to you. It took a lot of work to arrange that scene in the script. I'm even more concerned that he knew exactly what was said in your house. Did you search all the rooms looking for your chauffeur?”

“No. I looked in a couple but then saw . . . I saw the pool.”

“Are you saying the guy could have been in the house with us?” That thought upset my dinner.

“He had to have heard your conversation one way or another,” West said. “That's one way.”

“How do we know it's a he?” Catherine asked.

“We don't,” West said. “It's just shorthand. Most crimes are committed by men, although women do their fair share. I'm not ruling anyone out; male, female; young, old; rich, poor. Right now, everyone is a suspect.” He looked at me. “Well, almost everyone.” He winked.

“What should I do?” Catherine asked. “I don't want to hide away.”

West leaned forward, his expression serious, his eyes fixed on Catherine. “I want you to become a little paranoid. Limit your trust to those you know very well, and I mean
very well
.”

“But I deal with people I don't know all the time.” She looked at the others. “There isn't an actor here I've known more than a few days. I know Harold and Franco, but the others are strangers.”

“I'm not so sure about Franco,” West said.

“He's a good man.” Catherine seemed offended.

“Perhaps he is, but he strikes me the wrong way,” West said.

“Maybe you strike him the wrong way,” Catherine flared.

West pressed his lips into a thin line. “I strike many people the wrong way, Ms. Anderson. It goes with the job. I'm just trying to get you to understand the danger you may be in. There's been a murder at your home and someone is playing mind games. Just be extra cautious and limit your trust to as few people as possible until we get to the bottom of this. For example: are you thinking of getting another chauffeur?”

“I don't
get
a chauffeur, Detective, one is provided for me by the production company.”

“Are they providing another?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Who will it be?” West folded his hands and waited.

“How should I know?” Catherine snapped. “I told you, the production company provides the driver.”

“So you're going to allow a stranger to drive you around, even after the last chauffeur was killed?”

“What's that got to do with—?” Catherine stopped. “You're thinking that someone may have killed Ed because they wanted him out of the way so they could take his place.”

“It's a possibility,” West said.

I had not made that connection. It made bone-chilling sense.

“But the production company is already sending out a new chauffeur. He should be here anytime.”

“Stay away from him. If you want, I'll talk to the new guy and do a background check on him and the company he works for, but until he's cleared, don't get in the car alone with him. My suggestion is you send him home and arrange for your own driver.”

“Wouldn't that be insulting to the production company?” she asked.

“I don't care,” West said. “I'll tell you what: Tell them I insisted on it and although you're unhappy about it, you feel compelled to follow my advice. Blame me. I have broad shoulders. They can yell at me all they want.”

“Okay,” Catherine said. I could tell she was unhappy about it.

“It makes good sense,” I said. “I think you're wise to follow it.”

She looked crestfallen, and I knew it wasn't from not having a chauffeur. Her life was changing against her will, and she was having to face being the center of unholy attention.

“I have a script meeting tomorrow,” she said. “If I don't have a driver, I'll need to rent a car.”