Director's Cut (2 page)

“So, this is Catherine's second day on the job?”

“We're lucky to get her at all. Her last movie has made her a star. Everyone who's anyone in showbiz wants her for something. Our show is going to run for six weeks but we only get her for three, then she has to fly off to location for her next movie.”

“That's where the understudy comes in.”

“Right. The dinner theater will run the show for six weeks, then a new show comes in.”

“Are you directing that one too?”

He looked embarrassed. “No. Neena lets me do one show a year. The rest of my time is spent teaching high school drama.”

“Neena . . . ?”

“Neena Lasko. She owns the Curtain Call dinner theater. I take it you've never met.”

“No. Actually,” I said, “this is my first time here.”

“They do good work and serve up a great meal. You owe it to yourself to come by now and again. I see every one of their shows and I haven't been disappointed yet.” He paused, then said, “Where are my manners? Can I get you some coffee or a soda?”

I declined.

He studied me for a moment. “You must be very proud to have Catherine as a cousin. There aren't many actresses who skyrocket to fame like she did.”

“I am proud, but as I said, I haven't seen her in years. Catherine is the youngest daughter of my father's sister. They used to live in Santa Rita, but after Catherine moved off to college, they took an early retirement and relocated to Boise, Idaho.”

“Okay, I'm ready.”

Catherine had started speaking before she reached our table. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt with the words “Way Off Broadway” stenciled on the front, blue jeans, and orange canvas shoes. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail. The stage makeup was gone and hadn't been replaced. She looked several years younger, if that was possible.

“That was quick,” I said and stood.

“Actors learn to change quickly,” she said, then paused. “I'm not sure what to do. I tried to get hold of Ed, but he's not answering his cell phone.”

“Do you know where he went after he dropped you off?” I asked.

“He said he was going to get the limo washed, then go back to my house to wait for my call. This is so unlike him. He was my driver during the filming of my first movie and he was always on time and available.”

“Maybe his cell phone died,” Young said. “It happens to me all the time.”

“I suppose,” Catherine said, “but he's not answering the house phone either.”

“Well,” I said, “we can wait for him to show up or go on to your house. It's your call.”

Catherine thought for a moment as if weighing a momentous decision. “Let's go. I'll try his cell phone again once we're on the road.”

“If he shows up here,” Young said, “I'll tell him you two flew the coop.”

We thanked him and I led the way to the door.

With me was the nation's newest star.

Chapter 2

C
atherine's home was in the north part of the city, just this side of Santa Barbara. It would be a lovely drive with the cobalt blue ocean to our left, green hills to our right, and an azure sky above lit by a golden sun. There would also be the many colors of cars and trucks packed on a freeway designed to hold half the contents it bore each day during rush hour. My silver Lincoln Aviator would add to the mix. There was nothing I could do about that.

As mayor, I receive calls, letters, and email almost daily, complaining about the growing traffic problem. People want me to fix it, and I can't blame them. I have a form letter I send to each one, thanking them for their interest in our city and reminding them I am the mayor, not the governor. I can complain, make requests for freeway improvement, but as long as Santa Rita has the Los Angeles basin to the south and Santa Barbara to the north there is going to be traffic and it is going to get worse each year.

“I had forgotten how pretty it is here.” Catherine sat in the passenger seat and gazed out the window. Under the direct rays of the sun and without the mask of makeup we women usually wear, I could see the sparkle in her eye and the beginnings of crow's-feet. She was just twenty-five but the pressures of living on her own and doing whatever overnight successes do had begun to place the patina of age on her youthful face. “I missed the ocean.”

“They have an ocean on the East Coast.” I shifted lanes to pull around an eighteen-wheeler that was blocking my view of the traffic ahead. At the blistering thirty miles an hour we were traveling, it would take me awhile to pull past the truck.

“It's not the same. Besides, I didn't get out of the city much. I worked a couple of plays before signing on to the movie. I was pretty busy.”

“Busy isn't bad,” I said. “It beats the alternative.”

“True.” She sighed and laid her head back on the seat. She seemed drained.

“You okay?” I asked.

She kept her eyes closed but smiled. “Couldn't be better. The last few months have been a whirlwind. My agent told me not to take this play. He said it was too much strain to move into a new house, rehearse for a play, and study a script for my next movie.” She raised her head again and blinked a couple of times. “He's right, of course, but I wanted to do the play anyway.”

“Why?” I pressed the brake pedal as the traffic continued to coagulate in front of us. “Not that I'm not happy to see you. It's not every day I get to hang out with the rich and famous.”

She laughed lightly. “I was just thinking how proud I felt about being related to the mayor.”

That made
me
laugh. “I've been in city government for over a decade and mayor for three years, and most people who live in the city couldn't pick me out in a police lineup. Local politics is not the way to become famous. Of course, that was never my goal.”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught her staring at me. “I'll bet that will all change when you become Congresswoman Maddy Glenn. How's that going?”

“The campaign?” I glanced at her. “Wait a second, you didn't answer my question. Are you trying to turn the conversation around to me?”

She shifted in her seat and repositioned the seat belt. “Sorry, I've developed the habit of diverting attention from myself.”

“Why would you do that? I thought attention was one of the benefits of being a star.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

She looked uncomfortable, and I wondered if I had just crossed the line. I chastised myself. I tend to form opinions quickly and swerve past small talk. Over the years I had annoyed more people than I could count.

“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

T
hat'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.