Director's Cut (21 page)

“Sure. Only a few actors are onstage at any one time. They've been over this play so many times that they can recite lines in their sleep and probably do. When not onstage they pass the time any way they can.”

“Cool,” Floyd said.

“Everything about the theater is cool,” Neena said. “It's one reason I do what I do—”

The door to the room sprang open so suddenly that I jumped, my knee hitting the table, spilling small waves of coffee.

Harold Young stepped in, looked around, and then closed the door behind him. Even in the subdued light I could tell he was shaken. His skin was pale and small beads of sweat dotted his brow. Aside from the terror on his face, he looked every bit the part of the director: turtleneck sweater, sport coat, slacks, and tennis shoes.

“What's wrong?” Neena said.

Harold looked at her, then directly at me. He started to speak but managed only to stammer. I rose.

“Is something wrong with Catherine?”

More sweat. His breathing was ragged. For a moment I expected him to keel over from a heart attack.

“Have a seat,” Jerry said, springing to his feet. Apparently he was worried about the same thing.

“I don't want to sit down,” he snapped. He lowered his voice. “Thank you, but I can't sit down.”

I don't know why I didn't see it at first, but Harold was hiding something with his left hand.

“Pull yourself together,” Neena said. “What is the problem?”

Slowly, Harold raised his left hand. In it was a script. A script printed on yellow paper.

“That's the script Catherine brought with her today,” I said.

“No, it's not,” Harold said. “I have that script. She gave it to me for safekeeping. This is a different script. It arrived after the play started. Someone dropped it off during the first act and one of the employees took it to the cast room. After we went to intermission, Catherine saw it and read a few pages. She excused herself. No one has seen her since. I looked everywhere for her. I even sent someone into the ladies' restroom. She's gone. Catherine is gone, and we're supposed to raise the curtain in ten minutes.”

“We can't go on without her,” Neena said. “If we don't find her I'll have to explain to the crowd why we're suddenly using the understudy.”

“May I see the script?” I asked.

“What?” Harold seemed close to a nervous breakdown.

“The script. May I see it?”

He handed it to me. I know it was my imagination but it seemed three times heavier than it should be.

Chapter 20

O
kay,” Neena said, “let's keep focused.” She looked at her watch.

“Harold, do a quick search of the theater.”

“I already have.”

“Do it again. Take a couple of servers with you. I'm going to search the grounds. Let's meet in my office in five minutes.”

“I should alert Jane.”

“Jane?” I asked.

“Jane Ash,” Harold said. “She's the understudy.”

“Let's just hope she went out for some fresh air.” Neena started for the door, then stopped. “Wait. Have you talked to . . . I can't think of his name—her publicist.”

I said, “Franco Zambonelli? He's here?”

“He was earlier. Catherine asked that I make room for him. This showing is sold out and squeezing one more in a few minutes before showtime was tough. Fortunately, we had a cancellation in one of the booths. I put him there.”

She exited with Harold in tow.

“This doesn't sound good,” Jerry said.

“No, it doesn't,” I agreed. There was a burning in my stomach as I returned to the table and pushed away the dessert dishes. Jerry and Celeste helped reposition the coffee cups to give me room to do the one thing I didn't want to do. I set the script down. I knew where the offensive pages had been in the script now in police possession. I flipped through the early pages until I came to the spot where I expected to find the text of my conversation with Catherine in her home. It wasn't there. That should have been a relief for Catherine, not something to send her wherever she went.

My gut tightened as I faced the dark question floating just below my imagination.
Were there new pages?
It would take some time to read through the whole script. Then it hit me. I began to fan the pages.

“What are you doing?” Jerry asked.

“Looking for pages that don't belong.”

“How are you going to know if they don't belong?”

“Pages were inserted into a script delivered to Catherine,” I explained. I gave a quick summary of the offensive additions for Celeste's benefit. “The only thing that made those pages different from the real script was the lack of page numbers.”

Flipping through the pages I scanned the upper right corner. Numbers fluttered by until I found one that was blank.

I stopped flipping.

I stopped breathing.

Someone had inserted several pages. Like before, these looked like every other page in the screenplay with the exception of the missing numbers. I read.

EXT. LACY'S HOME—NIGHT

The moon rides high in the sky casting ivory light on the distant ocean. Lacy arrives home. In the distance, a dog barks. She enters her home through the front door. It is clear that she is upset. She still wears her costume.

INT. FOYER OF LACY'S HOME

The house is dark. Lacy turns on a light and walks into the living room. A noise outside catches her attention. She approaches the back door. She reaches for the curtains to pull them back, but stops with her fingers just an inch from the drapes. A soft noise pushes through the door. Lacy takes a deep breath and slowly pulls the drape back.

LACY

(Screams)

No! Stay away. Stay away!

INTRUDER

(Darkly)

You know what I want.

LACY

I came just like you wanted. I'm here.

You promised that you'd let him go.

INTRUDER

Promises can be broken. You should know that. You've broken enough.

LACY

Please, just let him go.

INTRUDER

It's too late and it's your fault. It's all your fault.

LACY

No. Please no. I'm sorry.

INTRUDER

Sorry doesn't cut it. Never has. Never will.

(Laughs)

The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?

The rest of the page was blank.

“Who's Lacy?” Floyd asked.

“That's Catherine's character in the movie,” I explained.

“That's terrifying,” Celeste said.

“Jerry,” I said, rising. “We're leaving.”

“I thought you might say that. Don't you think we should call—”

“We can do that on the way.” I snatched up the script.

“I'll go with you,” Floyd said.

“No, you won't.” I was out the door and moved down the stairs as fast as I could. I could hear Jerry behind me. He caught up and put a protective, guiding hand on my elbow.

“Slow down,” he said.

“Too much time has already passed.” I started to pull away.

He tightened his grip and his words. “I said, slow down. We're going to go to her house, but not in a panic. God gave us brains for a reason. Let's use them.”

Hearing Jerry use the word “God” put a hitch in my step. He was spiritually sensitive but not a spiritual man. The odd mixture often bothered me. He had never ridiculed my adult conversion, but he was quick to change the topic when spiritual matters came up. It saddened me. It also slowed our relationship.

“I am thinking.” I inhaled deeply, then let it out. “That's why we need to hurry.”

He led the way to his Ford Excursion, hit the unlock button on his keychain, and moved to the driver's seat. Seconds later we were on our way to Catherine's home. Jerry drove. I called Detective West.

The moon did hang high in the sky, just like the altered screenplay had said. I prayed that was the only thing it was right about. Catherine's large home had been lovely to see on my first visit, but in the gloom of night and the darkness of fear, it loomed like a haunted house. As we pulled up her drive, I could see a dim yellow light pouring through the foyer windows. No other lights glowed.

Jerry slowed as we approached the house. He released his right hand from the steering wheel and set it on my left arm. “You're staying in the car.”

“No, I'm not.”

“For once, Maddy, just once, listen to me. We don't know the situation. The police will be here in moments. If you get out and start running around, you'll make their job more difficult.”

“Catherine could be hurt.” Or worse.

“I'll get out and take a look around. When the police arrive, you can tell them I'm on the property. I don't want to give your Detective West a reason to shoot me.”

“Jerry. I can't just sit and wait—”

A motion from the side yard to my right stopped me. Out of the darkness made dim by the moon, a figure staggered into our headlights. It was Catherine. I was out the door a heartbeat later. Jerry called after me. He said something else but I couldn't hear it.

“Catherine!”

“Maddy? Maddy!” She ran to me.

I started for her. She was still wearing the gown she had been wearing in the last scene before intermission. In the glow of the headlights I could see that things were different. Her hair was ruffled and her gown was askew. It was also streaked with blood.

“Catherine. Are you hurt?”

“No, no, no. I'm . . . he's . . .” She looked over her shoulder.

He?
I thought of the script and the character called INTRUDER and his words about “body count.”

Jerry slipped to our side. He looked Catherine over. “Where are you hurt?”

“I . . . I'm not . . . he's . . . he's . . .”

“Get in the car,” Jerry ordered.

“But—” Catherine began.

“Now.” Jerry was done talking. He seized Catherine by the arm and forced her toward his SUV. I followed. He opened the rear passenger door. “Get in. You too, Maddy.”

“Do you think—”

“Shut up and get in.”

Shut up?
I did as I was told and climbed into the back. Jerry trotted around the car and took his seat behind the wheel. He started the engine and dropped it into reverse.

“He's hurt,” Catherine said. “Andy. Andy Buchanan. He's in the backyard. He's not moving.”

Jerry looked back at the house.
Doctor
Jerry was thinking of a helpless, wounded man.
Friend
Jerry was thinking about two women who might be in danger. He had just pressed the accelerator and started the SUV back down the driveway when the air filled with red and blue lights. I turned and saw a patrol car pull through the gate followed by an unmarked car. Another squad car trailed in.

Jerry hit the brake and slammed the gear selector into park. He popped his door and exited. “In the back,” he called.

The lead car stopped and a uniformed officer emerged. In the mix of moonlight, police car headlights, and emergency lights, I could see he had drawn his weapon. “On the ground! Facedown!”

“You don't understand.”

“On the GROUND!”

Jerry disappeared from sight as he lowered himself to the driveway. The officer approached. A movement to my right made me jump. An officer with his gun pointed at the car was moving closer.

“Don't move,” I told Catherine.

“Why are they doing this?”

“Because they don't know who we are yet. We'll be fine in a moment. Just do as the officers say.”

The glare of a flashlight hit me in the eyes and I winced. The light moved around the interior of the SUV in a jerky motion. Another light came through the back window. My mouth went dry.

“Step out of the car, hands above your head.” The officer's voice was muffled by the closed window. I reached for the door latch and slowly opened the door. Putting my hands before me, I slipped from the seat. “Step away from the vehicle. Hands over your head. Turn around.”

I once watched West help make one of these stops. He called it a felony stop in which everyone was assumed to be armed and dangerous. In less than twenty minutes I had gone from nibbling vanilla bean ice cream in the comfort of a balcony room in the Curtain Call theater to being ordered around like a felon.

“Take two steps back—”

“Hold it.” I recognized the voice. It sounded wonderful. West.

“Mayor?”

“Yes.”

West stepped forward, looked at me, and looked inside the car. “You can lower your hands.”

“That's Jerry you have on the ground,” I said.

He smiled at that. “They're clear. Let him up,” West said.

His smile eroded when I said, “Catherine said there's someone injured in the backyard. She said it's Andy.”

“Andy Buchanan?”

“Yes.”

Jerry rounded the car. West eyed him sternly. “Get them out of here, Doc.”

“That's what I was trying to do.”

“Well, try again.” He looked at the other officers. “There may be a man down. The perp may still be on the grounds. Watch each other. Let's go.” West moved forward and to the side of the house.

“Come on,” Jerry said. “We'll have to walk. The police have me boxed in.” Again he took our arms and started walking us down the drive. I glanced over my shoulder and saw West and two officers make their way into the shadows, guns drawn and at the ready.

Chapter 21

A
ndy Buchanan was dead.

The twenty-seven-year-old son of Catherine's producer Charles Buchanan lay in repose upon a deck chair on the upper terrace overlooking the pool, his arms and legs akimbo. His brown hair was askew and his blue eyes gazed over the distant ocean as if counting the moonlight jewels left on the undulating surface. Earrings still hung from their holes. He wore black jeans, black sneakers, and a black T-shirt.