Director's Cut (24 page)

“I'm not suggesting she's afflicted with anorexia nervosa. In fact, I suspect it's something else.”

He had me now. “Like what?”

“I shouldn't be guessing. There are several possibilities and only a proper medical workup including a psych eval could tell.”

“Guess anyway.”

“Most of the time she's very much in control,” he said. “Does that seem true?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if she has a variation of OCD.”

“Obsessive-compulsive disorder? You mean like constant hand washing, overorganizing, that sort of thing?”

“That sort of thing, but I'm overgeneralizing. All I've got to base this on is what you've told me and what little I've seen. It might be as simple as not wanting to eat in the presence of others. I had an aunt who felt that every time she ate, people were staring at her, silently making fun of her. It was all in her imagination, but that didn't matter—it was real to her.”

“What would cause that?” I asked, suddenly wearied by yet another problem to think about.

“I can't say without some evidence to go on. I wouldn't doubt her sudden rise to fame might have something to do with it.”

“Her star did rise fast. A successful start in New York, a starring role on Broadway, and a hit movie. She would have to grow up fast.”

“And where was her family?” Jerry asked as he brought the car to freeway speeds and melded into seventy-mile-an-hour traffic.

“Her family—my family—are very tight.”

“Where are her parents?”

“Well, they moved to Boise.”

“And she was in New York and Hollywood. Very different cultures and the anchors of her life were hundreds of miles away. How social was she in school?”

“As I remember, not very social at all. She's always been a private person. What does this have to do with two murders?”

“Detective West asked you about odd behavior. He needs to know about this.”

“I can't imagine that they are in any way related,” I protested.

“Again, I'm not saying it is, but West needs as much information as he can get. This doesn't mean that Catherine is a double murderer, but someone is. Any information that may lead to an arrest may be information that saves a life—maybe Catherine's life.”

I pulled my cell phone from my purse and placed a call to Judson West.

Jerry pulled into the near-empty parking lot of the Curtain Call. A half-dozen cars were parked at the lot's distant end. Employees still on shift, I assumed. Jerry pulled close to the entrance door, not bothering to line his car between the white lines of the parking stall. I stepped to the pavement and closed the door behind me. A chill ran through me as the breeze whispered past my face. I couldn't decide if the chill was outside trying to get in, or inside me trying to get out. Either way, I was starting to feel miserable.

Jerry, ever the gentleman, rounded the car and put his arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the door. I was capable of finding the door without aid or fear of tripping, but I made no complaints. A strong arm nearby was a blessing.

Since the theater was closed, I expected the glass entrance doors to be locked. They weren't. Jerry opened the door, and we stepped into the warmth of the foyer. The aroma of dinner and coffee still wafted in the air. When we first stepped into the theater earlier that evening, the place was abuzz with a hundred conversations as servers dashed about, each dressed in a tuxedo. Now the place was filled with the clatter of chairs being moved, dishes being stacked, and the loud voices of employees shouting words across the dining area.

We moved from the foyer to the theater. The white tablecloths that had draped the tables with elegance were gone, leaving bare folding tables that had borne too many meals, been kicked and elbowed by too many patrons. The lights were bright, revealing a carpet that bore stains of previous shows. The stage curtains were pulled back, leaving the stage open for critical scrutiny. In the bright lights the backdrops and props seemed common and unbelievable. The mystery I had felt a short time ago when the play ran at full speed had melted through the cracks in the floor.

“I'm sorry, we're closed.” The voice came from my left. I turned to see Neena Lasko approaching. “Oh, Mayor Glenn, Dr. Thomas. I didn't realize it was you.”

“I should have called,” I said.

“No, no. Of course not. Don't be silly. Can I get you anything? I think the coffeepot is still full.”

The thought of coffee in my acid-roiling stomach had no appeal. I declined and so did Jerry. “I thought I'd bring you and Harold up-to-date and maybe ask a question or two.”

“Certainly.” She looked around. “My crew is cleaning up. Would you be comfortable if we talk onstage? That will keep us out of the way.”

“Sure. That'd be fine.”

Neena motioned for one of her young employees, a college-age man with shirttail hanging out, to come over, then asked him to set up four chairs center stage. He didn't question the request. We followed Neena to the side steps and mounted the treads until we stood on the boards the actors had trod earlier. Promising to return, she slipped backstage.

“I've always wanted to be center stage,” Jerry said. “Maybe I should change careers.”

“I've heard you sing; stay with medicine.”

“Ouch. Must you always be truthful?” He winked.

The employee had just set the last chair in place when Neena reappeared with Harold Young in tow. He looked worn, drained of energy. We sat.

“How's Catherine?” Harold leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. He looked pale in the harsh lights.

“Physically, she's fine,” I said. “At the moment she's at the police station—helping Detective West with a few questions.”

“Police station?” Unlike Harold, Neena sat erect as if she had just graduated from charm school. “I don't understand.”

“There's been another murder at Catherine's house.” It was a bombshell, and I let it explode in their minds before going on. I wished there had been a kinder way to announce the black news, but I couldn't think of one.

“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.