Director's Cut (34 page)

I weighed my words. “I'm wondering if Andy killed Ed Lowe. I can't be certain about motivation, but the mind that came up with this script might be capable of trying to get her attention by acting out a portion of the play.”

“You mean he killed Ed Lowe just to add some kind of reality to the script?”

“No, I don't think he planned to actually kill anyone. No one was supposed to be there. Catherine was at rehearsal. She sent Lowe back to check on the house and to wait for some electricians. We know the electricians came because the power to the remote control shades was working, and Catherine said they weren't when she first arrived.”

“So Lowe is at her house and catches sight of Andy Buchanan.”

“Maybe. Rockwood says he has met Lowe previously. The same may be true for Andy's father, Chuck, who's directing the movie, but would Andy and Lowe know each other? Probably not. Lowe sees someone lurking around the house. Goes out back to investigate. Maybe he thinks it's one of the workers, only to find out it's some guy with electronic equipment. An argument breaks out. There's a bit of a fight. Andy loses it and shoots Lowe in the head.”

“But why would Andy even have a gun?”

“Because he's playing out the part of the male lead in his movie. His father told me his son had a drug problem. He had been hospitalized for his addiction.”

“Psychosis has been associated with certain addictions,” Jerry said. “How would you prove this?”

“Me? I can't prove anything. Perhaps West can check on past mental problems Andy might have had. The coroner could screen for drugs, I suppose, but that would be up to them.”

“I don't know, Maddy. That only solves one murder. If Andy killed Lowe, who killed Andy?”

“I don't have a clue.”

I looked over the balcony railing. Early diners were making their way in. The noise level rose.

The door to our room opened, and Neena stepped in again. “Ah, I see that company has arrived.” She offered coffee and we accepted. “I have a special treat for you. Harold and I are so relieved to have Catherine back that we'd like to invite you backstage during the intermission. I'm afraid we can't have you back there during the performance because our stage just isn't big enough, but I think you'll enjoy seeing all the activity.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said.

Neena left us to ourselves.

“I should have asked sooner,” I said, reaching for Jerry's hand. “How's the Slater boy?”

“I phoned the nurse's station just before I left. He has stabilized. We're starting to hope again.”

“That's good. I've been praying for him.” My stomach started doing flips. “I've made arrangements. You and I are going to be the only ones in this room tonight.”

An eyebrow rose. “Really?”

“I want to talk to you about something.”

“Uh-oh.”

I grinned. “Nothing bad, silly. It's just time that I share with you.”

“About your faith?”

“How did you know that?”

He gave my hand a squeeze. “I've known you for a very long time. I've loved you for years. I know you better than you might think. I've been watching you change and I like what I see. I'm not sure what to think about all this church stuff, but I'm willing to listen to anything you have to say.”

I took him at his word. We talked during the appetizers and the meal that followed. I tried to be as open with him as I had been with Nat.

Five minutes before the play began we prayed.

Chapter 33

T
he play moved forward effortlessly. Catherine took the stage as if last night had not happened. She seemed to float across the boards, and her lines were crisp and clear. The other actors rose to the occasion. I sat in my chair, my shoulder touching Jerry's, my hand on his elbow. My tears of joy had dried, and I was lost in the play. For a few moments, everything seemed perfect in the world. The evil I had seen now seemed far away.

As we finished our meal, the server took our dessert order, and we told him we had been invited backstage for a few minutes and to leave the dessert on the table. We'd eat it during the second portion of the show.

The curtains closed to loud applause. Jerry and I slipped out of the balcony room, and like salmon swimming upstream, worked our way through the lines of people moving to the bathrooms or outside for fresh air. Most of the attendees stayed in the dining area and chatted in good-natured tones, punctuated with laughter.

Room on the floor was slim, the aisle filled with people standing or chairs pushed back so the users could stretch their legs. Nonetheless, we managed to make it to the stage and up the short flight of stairs.

As I hit the top tread a familiar form caught my eye. Franco Zambonelli was seated near the front. He looked lost and concerned. Earlier today we sat and had a heart-to-heart. He was irritating, brash, and not always aware of how others perceived him, but he had brought Catherine back to her senses. I owed him something. I motioned for him to join us.

We passed through the curtains stage left.

“Did you know stage left is to the right of the audience,” Jerry said.

“I didn't know that.”

As we started backstage he pointed at a black curtain in the wings. It hid the working area from the sight of the audience. “That's called a tormentor curtain.”

“Why do they call it that?” I asked.

“I don't know. I only took one theater class in college.”

“Decided that acting wasn't for you, eh?”

He looked back at me. “Actually, the professor decided it wasn't for me. ‘The theater has wide arms, young Mr. Thomas, but not that wide.' I was crushed.”

“I'll bet.”

Just beyond the tormentor curtain stood Harold Young. He was all smiles while calling out orders to the stagehands.

“Mayor! You came back to my world.”

“Thank you for the invitation.” Two men carried a sofa by. “There's a lot of activity back here.”

“At times it's bedlam,” Harold said. “Follow me; we need to get out of the way.” A few steps later we were deeper in the setup area. I could see the place where actors passed their time waiting for their next scenes. Two actors played handheld video games. One of the older thespians was reading a newspaper. It was surreal. I felt like someone had put the world on a coffee break.

Catherine skipped over to us, more animated than I had seen her all week. She threw her arms around my neck, did the same to a very surprised Jerry, and then to Franco. “Are you having fun?”

“Very much. You're wonderful. The whole play is fabulous.”

“It is. Harold's a genius, isn't he? This play is going to outlive us all.”

“You seem lively,” I said.

“She was always that way,” Harold said. “A nervous wreck before the curtain goes up, then there's no stopping her.”

“Yeah, well, wait until after the play. I'm useless.” Catherine took my hand. “Come on, I'll introduce you to the cast. These guys are great.”

“It's your fault.” The voice was familiar and dark. It came from behind me.

I pivoted and found myself facing Chuck Buchanan. Judging by the reeking smell coming from his clothing, he had been in close contact with booze of some sort. He had told me that he was a recovered alcoholic. His glassy eyes, swagger, and demeanor told me he was no longer recovering. I couldn't blame him. Just this morning he had to identify his dead son; a son with a hole in his forehead.

Without thinking I took a step back. He wore a large leather jacket, and he had both hands plunged deep into its pockets. His face was drawn, his mouth a deep frown.

“Chuck,” Catherine said. “I didn't know you were—”

Chuck pulled a gun from his coat and held it in his right hand. Catherine inhaled noisily. I stopped breathing. His hand had a subtle, frightening shake.

“He loved you, Catherine,” Buchanan said. “I told him to take his time. To win you bit by bit, but he was impatient. I brought him onboard so you could see him work, see that he had licked his problems, found his center, but you rejected him.”

“Chuck,” Catherine began. “I'm sorry—”

“It's too late for apologies. You're on stage. Everyone loves you. Andy is lying on a metal slab in a cooler. Naked and locked in a coroner's drawer. It's all because of you.”

Jerry inched his way closer to me, standing a foot ahead. He was trying to put his body between me and the gun. “Listen . . . Buchanan is it? Mr. Buchanan. I'm Jerry Thomas. Dr. Jerry Thomas. I think I can help you.”

“Can you raise the dead, Doc? Can you? That's the only way you can help me.” Tears began to run down his face.

“I think it's the alcohol, Mr. Buchanan. It's a depressant, you know. I think if you give yourself a couple of hours, you'll see what a mistake this is.”

“I've lived most my life with booze, Doc. I know what it is. It doesn't matter any more.” His voice broke. “I failed my wife, then I failed my son. He followed in my footsteps. He copied me. Read the same books, went to the same college, chose the same career—chose to be an addict. Different drug, same effect.”

He returned his pitiful gaze to Catherine. “You have everything, girl. Everything. Looks, fame, money, people who love you. All I had was Andy; all he had was me. He loved you. You could have been good for him. He even wrote a script for you. You wouldn't even read it with him.”

“I gave it to my agent,” Catherine said. “She said I had to pass.”

“He was stalking her,” I protested. “Maybe he was lovesick, maybe it was the drugs, but he was stalking her, just like the movie you're making. He spied on her using equipment like that described in his screenplay.”

“How do you know what's in his screenplay?”

“I've read it. My aide downloaded it from the Internet.”

Jerry took a step forward. “She's right. She showed it to me. We have it up in the balcony room. Come on, I'll show you.”

“Take one more step, Doc, and you'll die along with Catherine.” He raised the gun and his trembling hand settled. That made me more nervous. “An eye for an eye; a life for a life—a family member for a family member.”

The last part confused me. Until he aimed the gun at my forehead. The barrel was directed at the same spot where a nasty bullet took his son's life. “You may not have killed him with your own hands, but you stripped his heart from him. You took someone from my family, now I'm going to return the favor.”

“I killed your son,” Franco said as if he were ordering a sandwich. “I pulled the trigger, pal. Not only that, he had it comin'.”

Buchanan shifted his gaze to Franco.

“That's right, buddy boy. I figured it out.” Franco was taunting him and backing toward the stage, redirecting Buchanan's attention from me and the others. “I killed your boy with his own gun.”

“Not possible,” Buchanan said.

“You're so drunk you don't know what's possible and what's not.” He backed up another step. “I was here last night, watching the play. At intermission I had to use the head. When I came out I saw your boy drop the script with the lady in the gift shop. I followed him.”

“You're a liar.”

“He couldn't deliver the script himself. No guts, I guess. Hiding in the shadows. Sending someone else to deliver it.”

“I'm going to kill you where you stand,” Buchanan spat.

“Not yet, you're not. You want to know the whole story. You live for story. That's why you're a director.” Franco gave a quick look at Jerry. He expected Jerry to do something. I saw Jerry give the subtlest of nods. “As far as I knew, Catherine didn't need another script, so I was curious. I followed him outside and into the parking lot. There was a cabby there. He walked over and gave him something. Money, I guess. Maybe some kinda drug. What'd your boy prefer? Smack? Meth? Crack. I'll bet it was crack. He struck me as a crackhead.”

Franco kept ratcheting up the insults, antagonizing Buchanan. At first I thought Franco had lost his mind, but then I saw what he was doing—getting Buchanan to transfer his fury.

“SHUT UP!” Buchanan waved the gun.

Franco backed up until his back was next to the tormentor curtain.

“Yup. I watched your boy give the cabby something. I realized later he was paying the man to sit and wait just in case Catherine came out. You know how Catherine is. Mercurial. Is that the word? Like mercury in a thermometer, up and down. Kinda endearing most of the time, but he knew those extra pages would send her over the edge. He gambled and he won. She came charging out looking for the quickest way home. It was a good thing he paid the cabby.”

“He couldn't know she would do that,” Buchanan said through clenched teeth.

“Well, you're right there, but so what? He would just try something else stupid, the next night, or the next.” He stopped at the curtain. The sound of patrons enjoying conversation, coffee, and dessert drifted backstage. “I watched as your boy went to his car. I decided to follow him. He went straight to Catherine's house. It went downhill from there.”

“What did you do? Answer me. What did you do?”

“I parked on the street. He did the same but went further down. I bet his car is still there. After that, there isn't much to tell.”

Jerry reached back until his hand touched mine. I gave his arm a squeeze. He pulled away and motioned for me to go backstage.

“No,” I whispered.

He motioned more fervently. He slipped an inch closer. Franco couldn't back up anymore without moving beyond the side curtain.

“I watched him walk onto Catherine's property. I followed and confronted him in the backyard. Do you know he killed Catherine's chauffeur? You know Ed Lowe, don't you? Ed caught him in the back. They argued. They fought down by the pool. Andy isn't much of a fighter, so he gave up and promised to leave. Instead he pulled his gun and shot Ed Lowe in the head. Ed was unarmed. Just like me. But your boy shot him anyway, just like you want to shoot me.”