Director's Cut (6 page)
“Yes,” I said. “That was my campaign manager on the phone. He's been calling her too. She's coming over and bringing dinner.”
“How did he find out so soon?” Catherine asked.
“I imagine the newspaper uses scanners to monitor police calls. Most news media do.”
“I was afraid of this.”
“What?” Floyd asked. “Police? Scanners? Reporters? What's going on?”
“I'll explain,” I said, “but not while standing in the foyer. Let's at least go to the dining room and sit at the table . . . Better yet, I'm going to go get dressed. Catherine can explain things. You feel up to that?” I looked at her.
“Yeah, I can do that.”
I headed up the stairs.
I
slipped into jeans a size too large and therefore reasonably comfortable, a pair of canvas deck shoes, and a sweatshirt with Temple University emblazoned on the front. I didn't go to Temple. I graduated from San Diego State University. I had the Temple sweatshirt for the same reason I had one from Yale, Princeton, Brown, Baylor, and a dozen more. I collect them. I've been asked why I collect them, but I have no answer. Some people collect snow globes, others souvenir spoons, and still others dolls. I collect college shirts because I want to.
Catherine and Floyd were seated at the dining room table when I reemerged. Both had a cup of tea in front of them. I had forgotten about the teapot. It was a good thing Catherine hadn't.
The scene was amusing. Floyd was leaning over the table as if he needed to be a couple inches closer to Catherine to convince himself that she wasn't an illusion, a fantasy conjured up by his twenty-something mind. The funny thing was the teacup. Floyd doesn't drink tea. I guess he couldn't tell Catherine no.
Catherine exuded poise and confident self-awareness. She was comfortable before a camera, a theater filled with people, or an audience of one. I felt pride rising like the tide.
“Do you have dinner plans, Floyd?” I entered the kitchen and prepared my own cup of tea.
“Um . . . no.”
“Join us tonight. I'm sure Nat will bring enough for you too.”
He beamed. Christmas had come in October.
Over the next thirty minutes, I pumped Floyd for information about the office. While I was in Sacramento, I had called him daily, but now I wanted to know all the dull details. Besides, it was far more pleasant than talking about a murder victim in Catherine's pool.
Catherine sat in silence, a slight smile on her perfect face, as she feigned interest in city government. Ever the actor.
I heard the honk of a car horn from the front of the house.
“I bet that's Nat,” I said and rose from the table. “Come on, Floyd, you can show us that chivalry isn't dead by carrying the food in.” He was up in a second. Catherine followed.
We stepped onto the front stoop just in time to see the side door of the van open and a metal lift emerge. A blond woman in an electric wheelchair moved onto the flat metal bed and the unique elevator lowered her to the grass strip that separated the street from the sidewalk.
“She's crippled,” Catherine whispered as Floyd moved to greet Nat.
“After you get to know her,” I said, “you'll never use the word to describe her again.”
Nat said something to Floyd and he disappeared into the van, emerging moments later with his hands filled with white paper sacks. Once he was out of the vehicle, Nat pulled a small remote from a cloth bag that hung from the right armrest and pressed a button. The remote activated the lift, which rose and disappeared into the van. The door closed as if by magic.
Nat approached and stopped at the four-inch-high stoop. I stepped down to the walkway and moved to the back of Nat's wheelchair. I put a foot on a small bar that protruded from the back of the chair and pushed down on the handles by her shoulders. The chair rocked back, and I pushed it forward until its front wheels were on the concrete porch. I lifted as Nat powered the chair, and a second later we were inside the house.
The evening was warm for October, and the breeze that had chilled me at Catherine's had settled to a whisper. We moved out to the deck at the back of the house and set up to eat. The sun painted an amber racing stripe on the surging, darkening ocean.
I made introductions while I unpacked the sacks of food Nat had brought.
“Grinders!” I grinned as I pulled one long sandwich out. “I love these. Did you get them with olive oil?”
“Jimmy won't let you leave the restaurant without it,” Nat said. “I ordered them over the phone, and they brought them out to me.”
“We always called these hoagies,” Floyd said.
“Hoagies, grinders, submarine sandwiches, call them what you will, but they're great. Especially if Jimmy made them.” I passed the sandwiches out, then took my place at the redwood table that took up a third of my deck.
Catherine took hers and slowly opened the wrapper. She moved with such deliberateness she made me think of someone trying to diffuse a bomb.
I took a bite. Green bell pepper, ham, provolone, tomato, oregano, and other treasures seduced my taste buds. The thought of calories percolated to the top of my mind but another bite drove the nagger away.
“What made you choose Jimmy's Mafia Pizzeria?” I asked.
“It was on the way, and he also sent a campaign contribution of two hundred and fifty bucks.”
“So it was a politically motivated decision?”
Nat laughed and peeled back the sandwich wrapper with her one good hand. She bent forward, resting one end of the grinder on the table, and bit into the other end. Natalie Sanders once graced the airwaves of a major Los Angeles news station. She was the darling of the industry and was often called upon to fill in on national programs. No one doubted that one day she would be the Tom Brokaw of national news. That was before the news van she was riding in tumbled down an embankment. Months and hundreds of hours of therapy later, Nat returned to her life. But it wasn't the life she left.
Commercial news stations sell beauty more than information. Men and women who look like they've been peeled off some catalog anchor prime-time news shows. If they hadn't earned degrees in journalism, most could have made a good living as underwear models.
Insurance had set her up for the rest of her life, but she was not one to do nothing. Her mind operates like a fine Swiss watch and the thought of becoming addicted to soap operas and Court TV was repugnant, so she started her own business. Nat is a researcher. People, companies, local governments hired her to search for facts. With her computer skills and her connections in the news business, she became the most sought-after researcher on the West Coast. Working from her home, she scours the databases and the Internet looking for the one bit of information that can take a news story from the mundane to the spectacular or give a Fortune 500 company an edge on its competition.
When I entered the race for congress, she was my first choice for campaign manager. Our friendship has grown every day since.
I caught Nat watching Catherine. Floyd was watching too but with a different look in his eye. Catherine studied the messy grinder, then lifted it, taking care to touch it with just her fingertips. She took the tiniest bite and then returned the sandwich to the center of the wrapping paper she had so carefully spread before her. The bite she took wasn't enough to fill her mouth, but she chewed it like she had chowed down half the contents.
I felt like a pig and drew a napkin across my face to wipe away some errant olive oil.
We chatted about my trip to Sacramento, about Catherine's play, her new home, and a few other odds and ends. I also told her about Catherine's offer to be a part of our last fund-raiser. Nat remained polite through all of it, but I could see that she was growing impatient. I told her everything about the body in the pool.
I waited for Hurricane Nat to blow in. She narrowed her eyes, worked her jaw, pursed her lips, but said nothing.
“Word's going to get out,” I said. “Turner will be polite, but he'll no more give up this story than a bulldog will surrender a bone.”
“You actually jumped in the pool,” Nat said. It wasn't a question; it was a well-chewed statement. “That may work for us.”
“That's what you said on the phone. How?” All eyes shifted to Nat.
“Look, I know you weren't thinking campaign issues when you took that leap into the bloody water. You were just being Maddy and doing what Maddy does, looking out for others. It was a heroic effort even if it was futile.”
“Wait a minute, Nat,” I said. “I don't want to make political mileage out of a murder. It doesn't seem right.”
“I'm not saying we weave it into speeches or put out a press release, just that we make sure the press knows about it.”
“What good will that do?” Floyd wanted to know.
“We've faced an uphill march in this campaign, Floyd,” Nat explained. “First, Maddy isn't that well known outside of Santa Rita. The congressional district includes areas beyond our city limits, areas where the name Madison Glenn doesn't mean anything.
“Second,” she continued, “we're up against an opponent who exudes confidence, strength, and courage. Garret Kinsley was an ambassador, and the public doesn't view ambassadors as politicians. The title carries an untarnished dignity with it. He faced a woman opponent in the primaries, and he demolished her but he did it so smoothly that even she felt honored. Women love him; men want to be him.
“The third problem has to do with the appearance of strength and personal resolve. We live in frightening times. People want a strong hand at the helm. A member of congress can only legislate. He or she can't do much about bringing a sense of safety to the district, but voters don't seem to care about that. Polls show most voters see Garret as better able to deal with such matters.”
“That's crazy,” Floyd said.
“Sometimes, Floyd, unfounded assumption is more powerful than fact.”
“I don't understand,” Catherine said. “How does Maddy's jumping in the pool help?”
“It took courage to do that and a willingness to act. Most people wouldn't think of doing what she did.”
“I didn't think about it,” I said. “I just reacted.”
“All the better.” Nat paused, then added, “Talk to Doug Turner. In fact, talk to him first. Let him have a lead on this. We might need a favor later.” She looked at Floyd. “Can you retrieve Maddy's office messages from here?”
“Sure, the city uses the telephone company's service. I can call from anywhere.”
“Do it. If we're lucky there will be calls from some of the local television stations.”
Floyd left the table and walked to the cordless phone I had left on the kitchen counter.
“Lucky?” I said, but I knew where she was going. “I'm not real comfortable with this.”
“Of course you're not. I'd think less of you if you were.” Nat gave me one of her straight-in-the-eye looks. “I'm not asking you to ham it up. Just tell the truth. You were visiting a family member, discovered the body, and tried to help. You were too late. Oh, and you have every confidence in the work and skill of the Santa Rita police. Got it?”
I said I did.
Floyd returned and he looked stunned. “There is another call from Mr. Turner, two calls from television stations, and one from a radio station.”
“News or music station?”
“It's the local easy listening station,” Floyd said.
Nat shook her head. “Forget them. Radio news fades faster than a flower in an oven.” She fell silent again for a moment. “Maddy, how do you feel about Doug coming to your home?”
“I try to keep where I live secret.”
“Doug is trustworthy on this. I can threaten to run him over if he releases your address.”
It was my turn to think. Doug Turner had always been professional. In some ways, I owed my campaign to him. After I had been particularly testy with him while trying to conceal my plans for higher office, he said, “Why is it that every time a politician is thinking of running for higher office, they deny it when asked? It's like they're ashamed of wanting to do more for the community.” Those words burrowed into my thinking like a worm in an apple. When the time came to commit to the campaign, his words echoed in my brain.
“Okay,” I agreed. “He's the only media man I trust that much.”
“Good, it will go a long way with him,” Nat said. “Why don't you call him? I'll call the television stations back. They're going to want some tape so we need to set up a place to meet. It's too late for the early evening news, but the eleven o'clock people will eat it up.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Floyd said.
“To do nothing is to invite disaster,” Nat replied. “Our best defense is a quick offense. If we're careful, this will run a day or two, then drop from the news.”
Running for office is like being on a bus. Some days you get to drive; other days you sit on the backseat. Knowing when to do what is the trick. I trusted Nat and told her so.
“One last thing.” Nat made eye contact with Catherine. “You have some decisions to make.”
“I do?” Catherine had been picking at her sandwich, pinching off small bites and placing them in her mouth. She covered her mouth as she spoke as if she had a wad of food ready to fall out. I doubted she had eaten enough to dirty her teeth.
“I assume you have a publicist,” Nat said.
“Yes. Franco Zambonelli. I called him right after I called the police. He said he was coming up to see me.”
“That doesn't surprise me,” Nat offered. “I think we should hide you away while Doug Turner is here. You're news and he'll want to talk to you about your chauffeur and his murder at your new home. There's good journalistic mileage in that. I don't think your publicist would like us meddling in his work.”