Director's Cut (8 page)

Catherine fell silent. I couldn't advise her. As much as it galled me, I could see Franco's point.

Catherine lowered her head, and I readied myself to hear her acquiesce. When she looked up she said, “I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it. There's nothing in my contract that says I can't do local theater. I'm going to do my part.”

“Be reasonable, Catherine,” Franco whined. “You're a star now, not a beginner.”

“I've made up my mind,” Catherine said. I had a new reason to be proud of her.

“I can't talk you out of it?” Franco tilted his head to one side and put on his best hangdog look. It was pathetic.

“No.”

Franco looked at me as if I was using some kind of mind control on his client. I raised my hands. “Don't look at me; I'm just the lowly mayor of a little berg.”

He frowned. Nat bit her lip and tried to force down the corners of her mouth. Floyd shifted nervously.

“Have you spoken to the media?” Franco said.

“Maddy did, but she didn't tell them about me or that I was staying here.”

“Good. That's real good.”

My life was complete. I could now die happy.

He continued. “If the media starts bugging you—say, at rehearsals or something—refer them to me. You have my cell number. Better yet, maybe I'll sit through the rehearsals. That way I can run interference for you.”

“Okay,” Catherine conceded.

Franco rose and I joined him. “Is there a decent hotel around?”

The image of Sleep Right motel popped to the front of my mind. Most people referred to it as the Flea Bite motel. It was run-down, dirty, and the place where the city's few prostitutes and drug dealers hang out. I fought the urge to give him the address. I also had to squelch the nagging desire to tell him to try Thousand Oaks or Santa Barbara. Instead, I referred him to one of the business hotels near the center of town.

I walked him to the door and wished him a good night. It took work, but I did it. He thanked me and shook my hand.

Earlier that day, I had plunged into blood-tinted water in a useless effort to save a man's life. I ended up dragging a corpse to the side of the pool, yet I felt dirtier after shaking Franco Zambonelli's hand.

Chapter 8

T
he hardest part about travel is coming home. No matter how short the trip, say to Sacramento, and no matter how mundane the task, say a mayors' meeting with the governor, it was always difficult to come back to a desk backed up with work. I strolled into my office at ten minutes to eight. I had been gone over a week, but it felt longer.

I hesitated at the door between Floyd's office and my own. On most days, I love my job. Coming to the office was a joy. Like today, I would enter, sit behind a large cherry desk—a gift from my husband—read the Santa Rita
Register
and the
Los Angeles Times
to get my brain in gear, then dive into the work.

This morning I needed an extra moment. From the threshold I could see the number of files demanding my attention was twice what I expected it to be and three times what I
wanted
it to be. A stack of pink While You Were Out slips rested near the phone.

Time to get to work.

I set my purse inside one of the desk drawers and then glanced through the files. The city manager had sent up a file on a possible expansion of a park in the center of the city; the city attorney had forwarded the notification of a lawsuit against the city that had been dropped; Tess Lawrence had typed up and delivered her version of the city council meeting she chaired while I was gone; and the local redevelopment agency filed a report on cost estimates to refurbish the downtown library. There was a memo from our Local Agency Formation Commission; a letter from a citizens group against special city taxes; and a request to speak to the local chamber of commerce.

The telephone messages were many but none urgent and for that I was thankful.

I was tired.

After “Frankie Z.” had left—I still had to laugh at the moniker—Catherine, Nat, Floyd, and I visited a little longer. I broke out some pound cake and anointed the servings with Cool Whip. Catherine declined with a comment about her need to fit into costumes. Several of my “costumes” had stretch waists, so I ate my portion without guilt. I figure swimming while fully dressed allowed me some reward.

Floyd left soon after, and Catherine went to bed. Nat and I talked for another fifteen minutes before I walked her to the van. At last alone and in bed, I settled in for sleep that wouldn't come for another hour and a half. My body was ready, but my brain still had hashing to do. I hate nights like that.

Now I was back in familiar territory ready to take on the day's challenges.

“Coffee?”

I looked up and saw Fritzy standing in my door. She held a large cup.

“Did you make it?” I asked.

“Of course.” Her smile threatened to touch her ears.

“In that case, I'll take a great big, steaming mug.”

“Lucky for you, I just happen to have one here.” She stepped into my office and placed the cup on my desk. “Welcome home, Madam Mayor.”

I thanked her. Fritzy is an institution at city hall. A gray-haired woman with ever youthful eyes, she had become a dear friend. I had always admired the way she handled the reception desk and the way she made others feel welcome and valued. This past January she endured a horrible tragedy. I was thrown into the mix. I watched her weather the storm with the kind of strength poets wrote about. The dark time forged a new bond between us, one that neither my role as her boss or our age difference could dilute.

I took the cup and sniffed the rich aroma. The woman knew how to make coffee. “You're the best, Fritzy. I'm thinking of adopting you.”

“I'm more trouble than I'm worth. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I don't think so. I'm just getting my head back in the game. Did Floyd cause you any problems?”

She laughed. “Oh no. He's a wonderful boy. He did wander around a little lost while you were gone.”

“That's our Floyd, but he's not a boy, Fritzy. He's a college grad.”

“From where I stand, anyone his age is a boy.” She hesitated. I had a feeling I knew what was coming next. “I heard about what happened yesterday. It's horrible. And what you did. You amaze me.”

“Well, when you don't bother to think, you can do those things.”

“A murder at your cousin's house. Horrible. Just horrible.”

“It's in the hands of the police now,” I said and opened the
Register
.

“What's she like?”

“Who?” I looked up again.

“You know who. Catherine Anderson.”

I got it. “She's . . . Catherine. A little older, just as pretty, smart, and talented. I left her sleeping in the guest room.”

“I loved her movie.”

“It was a big hit,” I admitted.

“I saw it twice.”

“I take it you want to meet her,” I said.

“That'd be wonderful.” Fritzy's smile broadened. Something I didn't think was possible.

“I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do. Maybe I can get you a ticket to opening night or something. No promises though. Remember, I'm only the mayor.”

“That would be great,” Fritzy said. “I mean, if it's not too much trouble.”

“I'll ask her later this morning. I plan to pick her up a little before ten and drive her to rehearsal. We'll see what she has . . . to . . . say.”

A small article just below the fold on the front page of the
Register
kidnapped my attention: “Man Slain at Star's Home.” I had expected the article. The murder was news after all. What surprised me was the byline: Vincent Branch. Branch was the
Register
's editor. Why wasn't Doug Turner's name there? He had made the initial calls and when I spoke to Branch the previous evening, he acted like the story was Doug's.

Thinking he might have been pulled off for another story, I rifled through the newspaper. No articles by Doug. That wasn't conclusive of anything. When I spoke to Branch it was early evening. He would have to put the paper to bed soon so it would be on doorsteps this morning. If Doug had been reassigned, his new article might not be out until tomorrow or even later. It was odd but not bizarre. The news business was volatile and could change in minutes; breaking news often upstages political news conferences, at least at the city level.

I shook off the distraction and read the article. It was brief, succinct, and offered few facts. I could see Branch typing like crazy to get something about the murder in the paper. Unlike its large cousins, the
Register
operates with a small staff, small enough that Branch had to occasionally pick up the slack. I decided I'd have to ask Doug what happened the next time I spoke to him.

“I'm here.” Floyd walked into the room. “Can I get you a cup of—? Oh.” He looked at the mug on my desk.

“Fritzy beat you to it.”

Floyd just stood there. I stared at him. He stared at me. I love Floyd dearly, but at times he seems to orbit a different planet than the rest of us. Fritzy excused herself.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Oh. I was just wondering if there was anything special today.”

“Special? No, nothing special. I plan to review files and get caught up on messages until ten, then I need to pick up Catherine and take her to the Curtain Call for rehearsal. After that I have a luncheon with the chamber of commerce. At two I meet with the Community Development Department and at three, I brief the council about my meeting in Sacramento.”

“It sounds like a full day,” Floyd said. “Do you want me to pick up Catherine for you? I could take her to rehearsal.”

So that was it. “What would Celeste say about that?”

He shrugged. “We kinda broke up. It was her idea.”

That surprised me. Floyd was no ladies' man, but his refreshing honesty and his ability to take himself lightly was attractive. “When did this happen?” I motioned him to take a seat.

“Last week.” He sat, his round shoulders drooped another inch.

I waited for more but nothing came. This was going to be a question-and-answer situation. “Did you have a fight?”

He shook his head and gazed at the edge of my desk and rubbed the arm of the chair with his right thumb. “I think she's seeing someone else. Someone at the college.”

Celeste had just started her junior year at USB. Floyd was two or three years older and already out of college. They had hit it off, and I thought they made a great couple. Floyd isn't every girl's cup of tea, but he has a good heart and a fine mind even though the latter occasionally gets lost in youthful fog.

“I'm sorry, Floyd. These things are always tough.” Now I understood his barely concealed interest in Catherine. Of course, Catherine had the kind of beauty that broke men's hearts when she walked down the street.

“It's okay.”

“Nonsense. A broken relationship hurts and shouldn't be minimized. What makes you think she's seeing someone else?”

He shrugged again. “I dunno.”

“Floyd, do you have any reason to believe that she is seeing someone else? Has she told you that? Have you seen her with another man?”

“No.”

I waited again. Nothing. I pressed on. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“Last week. I called her, and she said she was too busy to talk.”

“Was she?”

“Was she what?”

“Floyd, maybe she
was
too busy to talk. You know how overwhelmed we get sometimes. Maybe she was telling you the truth.”

“Maybe.”

“It's up to you, but here's what I think you should do. Call her up and offer to meet her for lunch. She probably has classes today. Drive up there and meet her at the White Gull. Have some chowder or order burgers. See what she says. If she turns you down, then at least you know your hunch was right. If she has lunch with you, you may discover that you're worrying over nothing. How's that sound?”

“Good, I guess.”

“I'll call ahead and make sure they have a table for you. In fact, I'll arrange to make the whole thing my treat.” The White Gull was one of my favorite Santa Barbara restaurants. It sat on the ocean's edge. Even during a business lunch it was romantic.

“Okay. Maybe you're right.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe'? Have you ever known me to be wrong? Don't answer that. Just go pull those stats on new business licenses I asked you to compile. I'll need it for my luncheon.”

Floyd walked from the office.

I read through the papers and digested what I needed from the files on my desk and returned a few phone calls. That took a little over an hour. At a quarter past nine, I started perusing the business license information Floyd had gathered for me. Cities have several forms of income. The primary sources of revenue come from three taxes: property tax, the uniform local sales tax, and the vehicle license fee. We also receive money through state and federal aid, special assessments, and fees. That's why most cities work so hard to get businesses to move into city limits. More businesses mean more jobs, more tax revenues, and additional fees. A healthy city has a growing business base. Ours has fluctuated over the last three years and I had dedicated myself to improving Santa Rita's tax record without damaging our unique Edenesque setting.

That's what I planned to tell the chamber of commerce at their monthly luncheon. I also planned to talk about my run for congress.

I was immersed in the numbers of new businesses and examining the charts Floyd had prepared when he called through the open door between our offices. “A Ms. Catherine Anderson is on the phone for you.”

Ms. Catherine Anderson?
That was awful formal. I looked at the phone. Line one was lit but not blinking. Floyd had not put her on hold. The ceremonial announcement was for her benefit.