Director's Cut (23 page)

It felt odd to stand in the narrow room, looking through a see-through mirror at Catherine, now dressed in slacks, tennis shoes, and a gray, unmarked sweatshirt. I had seen such rooms on television but to actually be in one made me feel out of place. Jerry stood beside me. West allowed us to watch as a concession, one he gave begrudgingly. One day, I would no longer be mayor and my ability to stretch privilege would be at an end. I wondered if I could leverage the same kind of favoritism if I won the congressional election. I doubted it.

The door to our dark room opened, then closed. Bill Webb walked in, bringing a goose bump–raising chill with him. He eyed me in a way that made it clear I had once again gotten under his skin. His face bore the same look of pain that it always did. I tried to remember the last time I saw him smile.

Bill Webb wore the title chief of police, and he wore it proudly. Santa Rita was fortunate to have him. He ran a tight ship, played by the book, and was as dedicated a man as I have ever met. I held his abilities and his position in high regard. The man, however, was a different matter. He was honest, forthright, determined, and possessed a hundred other commendable qualities, but he irritated me beyond endurance. My only comfort was that I had the same effect on him. Over the years, we had butted heads over finances. He wanted more, and I wouldn't give it to him. The money just wasn't there, and he blamed me for it. Every year he'd ask for more money in the budget to hire personnel and to improve equipment; each year I gave him less than he wanted. He was never glad to see me, and I had only been glad to see him once—when he saved my life.

I thought that formative event would change our relationship. It didn't.

A second after Webb entered the viewing area, Judson West entered the interrogation room. I saw Catherine stiffen and my heart melted.

“Detective West said you'd be here,” Webb said, his voice low. “He said you've been helpful.”

“I want to be here for Catherine,” I said, matching his tone. “She's been through a lot for someone her age.”

“It wouldn't be any easier if she were older.”

“You're probably right,” I said. “You know Dr. Jerry Thomas, don't you, Chief?”

“We've met.” He gave Jerry a nod.

Voices, picked up by a microphone in the room, played over a speaker mounted in the ceiling.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Anderson. I needed to report to the chief. May I get you a drink? Water? Coffee? Soda?”

“No, thank you.” Catherine's voice cracked and so did my heart.

“First, let me say you are
not
under arrest. You are free to leave at any time. Do you understand that?”

“Yes. Maddy said my being here might help you.”

“We hope so. We want to catch the murderer as soon as possible.” He cleared his throat. “I also need to inform you that you have a right to have an attorney present during questioning. Previously, you declined an opportunity to call a lawyer. Would you like to do so now?”

“No.”

“One last thing before we begin. I wish to inform you I am recording this meeting. Do you understand that?”

“I do.” She put her hands on the table, wringing them as if trying to wipe away a stain.

“Earlier this evening you were performing in a play at the Curtain Call dinner theater but left to go to your home. Can you tell me what prompted that?”

“You already know.”

“Yes, I do, but I'm trying to create a time continuity. I want to know things in order.”

“Okay. I understand, I think.” She swallowed. “We were at intermission. I was in a room backstage where the actors meet. One of the theater's employees brought me the movie script, the second one you have now. It scared me.”

“Why did it frighten you?” West asked.

“Because I had already picked up a new script, and I wasn't expecting another. And . . . and I was afraid there would be pages like the other pages.”

“Like the ones in the script brought to you by Andy Buchanan?”

At the mention of Andy's name, Catherine began to tear up. She dabbed at her eyes with a finger. “Poor Andy. What will his father say? Poor Chuck. Has anyone told him? He should know. Someone should tell him.”

“It was another reason I was late,” West said. “I called him.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don't think I could have done it.”

“Ms. Anderson, do you know the employee who brought you the script?”

She shook her head. “Tonight was the first time I had seen her.”

“How do you know she's an employee?” West pressed.

“She had a name tag. One of those plastic tags with the name of the theater on it. She wasn't a waitress. I think she worked the gift shop.”

“What did you do after she handed you the script?”

“I got scared. I made myself look for the pages that someone put in the script Andy brought. You know, the one I needed to replace the one gone missing. Those pages weren't there, but there were others. I was afraid someone was in trouble, so I raced home.”

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“I don't know.”

“Ms. Anderson,” West asked softly. “How did you get from the theater to your home? Mayor Glenn dropped you off, and to my knowledge you don't have another chauffeur, and you didn't have a car available.”

That was a good question. I wondered the same thing.

“I took a cab.”

“A cab? A taxi.” West cocked his head to the side. “You called for a cab?”

“No. There was one waiting in the parking lot. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Well, Ms. Anderson, I understand that you grew up in Santa Rita, then moved to New York. You should know that while we certainly have taxis in the city, you don't find them on every street corner. If you want a cab in this town you have to call for one.”

“I didn't call for one,” Catherine said. She was becoming defensive again. “I ran out to the parking lot and saw a cab. I took it.”

“How did you pay for it? I mean, you were still in your costume, right?”

“I grabbed my purse before I left. It's instinctive with women.” She leaned back, putting another foot of distance between her and West.

Chief Webb leaned my direction. “You can bet Detective West will double-check that.”

I chose not to comment. My mind was racing. West had been right. Unlike megacities, cabs in Santa Rita didn't wait at key locations for a fare. They'd starve. Southern Californians were fiercely loyal to their cars. Only those who couldn't drive or needed a ride to the train station or airport called for a taxi.

“So the cab dropped you off at your home. Then what?”

“I ran up the drive and into the house.”

“Was there anyone in the house?”

Catherine replied, “No, but the patio light was on. I pulled back the curtains, just like the new pages in the script said, but there was no intruder. I opened the rear door and—”

“Was it locked?”

Catherine thought for a second. “I don't remember unlocking it, but I may have. It's all a little blurry. Anyway, I went out on the porch. I didn't see anyone . . . not at first. Then I saw . . . I saw Andy in the chair.”

“Did you realize something was wrong?”

“No. Not at first. He was on the terrace near the pool. I was still on the patio. The patio is higher up the slope than the terrace. I guess you know that. You were there.”

“That's all right. So you saw Andy Buchanan in the chair. Did you recognize him at that time?”

She wrung her hands again. “No. Well, sort of. He has that curly brown hair. Very distinctive. It looked like it could be Andy. I went to see.”

“Weren't you frightened?”

“Terrified, but the script had me . . . that is, Lacy . . . pleading for someone's life. I had to make sure it wasn't Andy and that he was all right.”

“So alone and at night, after reading pages of a script that frightened you, you descended the stone stairs to approach someone who might be Andy.”

“That's right. I know it wasn't wise, but I wasn't thinking clearly.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “I saw . . . I saw it was Andy and there was a . . . there was . . .”

“That's all right, Ms. Anderson. I know what you saw. Tell me what you did next.”

I stole a look at Jerry who looked pained at hearing this.

“I heard a car out front. I ran to the drive to get help.”

“You didn't touch the body?”

“No. Of course not.”

West said nothing, but waited, giving Catherine more time. She added nothing. “Ms. Anderson. The dress you were wearing, the one I asked you to change out of and give to the woman officer, was streaked with blood. How did blood come to be on the dress?”

At first, Catherine looked confused, then she said, “Oh. It's not blood. Well, it's not real blood. It's stage blood.”

My mind ran back to the first time I saw Catherine in the Curtain Call. Blood was oozing from her dress. It had been part of the rehearsal.

“It looked like blood to me,” West said.

“That's the idea, Detective. It's supposed to look real. In the third act, I'm supposed to be wounded.”

“So, when we test the dress we'll find nothing but food coloring?” West pressed.

“You won't even find that. Food coloring stains the costume. Stage blood is designed to clean up quickly.”

“So you had just been preparing for the next scene?”

“Yes. I carry a capsule of stage blood in the next scene. I get shot, and I'm supposed to squeeze the packet. The packet must have had a leak, and I wiped my hands on my dress. As I said, I was pretty shaken by the script.” She paused, then asked, “What's happened to Franco?”

“He's fine. He's being detained for assault.”

“He didn't really assault you. He just touched you.”

“Mr. Zambonelli was interfering with my investigation,” West said. “But don't worry. I'll cut him loose soon.”

“I would appreciate it,” Catherine said.

West ignored the comment. “Were you expecting Andy Buchanan to be at your home?”

“Not at all.”

“Any idea why he might have been there? Did he say anything to you at the reading today?”

“We barely spoke,” Catherine said. “I don't know why he was there.”

The questioning went on for another half hour but nothing new came of it. I listened to every word but felt more befuddled than when it all began. I only knew one thing:

Something wasn't right.

Chapter 23

W
hat now?” Jerry asked.

“Back to the theater,” I said, slipping into the passenger seat of Jerry's car. I browbeat Chief Webb and Detective West into making promises to keep me posted and to let me know as soon as Catherine was free to go. They drew the line at letting me talk to her before I left, claiming that they wanted to avoid any “appearance of evil.”

Jerry started the car. “What a night. I can't believe West took you down to see the victim. What was up with that?”

“He wanted to separate me from Catherine. He had questions.” I buckled my seat belt.

“What kind of questions?” He backed out of the stall and moved us through the parking lot and on to the street.

“He wanted to know if Catherine has been acting strangely. If he thinks Catherine is part of murder, then he's on the wrong track.”

“Why? Women can't kill?”

“Does Catherine look like a killer to you?”

“I'm not sure appearance is proof of innocence or guilt. Did you tell him about her problem?”

I looked at Jerry. Streetlights cast puddles of light on the road, puddles that oozed into the car as we drove beneath their light fall.

“What problem?”

“Oh, surely you noticed, Maddy. You've spent time with her. I noticed it last night.”

“What? When we were having pie?”

“Exactly. How much pie did she eat?”

Why is everyone turning against her?
“I don't know. A piece.”

“Try a half of a slice of pie. And when she ate it she did so in a very specific way. Her teeth never touched the fork.”

“So? I don't know where you're going with this.”

Jerry steered toward the freeway and pressed the accelerator. “Let me ask you something. How much have you seen her eat?”

“Jerry. This is ridiculous.”

“Stop being obstinate. How much have you seen her eat?”

The question came out of nowhere, and I had to give it some thought. “The first evening at my place I came downstairs and she was sitting at the table eating apples and cheese. She had prepared it herself.”

“Anything unusual?”

“I don't know how unusual it is, but she had all the cheese and apple slices lined up. Come to think of it, she stopped eating when I appeared. She drank her tea, however.”

“Was that her dinner for the night?”

“No, Nat brought grinders over and—”

“Wait. Nat brought grinders, and you didn't invite me?”

“It was one of those spontaneous things. It was Nat's idea. Floyd had come over with some information from the office, and we sat around eating the sandwiches. Don't worry, I won't tell you how delicious they were.”

“Thanks. I'm not going to let the fact Floyd was included and I wasn't bother me.”

“Weren't you stuck at the hospital? You couldn't have come anyway.”

He snorted. “It's the principle of the thing. What did Catherine do with the sandwich?”

“She ate . . .” That wasn't right. “She picked at it. Come to think of it, she didn't eat at the rehearsal party at the theater.” I pondered each time I had been with Catherine when food was present and in each case she did little more than nibble. “Do you think she has an eating disorder—but that can't be right. I was with her when she changed out of the costume into the clothing she's wearing now. She's thin but not painfully so.”