Director's Cut (7 page)

“You may be right,” Catherine said.

“I'm pretty sure I am. Can you reach him?”

“I can call his cell phone.”

“It sounds like we all have calls to make,” Nat said, and pulled her cell phone from the cloth caddy. Catherine reached for her cell phone, and I took the cordless from Floyd.

Poor Floyd looked lost.

Chapter 7

N
at had been right about the television stations. She had also been wrong. None wanted “tape” so we didn't need to set up a place for a press conference. I was relieved. The early evening news was already over by the time I called. That left only the ten and eleven o'clock broadcasts. Only one station was local; the others operated out of LA. Murder stories are so common in the greater Los Angeles area they barely make the news, unless they are unusually gruesome. All three stations were content with a phone interview. We emailed a publicity photo to each station, which they appreciated. Television thrives on visuals.

Each interview was a clone of the previous. The reporter thanked me, asked a few general questions, pretended to be moved by the horror of swimming with a corpse, and then thanked me again. I referred them to the police for any specifics. They seemed satisfied—for now.

Doug Turner was a bit of a mystery. He was noble and professional and I could trust him—even if he was a reporter. But I couldn't find him. I called his office and left a message with his editor who promised to page him. There was nothing to do but wait for his call.

The breeze had picked up again, so we moved from the rear deck into the living room. I built a fire in the fireplace and we gathered around. Catherine entertained us with tales of her New York experiences, made us laugh as she recounted a few gaffes she had made from the stage, and told how different making movies was than straight theater. She even told us about the early product commercials she made. We listened, asked questions, and laughed at the appropriate times.

Floyd sat enraptured by each tale. I started to ask him how Celeste was doing but bit my tongue. Celeste and Floyd were evolving into an item. While some people fell in and out of love as quickly as the weather changed, Floyd and Celeste moved forward at glacial speeds. To ask about Celeste now would embarrass the young man. I let it go.

Anyone looking at the scene might have mistaken the gathering in my living room as a small party, but we knew better. We were avoiding the horror of the day. Catherine told her humorous stories because entertaining was her coping mechanism. Her eyes, however, no longer flickered as they did when I picked her up at the theater, and her shoulders were slightly rounder than before. She was being brave, but as every person who has been forced to be courageous knows, bravery isn't the absence of fear. Anxiety, shock, confusion, and uncertainty not only remain, they're fanned to searing flames. The courageous are merely people who keep doing what needs to be done despite what they feel. Catherine had just joined those ranks.

The soft melody of tinny music filled the room—a Mozart aria. Catherine's cell phone was sounding. We fell silent as she exchanged a few words. She looked at me. “It's Franco. He needs directions.”

“Do you want me to give them?”

She handed me the phone. The voice on the other end was nasal and tinted with a New Jersey accent. With a name like Franco, I was expecting Italian. I asked where he was and then gave him step-by-step directions to the house. I handed the phone back to Catherine and she made her good-byes.

“He said he'd be here soon.” Catherine looked at me. “I know about the need to keep our lives private. I appreciate your opening your home to me and letting Franco come by.”

“That's what family is for,” I said. “Franco sounds like an East Coaster.”

“He grew up in New Jersey, then moved to New York. Later he moved his publicity firm to LA to work with the film people. There's more business in movies than in theater.”

“How long has he been your publicist?” I asked.

“Almost a year now. He did the publicity for the production house, and then I hired him a few months later. He's one of the best.”

“Did he get you the part in the next movie?” Floyd wondered.

Catherine gave him a smile, and I was pretty sure Floyd was going to melt into my sofa. “Publicists don't represent actors to producers and directors, agents do. Franco represents me to the media. In a sense, by getting my name well known, he's responsible for the continued interest in my work, but deals are made by agents.”

“So you have an agent?” Nat said.

“Two. I have one agent in Hollywood. She deals with the film industry. I also have an agent in New York who represents me to the Broadway and off-Broadway producers. I also have a business manager.”

“Wow, Catherine,” I said. “It sounds like you're a small business.”

“As an actor, I am, but there's nothing small about the movie business. Millions of dollars flow like water. Every day deals are made and broken by the dozen. It's important to have people you trust around you.”

“And you trust all these people?” I wondered.

“Mostly, but never completely.” She pursed her lips, and her eyes shifted to the fire.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“The first thing you learn in the business is that the waters are filled with sharks. When you're an actor, people act like you're the most important thing in their lives, but what they really want is access to your money or influence. There have been many actors who have had their bank accounts emptied by people they trust.”

Sadness oozed through me. There was something heartbreaking in seeing innocent youth tarnished with the realities of life. Sitting on my sofa was an overnight success, a sudden millionaire, a beauty who could be recognized on any street in America, and she was only twenty-five. At an age when most are trying to form a career, she had already achieved wild success. Her face and manner radiated her youth, but her eyes were revealing hard-earned wisdom of someone twice her age. I was proud of her.

“It sounds like you've taken precautions,” Nat said.

Catherine turned her gaze to Nat. “I have to. My business manager handles all my bills, but he doesn't have access to my bank accounts. He submits a detailed list of bills to pay, and I transfer money. He advises me on investments but knows I'll always get a second opinion.”

Nat raised her well-arched eyebrows. “You got him to agree to that?”

“He had no choice. It was the price of doing business with me.”

Nat laughed. “Maddy, I think you should drop out of the race and let Catherine run. Congress needs people with common sense.”

“Watch it,” I said. “Are you saying I have no common sense?”

“I would never say that.” She winked.

Floyd leaned forward, eyes wide. “How does someone become an agent? I mean, can anyone become an agent? Do you have to go to school?”

Dear
,
dear Floyd
. Floyd is a professional wannabe. He doesn't know what he wants to be, so he wants to be everything. Since he's come to work for me, he's expressed interest in becoming a businessman, politician, and even a police officer. He is like a moth who can't decide which source of light to circle. His father is Lenny Grecian—Reverend Lenny Grecian—my pastor. Pastor Lenny spent his youth surfing, then driving a truck. Someplace along the line he discovered faith, or faith discovered him. Some of Pastor Lenny's initial lack of focus must have been genetically transferred to Floyd.

“It's a hard business, Floyd,” Catherine said. “More fail at it than succeed.”

The doorbell rang. I rose, approached the door, and put my eye to the business end of the security peephole. Bathed in the yellow light of the front porch stood a man with a head as hairless as an egg; dark, thick eyebrows nestled on a round face.

“Who is it?” I was being overcautious but past events have made me leery about opening the door to nighttime visitors.

“Franco Zambonelli.” The door muffled his words.

I unlatched the locks and opened the door. “I'm Maddy Glenn. Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

He was shorter than me by three inches and was round above the belt. He wore a beige sport coat over a white dress shirt, no tie, black slacks, and New Balance running shoes. I was pretty sure he had never run in them.

I closed the door and led Mr. Zambonelli to the others. Catherine stood and smiled. “Hi, Franco.” Her words were soft.

“Hi, nuthin',” he said. He stepped forward and gave her a brief hug. His accent was thick. “You okay, kid?”

“I'm fine.” She motioned to me. “This is my cousin, Mayor Madison Glenn—”

“Just Maddy,” I said.

Catherine introduced the others. Franco did a double take when Catherine introduced Nat. It was a common reaction. I had done the same thing when I first met her. Beauty in a wheelchair was jarring. It shouldn't be, but it was.

Franco then looked at me. “Mayor? Really. You're mayor of this little berg?”

Little berg?
“Yes, Mr. Zambonelli, I'm the mayor of Santa Rita.” I bit my tongue and tried to change the subject. “May I offer you a drink?”

“Scotch, if you have it.”

“I'm afraid I don't. I don't have anything with alcohol—”

“Oh, one of those, eh? Doesn't matter. I knocked back a coupla' double lattes on the drive over. I'm a little wired.”

That was an understatement. “Have a seat, Mr. Zambonelli—”

“Call me Franco. Back in Jersey they call me Frankie Z., but for some reason that makes youse California types think of the Mafia.”

Catherine returned to her place on the sofa, leaving the middle space open between her and Floyd. Franco looked at Floyd.

“You mind if I sit there, kid? I need to talk to my client.”

Floyd stood and searched for another place to sit. He looked emotionally injured. I patted the empty portion of the love seat. As Floyd joined me, I gazed at Franco and wondered how badly my campaign would be hurt if I pummeled him with the fireplace poker.

“Okay,” Franco said to Catherine. “Tell me what's new. About the murder, I mean.”

“Not much,” Catherine said. “The police showed up and took over. They asked me a lot of questions, and Maddy too. They said they'd be processing the scene until late tonight, so Maddy said I could stay with her.”

“Did the cops mistreat you, kid? Did they push you around any?”

Catherine blinked several times. “No, why would they do that?”

“I'm just looking out for your well-being, baby. That's all. Just your well-being.” He turned to me. “What kinda cops you got here?”

“What do you mean?” I stuffed down a little more irritation.

“You know. Are they straight or on the take?”

He gave no indication he knew how offensive the question was. “The Santa Rita police department is one of the best law enforcement agencies in the country.”

“No offense meant, Mayor, it's just that I know how these small-town police departments are. This is the perfect situation for someone to make a name for himself: beautiful movie star, rich, big home and all that.”

“The detective is Judson West, and he learned his craft in San Diego, one of the nation's largest cities. He is skilled and fair.”

“Like I said, no offense meant.” He returned his attention to Catherine. “Would you prefer a hotel? I can set you up with a suite in Santa Barbara or Thousand Oaks.”

I caught Nat looking at me. I couldn't decide if she was silently pleading with me not to hurt the man or begging me to.

“I want to stay with Maddy. Besides, this is where I told the police I would be if they needed to contact me.”

“I understand, baby. I understand. But will you be comfortable enough here?”

I snapped my jaw shut to stem the tsunami of snide remarks. Wisecracks and threats flowed from my brain to my mouth like a flash flood. I have always had trouble controlling my mouth. It's a family trait. Some months ago I became a person of faith. I see things differently now, but the old nature was still there and I still lost more internal battles of discipline than I won. I learned that a Christian's words were to be “seasoned with salt.” I was sensing more pepper than salt. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I'm fine here, Franco,” Catherine said. “Really. I should be able to go home tomorrow or the next day.”

“Okay, okay. I'm just trying to do what's best for you.” He scooted closer and took her hand in his. “Who else have you spoken to?”

“Nothing's changed since I spoke to you last on the phone.”

“This little play you're doing; have you spoken to the director to tell him that he'll have to replace you?”

“Why would I do that?” Catherine asked.

“Listen, kid . . .” He looked at me, then the others. “Could we have a moment here?”

That was it. “You're asking me to leave my living room in my home in my city—”

“It's okay,” Catherine said to Franco quickly. “I want them here. They're my friends, and they've given me good advice.”

I caught a glance at Floyd who looked ready to pop buttons.

Catherine continued. “It was Nat who told me to wait until you got here before talking to anyone else. I trust her and Maddy. And Floyd.”

“Okay, sweetheart. If they're good with you, then they're good with me. Now back to this play thing. I spoke to Stewart Rockwood and Chuck Buchanan and they're afraid that adverse publicity could damage the project. They want you to drop off the radar scope for a month or so, come back to Hollywood and focus on the movie.”

“I am focused on the movie,” Catherine retorted. “We're just going over script reviews now. Principle shooting doesn't begin for several weeks.”

“I know, I know, but it would ease their minds. You've done Broadway and the big screen, kid, you shouldn't be doing dinner theaters and local stock.”