Director's Cut by Alton Gansky Page A

up.”
    â€œNo. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to stay with me again.”
    â€œThank you, but I’ll be okay . . .” She paused. “Okay, maybe one more night, but I have to leave early in the morning.”
    â€œI rise pretty early. It won’t be a problem. Dinner?”
    She shook her head and her long raven hair shimmered in waves. “Remember? Harold is buying the cast dinner tonight. Do you want me to see if I can get you invited?”
    â€œSounds fun, but I still have some catching up to do. I’ll wait up for you, and we can have hot chocolate or something.”
    â€œOkay. I shouldn’t be late. I need my sleep.”
    Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Catherine at the front door of the Curtain Call theater.

Chapter 10
    I made it back to the office in time to gather and review my notes, making changes based on the business license information Floyd had compiled. The speech would be short, and then I’d entertain questions. I was to speak after lunch, which meant that I’d eat very little. Most public speakers forgo eating right before they speak. It cuts down on throat clearing and sleepiness. It was bad enough when the audience dozed off after lunch; it was unforgivable when the speaker did so.
    On my drive from the office to the Ocean Green Country Club—a golf course with a meeting room large enough for the active members of the chamber—I kept noticing guardrails. Some were different than what I had seen a couple of hours before. The rails were wider, some fixed to wood posts instead of metal, and some higher. All my life, I had passed these low-lying barricades that line streets and freeways and had never taken notice of them. Now I couldn’t stop thinking of them and when I did, I was immediately immersed in thoughts about the murder that took place at Catherine’s and her missing script.
    I forced my brain to change gears. I was about to speak to the business leaders of Santa Rita, and I needed to be at my best. Some of the people had contributed to my campaign for congress, others opposed my election. Some were CEOs of billion-dollar businesses, others were struggling mom-and-pop shops. All deserved a mayor who was prepared and had something to say.
    As I pulled into the parking lot of the country club, I could see I should have left sooner. The lot was full. Either there was a major golf tournament I didn’t know about, or I would be speaking to a packed house. I hoped for the latter. I found a spot at the far end of the lot, guided my Aviator into the stall, and marched across the pavement to the country club meeting hall.
    The place was abuzz. One reason people join the chamber is to network. When I walked in I saw hands being shaken, cards being exchanged, and pats being delivered to backs.
    It was showtime.
    I left the country club feeling good about the speech. No one dozed off, no one made snide remarks masked as questions, and no one asked a question I didn’t have an answer for—always a danger. My relief was short-lived as thoughts of what remained in the afternoon loomed before me. I had a two o’clock with the Community Development Department and a briefing meeting with the council. I should head straight back to the office.
    I didn’t.
    Instead, I called Floyd and asked him to push the CDD meeting back fifteen minutes, then I directed my vehicle toward Pacific Horizon Hospital.
    PHH is a four-story structure that sits on the east side of the freeway, hunkered down in the gentle hills. It is a glass and concrete structure that refuses to blend in with its surroundings. It had all the style and form of a refrigerator. It wasn’t pretty to look at, but those who worked within its walls made the place memorable and the architecture forgivable. PHH boasted some of the best-trained and brightest minds in medicine. Only high-end research hospitals could brag about a better staff, and even then, they