13 - Knock'em Dead (12 page)

The Westin’s night manager told me they were fully booked, with the exception of a two-bedroom, two-bath suite.

“I’ll take it,” I said. “Can you have me moved right away?”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll send people to pack you up and bring everything to the new suite. It’s right down the hall from where you are now.”

I went to where Wendell stood in the lobby.

“You’re staying here,” I said.

He looked around. “It’s pretty fancy, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t have much money with me and—”

“It won’t cost you anything. I’m changing my room to a two-bedroom suite.”

“Stay in
your
room?” he said, sounding worried. “I don’t know if Sheriff Metzger would approve of that.”

“You’re not staying in
my
room, Wendell. You’re staying in
your
room, with your own bath.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. I don’t want you traveling by yourself at night on the subway. When we get to the suite, I want you to call your uncle and mother immediately, tell them you’re safe and that they aren’t to worry.”

“Okay.”

“Would you like something to drink while we wait?”

“A soda would be fine.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The bar, located off the lobby, was busy, but we found a small table, took it, and ordered a Coke for him, a club soda for me. A TV played silently behind the bar, a basketball game’s ten players performing their acrobatics sans sound.

I raised my glass to Wendell. “Well,” I said, “here’s to your arrival in New York. Sorry it involves murder, but—”

I was looking at him, but the TV was in my peripheral vision. The game was suddenly obliterated by breaking news. A newsman filled the screen while a headline crawled across the bottom of it. I was transfixed, my glass held motionless above the table, the words on the screen telling the tale: Broadway serial killer strikes twice in one day—Two murders at the Drummond Theater—The play,
Knock ’Em Dead,
again the scene of a savage attack—Stay tuned for details at eleven.

“Excuse me,” I said, getting up and going to a public phone in the lobby.

I tried Matt Miller first, then Vaughan Buckley, both without success. I was about to call the theater manager’s office when I remembered that Lieutenant Henry Hayes had given me his card. I tried the main number listed on it and was connected with headquarters. The officer taking the call was reluctant to give me information, but after I properly identified myself and told him Detective Hayes had asked me to stay in close touch, he told me the detective was at the Drummond Theater, and that he’d contact him by beeper. I gave him the number of the booth from which I’d placed the call.

It wasn’t more than two minutes before Hayes called.

“Lieutenant, I just saw a report on TV that there’s been a second murder at the theater.”

“Leave it to the press to get it wrong. There hasn’t been a second murder
at the theater.”

“But—”

“It happened a block away, behind a bar.”

“Why would the press say it happened at the theater?”

“Because the deceased is the doorman at the Drummond’s stage door.”

My sharp intake of breath was audible over the phone, I was sure. “Vic?”

“Right.”

“That lovely old man?”

“Yes, that lovely old man. Somebody hit him in the head in an alley behind the bar.”

“How horrible.”

“I just came from there. He’d been drinking since late afternoon.”

“That seems out of character,” I said. “He didn’t seem the sort of man who would abandon his post to go drinking.”

“I wouldn’t know. The press is all over the street here. How are things at the hotel?”

“Quiet. I—”

I looked through the doors to the street where media vehicles mingled with police cars. A number of men and woman, all from the press I assumed, were being kept from entering by the night manager and some of his staff.

“Maybe not so quiet,” I said. “Will you be at the theater tomorrow?”

“Sure will. You?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be there at ten.”

“And so will I. Thanks for the update.”

“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but that would be a lie.”

The night manager spotted me, crossed the lobby and said, “We have you moved, Mrs. Fletcher. You can go to the suite any time.”

“Thank you.”

“I think you’d better go now. See what’s happening outside?”

“Yes, I do. Let me get Wendell.”

“Wendell?”

“My bodyguard. He’s from Maine.”

“Oh.”

I paid for our soft drinks and brought Wendell back out to the lobby.

“This is Wendell,” I said to the night manager.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Wendell said, his head bobbing.

“Wendell will be staying in the suite with me.”

“Your bodyguard.”

“Yes.”

“I’m from Cabot Cove, Maine,” Wendell said.

“He’s licensed,” I said.

“Of course. This way, please.”

The suite was perfectly configured. The second, smaller bedroom was physically separated from the living room and my bedroom by doors.

“You go ahead and call your uncle and mother,” I told him once we were inside. “And get to bed. We have an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It suddenly occurred to me that he didn’t have any luggage.

“Do you have fresh clothes with you, Wendell?”

“Yes, ma’am, except I left them at the theater.”

“Oh, well, we’ll have the hotel send up a toothbrush and other necessities. You’ll just have to sleep in what you’re wearing. You can change tomorrow once we get to the theater.”

“Okay,” he said, then headed for his end of the suite. He stopped, turned, and said, “I guess you don’t like having me around, Mrs. Fletcher, and I can’t say that I blame you. But the sheriff said it was important that you be safe here in New York.” His grin was pleasant and genuine. “I’ll just do my job and try to stay out of your way.”

“Wendell,” I said, “I am very happy you are here with me in New York. I feel safe and protected, thanks to you. The sheriff and the others in the theater party will be arriving next week and we’ll all have a good time enjoying New York City.”

“That sounds fine. Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“How come they call it the Big Apple?”

I smiled. “Because you can taste life here with one bite like no other place on earth. Good night, Wendell.”

“Good night, Mrs. Fletcher.”

And taste murder, too,
I thought after he’d closed the door and I was alone.

Murder!

An unwelcome intruder into my dream of having one of my books turned into a Broadway play.

Wendell and I had breakfast at seven and headed directly for the theater. The second murder of someone connected with
Knock ’Em Dead
and the Drummond Theater was again front page news, as expected. But the press corps that had camped in front of the hotel earlier in the evening evidently had been called to cover bigger and better stories—bigger and better murders? Only a few stragglers were in front of the Westin when we climbed into a cab.

The scene on West Forty-fourth Street was a different matter. TV remote trucks were parked in front of the theater, their telescoping antennas jutting up like church spires, the religion of fast-breaking news. Reporters hurled questions at me as I exited the cab but I ignored them, answering only with a smile and wave of my hand. As we reached the front doors where two uniformed officers stood guard, a young woman asked, “Is it true you had a bodyguard brought in from Maine because you’re afraid for your life?”

I turned and faced her. “Of course not,” I said.

“Then who’s he?” she asked, indicating Wendell, wearing his green security guard’s uniform.

“He’s—just a friend.” To Wendell: “Come on. Let’s get inside.” He looked as though he was about to respond to the reporter.

One of the officers was reluctant to allow us to enter, but Lieutenant Hayes’s partner, Tony Vasile, spotted me from the lobby and waved us inside.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” He looked at Wendell but said nothing.

“My friend, here, left his suitcase at the theater overnight. He needs to get it.”

“Where did you leave it?” Vasile asked.

“In there,” Wendell replied, indicating the theater itself.

“What did it look like?” Vasile asked.

Wendell shrugged. “A big old thing. It’s my mom’s. She let me use it for the trip.”

“Cloth? Green? With yellow flowers?”

“Yes, sir, that’s it.”

“It’s at headquarters.”

“How did it end up there?” I asked.

“Bomb squad took it.” “Bomb squad?”

“Couldn’t take any chances. You see a strange suitcase standing alone and you think bomb.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Can we arrange to have it returned?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

We followed Vasile into what’s called the house, where hundreds of theater goers would enjoy
Knock ’Em Dead
in less than two weeks—provided the show wasn’t cancelled.

“Lieutenant Hayes said he’d meet me here at ten,” I said once we’d reached the stage apron. A lone technician fiddled with lighting equipment. Other than him and the police, we seemed to be the only ones there.

“Yeah, he’ll be here by then.”

Two uniformed officers emerged from backstage. One asked Vasile, “When’s our relief coming?”

“Any minute,” Vasile said.

The officers muttered something unintelligible and disappeared into the wings.

“I take it they’re securing the area where Harry’s murder took place,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“I heard about Vic, the doorman. Anything new on that front?”

“No.”

“He was killed behind a bar a block from here?”

“That’s right. Somebody whacked him on the head.”

“How sad. He was such a nice man.”

“I wouldn’t know, but he shouldn’t have been off drinking and leaving the door unmanned. Maybe if he hadn’t, Schrumm would still be alive.”

“What’s the name of the bar?” I asked.

“Rafferty’s. Down the street.”

“Was it a robbery gone wrong?” I asked.

“Could be. His wallet was gone.”

“What do people in the bar say? How long had he been there?”

“What are you doing, getting information for your next murder mystery?” he asked unpleasantly.

“No, not at all,” I replied. “Just natural curiosity.”

The theater manager, Peter Monroe, arrived.

“When will you and your people be gone?” he asked Vasile. “I’m getting nothing but complaints from the director and the producer’s office. We have a play to put on.”

I expected an angry response from the detective. Instead, he said nothing, just walked away shaking his head.

“You mentioned the producer’s office,” I told Monroe. “Who has taken over the production from Mr. Schrumm?”

“Mrs. Factor.”

“Mrs. Factor? She’s one of the backers, not the producer.”

“I just know what I’m told,” Monroe said. “She called and said she and her husband are the producers now that Schrumm is gone.”

“I’m not doubting you,” I said. “Is it unusual for a backer to become the producer under such circumstances?”

His laugh was small and rueful. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been involved in ‘such circumstances.’ Excuse me. I’ve got to deal with ticket sales.”

“Not an especially pleasant fella,” Wendell said.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” I said. “Everyone is. What we have to do is get you some clean clothes in case the police won’t release your suitcase.”

Wendell smiled. “Imagine that, Mrs. Fletcher, thinking there was a bomb in Momma’s suitcase. That’s pretty funny.”

I didn’t see much humor in it at the moment.

“Wendell,” I said, “here’s two hundred dollars.” I handed him ten twenty dollar bills. “I want you to go out, find a men’s store, and buy yourself some fresh underwear, a few shirts, socks, things like that. The hotel was good enough to provide you with a razor, toothbrush, and other necessities.”

“I couldn’t do that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Couldn’t do what?”

“Take your money to buy me clothes.”

“I insist. Make sure the officers at the front door know who you are and that you’ll be coming back so they’ll let you in.”

“If you say so, only I shouldn’t be leaving you alone, not even for a minute.”

“I’m perfectly safe here, Wendell. There are police everywhere.”

“Sheriff Metzger told me not to trust the police in New York. He said they’re corrupt.”

“Most of them aren’t, Wendell, just a few bad apples like any other group. Go on, now.”

He ambled from the house and to the lobby, passing Lieutenant Hayes, who’d just arrived. The detective greeted me warmly.

“I almost dreaded getting up,” I said, “facing another day and another murder.”

“Unfortunately, you get used to it, Mrs. Fletcher, if you do it enough. Where’s your young friend going?”

“To buy clothes. You confiscated his suitcase from the theater.”

“That was his? Didn’t have any choice.”

“I understand. Lieutenant, about the doorman, Vic. What was his last name?”

“I’ve been asked that a lot. No one seemed to know, if he did have a last name. Was known as Vic by everyone for years. We got it from Monroe, the theater manager. Victor Righetti.”

“A family?”

“Can’t find any. Lived by himself in a residence hotel on the Upper West Side.”

“I understand he’d been at the bar drinking all afternoon. Rafferty’s is the name of it?”

“Right. A Broadway institution. Been around for years. Never any trouble there. Owned by the same Irish family for generations.”