13 - Knock'em Dead (16 page)

“Nothing to do with Harry’s murder,” Arnold said. “A simple robbery.”

“A deadly robbery,” I said.

Jill made a sound of disgust, stood, went to the window, and wrapped her arms about herself. She said to the glass, “Enough about murder, unless it has to do with the play.” She turned and smiled. “I hope you like rack of lamb, Jessica. It’s on the menu tonight.”

The dining room table was long and lavishly set for three; it could accommodate sixteen. We were served by their housekeeper and cook, Mary. After she’d delivered our salads and gone to the kitchen, Jill said, “It’s so difficult finding good help these days. She’s the third one we’ve had in a year.”

I silently wondered whether the others had left because they hadn’t been paid, if the bartender at Rafferty’s was right about the Factors’ financial situation.

It was a pleasant if somewhat stiff dinner. The conversation was dominated by talk of
Knock ’Em Dead,
most of it coming from jill Factor. Arnold, who’d had another martini before dinner, showed the effects of the gin, although I wouldn’t characterize him as drunk, just an occasional slurring of a word and a look of fatigue not caused by the hour.

It was over dessert that the topic turned to me.

“I understand you’re widowed,” Jill said.

“Many years.”

“Never interested in marrying again?”

I was uncomfortable being asked such personal questions by people I hardly knew and didn’t particularly like, but I didn’t intend to make an issue of it.

“No, I haven’t met the right man yet.”

“Your husband must have been very special,” Jill said.

“He certainly was.”

Arnold laughed. “We did some research on you, Jessica.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Research? On me?”

“We like to know as much as possible about the people in whom we’re investing,” said Jill.

“That sounds reasonable. Did you come up with anything about me I should know?”

“Quite a career,” Arnold said. “How many books?”

“I’ve lost track. Dozens.”

“And every one a bestseller.”

“I wish that were true,” I said. “Some of the earlier ones never made the lists, but the reviews were always good, and my publisher is a throw-back to an earlier period when authors were nurtured, their careers built over a period of time. I was lucky in that sense.”

“How much does a really successful book earn—you know, one that hits the
Times’
best-seller list and stays there?”

I shrugged. “Hard to say. It varies.”

“Millions?” Jill asked.

“Some books, but not mine. Let’s just say I haven’t missed any meals.”

They laughed politely. Arnold said, “I read in some gossip column a year or so back that you were romantically involved with a Scotland Yard inspector.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s wonderful that a rich and famous murder mystery writer would fall in love with a Scotland Yard type,” Jill said.

The conversation was beginning to nettle me. I said, “One, I may be famous but I don’t consider myself rich. Two, the gossip columnist you read has it wrong. The Scotland Yard inspector in question and I are good friends, that’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Arnold said.

“Why don’t we have our coffee and after-dinner drinks in the living room where we can enjoy the view,” Jill suggested.

Arnold mixed himself another martini. Jill accepted a balloon snifter of brandy from him; I was content with coffee.

Arnold said from behind the bar, “We’d like to make you a business proposition, Jessica.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“A chance to invest in your own show,”
said, “to reap the profits of what will obviously be a long-running smash hit.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve already made my investment by writing the book the play is based upon.”

Arnold came around the bar and perched on a stool. “Jessica, the percentage of the profits you hold won’t amount to much. The real money is the return on financial investment in the show. Jill and I are willing to sell you a half interest in our percentage, which, I hasten to add, is substantial.”

Before I could respond, Jill said, “We’re willing to sell you fifty percent of our share for only five-hundred-thousand dollars. That’s less than half of what we’ve put up for
Knock ’Em Dead.”

I couldn’t help but smile. The last thing I expected was to be given a pitch on investing in the play. I shook my head and said, “I appreciate the offer, but investing in a Broadway show isn’t on my agenda.”

“Even your
own
Broadway show?” Arnold asked.

“From what I’ve seen,
especially
my own show.”

“Perhaps you’d consider the same stake for, say, four-hundred and fifty thousand?” Jill offered.

I stood. “This has been a lovely evening. The dinner was as wonderful as the views, but I really must be going. May I use your phone?”

“Of course.” Arnold pointed to a small study off the living room.

I dialed the hotel and was put through to the suite. “Wendell, it’s Jessica Fletcher. I’m just leaving and should be there in twenty minutes.”

“I was getting worried about you,” he said.

“I’m just fine. Couldn’t be better. See you in twenty minutes.”

Arnold stood at the front door holding my repaired coat, which had been returned to me earlier in the day. He helped me into it, saying, “Give it some thought, Jessica. We’ll hold the offer open for you for forty-eight hours. Then I’m afraid well have to sell to others, who, I might add, are chomping at the bit for the opportunity to grab a piece of this show. We preferred to keep it in the family but—”

“Again, thanks for a lovely evening—and the offer. But I don’t need forty-eight hours. I’m much too conservative an investor to be dabbling with Broadway productions.”

The telephone rang.

“Where’s Mrs. Factor?”

“She wasn’t feeling well. A sudden headache.”

“Please thank her for me, and tell her I hope she’s feeling better.”

As he opened the door, I heard Jill Factor say in an angry voice from another room, “So, sue me!” She slammed down the phone.

“Good night,” I said.

“Good night,” he said.

I was happy to see Wendell when I walked into the suite. I’m one of those fortunate people who is quite comfortable on my own. Being alone, and being lonely, aren’t synonymous with me. But there was something pleasant about being greeted by his grinning face and expressions of concern.

He’d ordered up a hamburger platter, a double order of French fries, a chocolate milk shake, and cherry pie a la mode. There wasn’t a morsel of food, or a drop of shake, left on the rolling serving cart.

We talked for a few minutes until I announced, “I have some reading to do before I get to bed. See you in the morning.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, there were some phone calls for you.” He handed me paper on which he’d listed them. Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Mort Metzger were among the names.

“Had a nice chat with the sheriff,” Wendell said. “He asked how it was going and I said just fine. He told me I was doing a good job.”

“Because you are.”

“The sheriff and Dr. Hazlitt heard all about the murders, Mrs. Fletcher. They’re real worried even with me here. They said to call them back tonight no matter how late it got.”

“I’ll do that right now.”

“Oh, and some policeman delivered my suitcase to the room. I’ve got all my things back.”

“That’s wonderful. See you in the morning.”

I closed the door that segregated the living room and my bedroom and bath from his and called Mort Metzger at home.

“From all the news, Mrs. F, it sounds like there won’t be anybody left to be in your play.”

“Of course there will be.”

“Not if that Broadway serial killer keeps murdering people.”

“He seems to have slowed down,” I said, wishing it were true.

“I heard about that doorman who was killed. Some detective—I think his name was Hayes—said on TV that his murder wasn’t by the serial killer. That true?”

“It looks that way, Mort.”

“Well, we’ll all be down to see you in New York in a few days. In the meantime, don’t let Wendell lose sight of you.”

“I won’t. Best to Maureen.”

When I reached Seth, he said the Broadway serial killer had been dominating the television news from Portland and Bangor. The fact that a local citizen, me, was currently involved with a Broadway play, and that the theater in which it was being rehearsed had been the scene of the latest murder, enhanced the coverage.

“Joe Reedy from the Bangor station called just this morning. He wants to send a crew down to New York with us when we come to see the play. He wants to interview you.”

“I suppose I can’t stop him, but I could do without TV interviews.”

“I understand. How is the play goin’, Jessica? All ready for the previews and opening night?”

“Some rough spots, but I think it will shape up. The backers of the show, Arnold and Jill Factor, are now the producers. They offered to sell me half of their interest in
Knock ’Em Dead
for a half million dollars.”

“Did they now? I assume you said no.”

“Of course I did.”

“Worst investment in the world,” he said. “Remember when Sue Marshall and her husband, Bill, bought shares in that musical a few years back? Lost everything they put in.”

“I remember. Seth, is everything set for the group to come to New York?”

“Ayuh.
Day after tomorrow.”

“I’m really looking forward to it.”

“So are we. What do you have planned for tomorrow, Jessica?”

“An acting lesson.”

“An acting lesson? You? Are you plannin’ to play a role in your play?”

“No, but I thought I ought to see how the actors and actresses in Knock
’Em Dead
were trained. They all studied with a teacher named Roy Richardson. He’s supposed to be very good.”

“I’m glad you’ll be away from that theater for a spell. No telling when that madman might strike again.”

“Not to worry with Wendell here.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Fine. He’s a very nice boy. I have some reading to do, Seth, and then to bed. Can’t wait to see everyone.”

I waded through the clippings from the library until after midnight when I climbed into bed and turned out the light. I looked forward to attending Roy Richardson’s acting class in the morning, not because I was seeking insight into how actors and actresses are taught, but because Lieutenant Hayes wanted me to go there.

Why?

Roy Richardson’s acting studio was on the Upper West Side of Manhattan in what appeared to be a converted warehouse, or factory. A sign to the left of the door read THE RICHARDSON STUDIO.

I was to be there at eleven; it was ten-thirty when I arrived. I stood with Wendell across the street and watched the comings and goings. A steady stream of men and women, mostly young but with some older persons included, streamed through the door or congregated outside laughing and smoking. It looked very much like the exterior of any schoolhouse during recess, the only difference being the age of the students.

I would have preferred to visit the studio without Wendell at my side, but knew it would be fruitless to object to his accompanying me.

At ten of eleven we crossed the street and entered the building. For some reason, I thought the studio of a leading acting teacher would be bright and modem. To the contrary, the large entry hall was drab and poorly lighted. Yellow linoleum on the floor was dirty and torn in places. The paint on the white walls wasn’t in better shape. There was a stairway to the left leading down to a basement and up to a second floor. Directly in front of me were double doors that were open, revealing an auditorium and a stage. I estimated there to be a hundred students, most of them seated in the auditorium while others milled about on the stage or in the lobby.

As we entered the auditorium, I observed the stage where students gathered about a man I assumed was Roy Richardson. He looked older than I’d anticipated, although that probably had more to do with the fact that his hair was grayer than his chronological age. He wore his hair in a long ponytail that fell over the back of a billowing white shirt. Jeans and boots completed his attire. He was talking with considerable animation to those around him, laughing loudly at things he said, twisting his slender body to physically enhance his words. The students seemed to be enjoying what he was saying, judging from their laughter.

Wendell and I slipped into aisle seats in the third row. I’d no sooner gotten comfortable when Richardson shielded his eyes from the lights with his hand, focused on me, and bounded down a short set of steps, hand extended.