13 - Knock'em Dead (2 page)

Seth drove me home after the cocktail party celebrating the evening’s performance, the last of the concert season, and came in for a nightcap.

“Exciting things happening in Cabot Cove these days,” he said, settling into his favorite recliner in my study and tasting brandy from a balloon snifter.

“Yes, and I love every minute of it. Oh, by the way, the tickets arrived this afternoon.” I retrieved an envelope from my desk and handed it to him. The return address read “Theatre Direct International.” Seth opened it and perused its contents—dozens of tickets to shows on Broadway and London’s West End. A member of the chamber of commerce, Susan Shevlin, wife of our mayor and owner of the town’s leading travel agency, had put together a package that included flying to London to catch shows there, and then to New York to do the same. Our tickets on British Air from Boston to London, and London to New York, had arrived a few days earlier. We were scheduled to leave in a week.

“Looks as though everything’s in order, Jessica. Wouldn’t expect any less from Susan. How many did we end up with?”

“Fourteen, counting you and me.”

“A fair turnout. I suspect you’ll be seeing your friend while in London, Inspector Sutherland.”

I smiled and said, “Of course. Well only be there a few days, most of which will be spent in theaters. But I’ll find some time for George.”

I’d met Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland in London years ago while attending a mystery writers’ conference. A dear friend, Marjorie Ainsworth, the reigning queen of mystery writers, was stabbed to death in her country manor home outside London, and George Sutherland was assigned the case. We had become close friends since then, bordering on the romantic. I stress the term “bordering”—ours was a platonic mutual admiration society.

“Another brandy?” I asked.

“Thank you, no, Jessica. I’d best be going.” Seth went to the door, paused, turned, and asked, “No one’s ever adapted one of your books into a stage play, have they?”

“No. Matt Miller came close a few times in selling stage rights, but the deals fell through at the last minute.” Matt was my literary agent.

“Your new one,
Knock
’
Em Dead,
would make a fine play.”

“Yes, it would. I’ll bring that up with Matt the next time we speak. I’ll be seeing him when we’re in New York.”

“Good night, Jessica.”

“Good night, Seth. See you tomorrow.”

I was bubbling with anticipation of the trip. It would be first class all the way, flying on my favorite airline, British Air, and staying in top hotels: the Ritz in London and the Westin Central Park South in New York. I’d stayed there last year when visiting my publisher and fell in love with its European ambiance and sweeping views of Central Park.

But what especially had my juices flowing was the contemplation of spending so much time in theaters. There’s something magical about live theater, a visceral experience not delivered by any other medium. I thought about what Seth had said, that none of my many novels had been adapted for the stage. Some movies, yes, but not Broadway, or London’s splendid West End.
Knock ‘Em Dead,
my most recent mystery novel, had been on the best-seller list for months. Of course, that didn’t automatically make it an appropriate vehicle for the stage. But I’d deviated from my usual approach when writing it, confining the action to just a few settings. Too, it was a dialogue-driven book, with intense interaction among characters carrying the story.

I certainly would raise it with Matt when we hooked up in New York.

As it turned out, I was able to spend only an hour with George Sutherland in London. He was off to the Cotswolds on a case when we arrived, returning to the city the morning we were to depart for New York. We met for breakfast at the Ritz.

“You’re the proverbial sight for sore eyes,” he said, joining me at the elaborately set table.

“You look pretty good yourself, George. What sort of case were you on?”

“Too grisly to go into, I’m afraid. One of those nasty domestic disputes that got entirely out of hand. Two people dead, three children orphaned. Enough about that, Jessica. Tell me, what have you been doing in London since you and your friends arrived?”

“Soaking up every bit of theater we can. It’s been glorious, a little tiring, but worth every fatiguing minute. We saw
Chicago, Art, Jeckyll and Hyde, Wait Until Dark, The Scarlet Pimpernel—
oh, yes, the highlight was
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Abridged.
George, it was hilariously funny. And, I sneaked off with my friend, Seth Hazlitt, to see The
Mousetrap
again. It’s got to be the fifth or sixth time I’ve seen it.”

“Longest running play in theater history.”

“For good reason.”

“You look supremely happy, Jessica.”

“I am. I walk out of a theater as though I’ve been transported to some distant place. Then again, that’s what good theater is supposed to do to you, isn’t it?”

He laughed, causing his handsome, rugged, tanned face to break into a mosaic of creases. “That’s what they say. You’re going on to New York for more of the same?”

“Yes. I wish I had a few extra days to spend here with you.”

“I wish you did, too. Any immediate plans to come back?”

“No, although I can always make such plans. It depends on when Vaughan wants my next book. He’s my publisher.”

“I know. Tell him for me that he’s not to work you too hard, and to leave time for at least a long weekend in London. Will you tell him that?”

I covered his hand on the table with mine and smiled. “Yes, I will tell him that.”

“Interesting, Jessica, that when you called to tell me you’d be traveling here on a theater package, my instant thought was that your newest,
Knock ‘Em Dead,
would make a wonderful play. I read it while I was away.”

“Seth said the same thing, and I’ve been thinking ever since how much I would enjoy seeing that particular book come to life with live actors and actresses speaking the words I’ve written, playing out the scenes I’ve created, and to be able to sit in the theater and see and hear how the audience responds. That’s the trouble with writing books. You have no idea who’s reading them. More important, there’s no sense for the author of how those same people react to what you’ve written, aside from their letters, of course, but even that doesn’t offer the immediacy the stage does. Am I rambling?”

“Yes, and I’m enjoying every word. Why don’t you speak with that agent of yours in New York, Miller, is it?”

“Number one on my agenda.”

We embraced on the street in front of the hotel.

“Remember now,” he said, “you’ve promised to get back here, and soon.”

“Of course I remember. A promise is a promise.”

He walked away with purposeful strides, and a lump formed in my throat. I loved being with him, hearing his Scottish brogue, seeing the mischief in his knowing gray eyes, and feeling the calm comfort he always seemed to provide.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity. I sandwiched in a quick visit with my British publisher, had my hair done at a stylish shop in Mayfair, bought a few gifts to bring home, and met my friends at the hotel for the trip to Heathrow Airport and our BA 747 flight across the Atlantic to New York. Seth and I sat next to each other.

“And how is the good Inspector Sutherland?” he asked as the flight attendant served us champagne, caviar, and smoked salmon shortly after takeoff.

“He’s fine. Sends his best to you.”

“You like him very much, don’t you?”

His question surprised me. I’d never made my feelings for George a secret.

“Of course I do. You know that.”

“Must be difficult to see him in such short bursts.”

I nodded. “Very difficult.”

“You should invite him to Cabot Cove.”

“Oh, I have, many times. He just never seems to find a chunk of free time to make the trip.”

“Well, we’ll just have to work on that,” Seth said.

“All right, we’ll do that,” I said, pleased that my dear friend from Cabot Cove felt that way. I sometimes sensed that he disapproved of my relationship with George.

The flight to Kennedy Airport was smooth and uneventful, the ride into the city peaceful. We gathered in the Westin Park Avenue South’s lovely lobby and began the check-in process. When it came to me, the young man behind the desk said, “Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher. Good to have you back again.”

“My pleasure.”

“You have some messages,” he said, handing me slips of paper. I quickly perused them. One was from Vaughan Buckley, my publisher, who wanted me to call. A similar message was from my agent, Matt Miller. A few old friends in Manhattan who knew of my travel plans had also left phone numbers.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Enjoy your stay.”

“I intend to.”

We’d landed at 7:40. It was now a little after nine.

“Feel like some dinner?” Seth asked as a bell-hop prepared to lead me to my room.

“I don’t think so, Seth. I want to return these phone calls, have room service, and get to bed.”

“A sensible approach. See you at breakfast.”

I unpacked the minute my bags arrived, the first thing I always do when arriving at a hotel, no matter how tired I am. My previous stay at the hotel found me in a room facing the park. This time, I had a stunning view of Manhattan’s famous skyline, ablaze with lights and brimming with energy. There’s considerable truth to what people say, that New York generates a dynamism not found in any other city in the world. I was energized just looking out over it, my fatigue from the long trip now just a memory.

I sat at a desk, picked up the phone, and started returning the calls, beginning with Matt. I caught him at home.

“Jessica,” he said enthusiastically, “great to hear your voice. Just arrive?”

“A little bit ago. How are you?”

“Terrific. I was heading out to grab some dinner. Susan’s out of town on business. Join me?”

“I’d planned on staying in the room and ordering something light.”

“Absolutely not. I have some wonderful news to share with you.”

“Oh? What is it?”

He laughed. “You’re not getting off that easy, Jess. No dinner, no news.”

“Not fair,” I said.

“Who ever said literary agents were supposed to be fair? A half hour?”

“All right. Besides, there was something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“What?”

“Two can play your game, Matt. At dinner.”

“You’re not only talented, you’re tough.”

“Who ever said writers weren’t supposed to be?”

“Tell you what. I’ve discovered a wonderful Italian restaurant on Fifty-fifth, between Fifth and Sixth. La Vineria. The best southern Italian cooking I’ve ever tasted. Meet you there? I’d pick you up, but this will be faster.”

“All right.

“Fifth-fifth, between Fifth and Sixth?”

“See you there.”

Matt was at the restaurant when I arrived after the short walk and we settled at a cozy corner table.

“It’s a beautiful room,” I said. “I feel like I’m in Italy.”

“It is authentic. See that young woman greeting those customers?”

“Yes.”

“She’s one of the owners, Angela Castaldo. Used to be a top fashion model.”

“I can see why. She’s beautiful. I have a feeling you come here often.”

“As often as I can. This is sort of my table.”

“How chic.”

“How New York. Drink?”

“Water. Sparkling. So, what’s this news you have for me?”

“You first. You said you had something to discuss with me. Mind if I order for both of us?”

“Not at all, but keep it light. I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of selling stage rights to
Knock ‘Em Dead.
This trip has really gotten me thinking about the theater and how much I’d love to see one of my works become a play.
Knock ’Em Dead
seems the logical candidate, considering the way it’s structured. Don’t you agree?”

“What? Oh, sure.” He motioned for a waiter and ordered salads and veal marsala for two. To me: “You were saying?”

“I was saying I’d like to see
Knock
’
Em Dead
end up on the stage. I—Matt, why do I get the impression you aren’t interested in what I’m saying?”

He lifted his glass of red wine in a toast. I picked up my water glass, and we touched rims. “Here’s to seeing you again, Jess.”

“Matt”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could interest a producer in mounting a stage production of
Knock ’Em Dead?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?
You’re that confident?”

He nodded, said, “Uh-huh. As confident as this makes me.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, withdrew a paper folded in thirds, and handed it to me.

“What’s this?”

“Read it.”

I looked at him quizzically as I slowly unfolded the letter. The first three words, in bold letters, came off the page: Letter of Intent.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You will if you keep reading.”

When I was finished with the four paragraphs, I laid the letter on the table, sat back, cocked my head, narrowed my eyes, and said, “You are a devil.”

He grinned broadly. “I am an agent,” he said, “which some people think is akin to being Satan. Of course, you aren’t among that cynical number.”

“No, I am not. When did you make this deal?”

“Wrapped it up this afternoon. The letter is dated today. I wanted to be able to give it to you while you were in New York soaking up Broadway with your friends.”

“You’re a
sweet
devil.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it. Harry Schrumm is the hottest producer on Broadway. No musicals. Strictly drama, the best in town. I sent him
Knock ‘Em Dead
a week ago. He read it in one sitting, called me, and said, This could be New York’s answer to London’s
Mousetrap.’
Know what else he said?”