13 - Knock'em Dead (22 page)

“I agree, although I’m not sure she makes as good a Marcia as Jenny Forrest.”

“Maybe not, but she’s a lot less lethal. By the way, Ms. Forrest is the Broadway serial killer. Tony Vasile says she hasn’t stopped babbling about it since she arrived at headquarters. She’s certifiably insane. Well, I’ve got to be going. Tony’s at the precinct helping start the arraignment process. I’d better get back to help him. He gets his Italian dander up if he thinks I’m not pulling my weight.”

The amplified voice of Cyrus Walpole filled the theater. “We’ll take a half hour break, then gather for my comments and notes. I know it’s late, but we still have some adjusting to do before previews tomorrow night.”

“Are you staying for the postmortem?” Hayes asked me.

“Yes, and I wish you would, too.”

His eyebrows went up. “Why?”

“Something that occurred to me while I was watching the end of the third act.”

“Maybe you should tell your director.”

“Oh, I will. But I’d feel better if you were present. Please?”

“All right. I’ll call Tony and tell him I’m running late.”

I spent the next half hour with my friends. Naturally, the real murderous events took conversational priority over Knock ’Em Dead, although there was plenty of talk about it, too.

“Sure you want to stay to hear what the director has to say?” I asked them. “You’ll see the results tomorrow night—without anyone getting killed as an unplanned intermission. It’s late. You must be exhausted.”

“We wouldn’t miss a minute of it, Jess,” Peter Eder said. “The play would make a great musical. Maybe you can mention that to your producers.”

“I’ll introduce you,” I said. “Excuse me.” I went to where Linda Amsted sat alone, obviously very much into her private thoughts.

“Mind an intrusion?” I asked.

“What? Oh, sure, Jess. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” I asked, sitting next to her.

“I was thinking about Roy.”

“I only met him that once at his acting class,” I said, “and must admit I didn’t especially like him. But when you’re dead, all those bets are off, as they say. Tragic.”

“He knew about Jenny.”

Her statement stunned me into momentary silence.

“Shocked, Jess? I was too when he told me. He wasn’t certain, of course, but he was convinced she was the serial killer. Roy was very much in love with her.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“And he thought she was the best young actress he’d ever coached. Of course, they were both a bit mad. The only difference was that Roy was content to take out his madness on his students through verbal abuse and character assassination. Jenny needed greater satisfaction.”

“He told me he hoped the serial killer turned out to be one of his acting students,” I said. “He was obviously toying with me.”

“Roy toyed with everyone.”

“Do you know why he came here tonight?”

She shook her head. “Unless he was going to make his final attempt at getting her to stop running around killing people. He succeeded, didn’t he?”

“And he paid for it with his life. So did Harry Schrumm.”

“Yes, poor, poor Harry. I shall miss him. I’ll miss everyone.”

“All right everybody, gather round for Uncle Cy’s critique,” Walpole announced through the speakers.

“Coming
^?
” I asked, standing.

“No. I’m going home. Maybe we’ll touch base before you go back to Maine.” She stood, too, and took my hand. “I hope
Knock ’Em Dead
is a smash, Jess. I really do. Take care. You’re a terrific woman.”

Tears formed in my eyes as I watched her go up the aisle and disappear into the lobby. ‘I’ll miss everyone,’ she’d said. Was she suicidal? Had she lost too many people in her life to want to go on living? All I could do was hope that wasn’t the case, and I silently pledged to call her first thing in the morning.

Cy Walpole’s notes about the performance were long and detailed. For the most part, they were complimentary to the cast and crew.

When he was through, Jill and Arnold Factor stood and delivered what was intended to be a pep talk. They spoke for ten minutes, heaping praise on everyone connected with the show. Jill ended with, “Unfortunately we’ve all been forced to confront real murder instead of just make-believe. If there is such a thing as closure, we can thank this wonderful detective and all his people for solving the mystery of who killed Harry Schrumm, and all the others who suffered at the hands of the Broadway serial killer. It makes me shudder to think that someone as close to us as Jenny has turned out to be a vicious killer.”

“Well, it’s been a long night,” Arnold said. “I wish a broken leg for everyone tomorrow night. The celebration party is on us.”

He and Jill beamed at each other.

I stood.

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” Jill said. “None of us would be here if it wasn’t for the fertile and creative mind of Jessica Fletcher. We’re all in your debt, Jessica.”

The Factors applauded. Others joined in. When they were finished, I said, “I think before we call it a night, I’d like to thank everyone for being so gracious to me on this, my baptism on Broadway. You’ve all been very kind.”

“Our pleasure,” Aaron Manley said, standing and stretching. “God, I’m tired.”

Others began gathering their things.

“Mrs. Factor,” I said.

She’d been walking away arm-in-arm with her husband. She turned.

“Yes?”

“Was it money that caused you and Arnold to kill Harry Schrumm?”

Lieutenant Hayes, who’d been sitting next to me, stood.

“Would you repeat that?” Jill said.

“I asked whether it was a disagreement over money that led to you killing Harry Schrumm.”

Jill closed the distance between us. “Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Harry Schrumm was killed by that insane young woman, Jenny Forrest.”

“No,” I said, “Jenny didn’t kill him.”

“Come on,” Arnold said to his wife, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Hayes stepped in their path and said pleasantly, “I’d like to hear more of this.”

Arnold started to say something but Jill snapped, “Shut up. Go on, Mrs. Fletcher. I think your too-active writer’s imagination is working overtime.”

“How did you know that the pipe wedged in Harry’s mouth was the one used as a prop in the play?”

“I—I read about it.”

“No, you didn’t. None of the press accounts of the murder reported that. But Arnold mentioned it when I was at your apartment.”

“I did?” he asked.

“Yes, you did. You’re desperate for money, aren’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have offered to sell me half your share in the play at a discounted price.”

“I find this quite offensive, Mrs. Fletcher, and don’t feel compelled to respond to anything you say. But for your information, I learned about the pipe from Joe.” She nodded at Joe McCartney, who smoked a pipe during the performance.

McCartney said, “I never told you about the pipe. Why would I? There were three or four pipes in the prop room and I just grabbed another one. I never said a word to you or anyone else about it.”

I said, “You didn’t mean to kill him, I’m sure. But it must have been a very intense argument to cause you to hit him in the head. When you saw he was dead from the blow, you stabbed him in the chest and arranged the hat and pipe on him to make it appear like another serial killing.” I turned to her husband. “Or was it you, Arnold, who did the stabbing of a dead man? It’s too unladylike an act for your wife to commit.”

Arnold stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Look,” he said, “this is getting out of hand. You don’t understand the pressure we’ve been under. It wasn’t my idea. I—”

Jill was carrying a heavy flashlight she used to read from the script in the darkened theater. She swung it at her husband, catching him on the left temple. He fell to one knee, his hand touching the blood that ran down on to his glistening, starched white tux shirt and the shoulder of his black tuxedo jacket.

“You could have been a contender, Mrs. Factor,” Lieutenant Hayes said. “In a boxing ring, not on Broadway.”

“Good night,” Jill said, marching up the aisle, leaving her dazed husband behind. Hayes helped him to his feet.

“Mrs. Fletcher makes sense,” the detective said.

“I didn’t kill Harry,” Arnold said.

“But you did kill Vic, the doorman, didn’t you?” I said. “It was you who gave him the bribe to vacate his post so that you and Jill could meet secretly with Harry. I imagine Jill realized that Vic might identify. you as having bribed him to leave the stage door. He had to be killed, too.”

“Am I free to go?” Arnold asked Hayes, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding temple.

“You’re free to go with me to headquarters to answer some questions,” Hayes said. “Don’t worry about ordering a limo for your wife. A police cruiser will do just fine.”

Arnold didn’t offer any resistance when Hayes took him by the arm and started to lead him from the theater. The detective said to me as he passed, “Any time you’d like to change careers, Mrs. Fletcher, and run down real murderers, give me a call.”

I smiled. “Thanks, but no thanks, Lieutenant. But we will be in touch.”

The opening night party was held at New York’s venerable show business hangout, Sardi‘s, just up the street from the Drummond Theater. The celebratory air at the gathering was tempered, to an extent, by the human tragedies surrounding Knock ’Em Dead. But the show had gone smoothly, which was reflected in early reviews, and the mood was one of triumph. I’d invited Detectives Hayes and Vasile to the party. I didn’t expect them to show up, but Hayes eventually walked in as things were winding down. He was greeted warmly, and a drink was quickly handed him.

“I’m officially off duty,” he said, flashing his boyish smile and holding up the glass in a toast: “To
Knock ’Em Dead,
may it live forever on Broadway.”

Cast and crew started to file out into the night. My Cabot Cove friends had gone back to Maine after attending the first night of previews and taking in other Broadway shows.

Linda Amsted said good night and left. She seemed to have gotten over the initial shock of losing people close to her and was in good spirits during the festivities.

Soon, I found myself alone with Lieutenant Henry Hayes as restaurant staff began the cleanup.

“Get you a drink before they take everything away?” he asked.

“Thank you, no. I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I’m happy I did. It was Ms. Forrest who sliced your coat.”

“She admitted it?”

“Yeah, along with everything else. She was wearing Roy Richardson’s coat and hat when she did it. She also wrote those notes to Walpole and Linda Amsted. She’s incapable of divorcing fact from fiction, acting from real actions. The DA’s office is asking the court to commit her to a psychiatric facility to see if she’s fit to stand trial.”

“There will be a trial?” I asked. “She’s already admitted to the murders.”

“Just a formality. The court will have to determine what to do with her. I’m hoping she gets the help she needs.”

“I’ve been wondering, Lieutenant—”

“Henry.”

“I’ve been wondering, Henry, why you arranged for me to go to Roy Richardson’s acting class that morning.”

He laughed. “My version of a lineup.”

“Meaning?”

“We’d been looking at Richardson for over a month as a prime suspect in the serial killings. Frankly, I was convinced he was the killer, and that he was the one who bumped into you on the street and slashed your coat. I thought that by going there and seeing him in person, you might come to the same conclusion. You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t, nor did I think in those terms about Jenny Forrest.”

“It was worth a shot. Your instincts about the Factors were on the money, especially that he was the weak one. I don’t think we’d have been able to build a case against her if he hadn’t caved in.”

“One of the basic motivations for murder,” I said.

“What is?”

“Money. Greed. They rank right up there with passion and jealousy.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right. How’s your young bodyguard, Mr. Watson? Enjoying his fame?”

“Oh, he certainly is. Having his picture in the papers here, and back home, is the highlight of his life. Mort Metzger, our sheriff, says he might consider adding Wendell to his force. That would really please him.”

“I’m sure it would. When are you going back to Cabot Cove?”

“First thing in the morning. I can’t wait.”

“Had enough of Broadway for a while?”

“Yes, I think so. Time to face reality again, start work on my next novel, and connect again with the town and people I love. This has been a thrilling experience, but ...”

“I understand. Next time you’re back in New York, give me a call. I’d like to stay in touch.”

“You can count on it, Henry. Still glad you became a cop and not an actor?”

“Absolutely, although I just auditioned for a part in a play at my community theater.”

“Sounds like fun. What’s the part?”

“A cop, of course. It’s a murder mystery.”

“Any ghosts in your community theater?”

“Not that I know of, but if there is, I’ll let you know.”

“Well,” I said, “as they say, break a leg.”

“Or, knock ’em dead.”

I smiled. “Yes, that, too.”

 

 

Based upon advance ticket sales, Knock ’Em Dead promised to run on Broadway for years. April Larsen was uniformly praised by reviewers for her performance, with some pointing to the role of Samantha as propelling the actress to the first rank of Broadway actresses.

A New York freelance journalist contacted me concerning a true crime book he was writing about the Broadway serial killer. I told him what I knew.