13 - Knock'em Dead (8 page)

“Hi.”

I heard voices from beyond her. “Is someone with you?” I asked.

“Press. They followed me up. Can I come in? We have to talk.”

“Yes,
you
can come in. Not them.”

“Of course not.”

Her message was clear, to the point, and somewhat dismaying. She was thrilled with the photo on the
Post’s
front page and wanted to capitalize on it by arranging a press conference for that afternoon.

“I’d rather not do that,” I said.

“You have to,” she said. “This could ensure a rush to the box office. We’ll play up every angle of it, including the ghost slant.”

“What ghost slant?”

“Didn’t you read the article in the Post?”

“No. I never got past my picture on the front page.”

“Read it.” She handed me a copy of the paper she’d brought with her.

It was a long piece on page four, bylined Martin Hollander, that pretty much captured the way it had happened. The photo was taken, Hollander wrote, by a passerby, who sold it to the
Post.

Once the article got past the nitty-gritty, it briefly chronicled the history of the theater in which
Knock ’Em Dead
would be opening, the Drummond Theater, named after a Broadway actor of years past, Marcus Drummond. According to Hollander, Drummond had been found murdered in the theater. It carried a different name at that time, but new owners decided to rename it after the flamboyant thespian. Ever since his death, people claimed his ghost haunted the theater, appearing late at night bathed in a single spotlight that would suddenly come on, his face chalk white, lips a vivid red, a wicked cackle coming from him just before he would disappear as quickly as he’d arrived.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, handing the paper back to Priscilla.

She laughed. “I don’t either—usually. But it’s an interesting story we can play up. Here’s a murder mystery about to open in a haunted theater where its namesake was murdered. An angry actress attacks America’s most beloved writer of murder mysteries with a stage prop knife on the street, in front of hundreds of onlookers. And don’t forget, the Broadway serial killer is still on the loose. Everything’s falling into place. Please, Jessica, just one press conference. That’ll take care of the media in a single shot. It’s too good an opportunity to let slip.”

“I suppose you’re right, Priscilla, but I hadn’t planned on a press conference.”

“Nothing to it. I’ll set it up. All you have to do is show up and answer their questions.”

“What do I say about Ms. Forrest?”

“The truth. She was angry at being replaced in the show.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll arrange it for four this afternoon, at the theater.”

“All right.”

“Have I told you how terrific I think you are?”

“No, and I’d prefer that you not. All I care is that the show open to rave reviews, enough tickets are sold to make everyone happy, and that I can get back to Cabot Cove and some semblance of normalcy.”

“Everything you want will happen, believe me. Don’t talk to the press until this afternoon. No exclusives.”

“Okay.”

I called Harry Schrumm, who used the foulest language to describe Jenny Forrest, and then went on to level a barrage of criticism at everyone else connected with the play. I listened patiently until he was finished with his harangue, holding the phone away from my ear. His parting words were, “Maybe I ought to fire everybody. I’ll see you at the theater at four.”

After returning the other nonmedia calls, I dialed Mr. Willig’s private number. “I’d like to leave the hotel,” I told him, “but don’t want to have to deal with the press. Is there another way out?”

“Absolutely. I’ll come up to your suite straight-away and lead you myself.”

It felt good to be away from the commotion and on my own. I wore sunglasses and a large hat with earmuffs to ensure that no one would recognize me and set out at a brisk pace, going nowhere in particular, just enjoying the walk. But I slowed down after not too many blocks as the sky turned gray and heavy, and a cold wind began whipping down Manhattan’s manmade canyons. I smelled snow in the air.

I passed newsstands where the picture of my being attacked was prominently displayed on the front page of piles of that morning’s Post. I stopped at a coffee shop for a cup of tea but abandoned the idea when the woman behind the counter saw through my dark glasses and said, “You’re Jessica Fletcher. What a terrible thing that happened to you. That young woman ought to be behind bars.” She bellowed to a man seated behind a cash register, “Hey, Morris, it’s Jessica Fletcher.” Everyone turned and stared.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I forgot I have to be somewhere else.”

I took refuge in a movie theater where a highly acclaimed new film was playing. I hated it. It was nothing but car chases and bloody bodies flying across the screen and steamy sex scenes that didn’t have anything to do with the story, if there was one. The movie ended at three-fifteen. I was due at the Drummond at four. I stepped out of the movie theater into a light snow sent swirling by the wind, pulled my coat collar up tight about my neck, lowered my head into the wind, and headed for the press conference, which ranked low on any priority list I might have made.

I turned the comer on to Forty-fourth Street and saw through the snow the marquee on which
Knock ’Em Dead
glowed. I paused at the theater next to the Drummond, the Von Feurston, where the most recent Broadway serial killing had taken place. What perverted, subhuman person was going around not only killing people backstage, but adding a grotesque signature to the slayings? I shuddered at the thought and headed to the theater —
my
theater—next door, when someone approaching from the opposite direction bumped into me, almost knocking me over. I never had a clear look at the person, but I did see that it was a man wearing a gray overcoat with the collar turned up and a black knit cap pulled low over his forehead. He’d been walking fast and didn’t break stride as he kept going, never pausing to apologize. I watched him disappear into the crowd on the street and tried to focus on what I could remember of him. I’d once taken a class in witness identification techniques. Ever since, I’ve gotten into the habit of taking in every possible detail of people I meet, under both pleasant and unpleasant circumstances. My final fleeting image of him was from the top of his wool cap down to his shoulders.

How rude, I thought as I turned and continued into the theater where Priscilla Hoye and Joe Scott stood in the lobby with Harry Schrumm and a group of reporters, including cameramen from local TV stations. They immediately started hurling questions at me, but Priscilla waved her hands and said, “Harry Schrumm, the producer of
Knock ’Em Dead,
has a statement to make. After that, Mrs. Fletcher will be available to answer questions.”

She led us to a folding table at one end of the lobby where a microphone had been set up. As I followed, she looked down and asked, “What happened to your coat?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s torn.”

I checked what she’d seen. Sure enough, there was a tear down the side almost a foot long.

“I can’t imagine how this happened,” I said. Priscilla examined it more closely. “It’s been cut,” she said.

“Cut?”

“Yes, look.”

I removed the coat and took a closer look. She was right. It wasn’t a tear. It had been neatly sliced.

“The man who almost knocked me down,” I said to no one in particular.

“What?”

“Ah—nothing. I must have caught it on something. Let’s get this over with.”

The press conference was less painful than anticipated and over sooner than I’d expected. Harry Schrumm’s statement was impressive in its brevity; he spoke of how upsetting the attack on me was to him personally, called for a stepped-up police effort to capture the Broadway serial killer, and predicted that
Knock ’Em Dead
would one day be Broadway’s longest running play.

Schrumm introduced me and I took questions from the press, most of them directed at the attack on me by Jenny Forrest. I tried to play down its significance, even laughed when describing how the knife proved to be only a stage prop.

“Will you press charges against Ms. Forrest?” I was asked.

“No.”

“Was this staged as a publicity stunt to hype your play?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid the Broadway serial killer will strike someone from the cast of
Knock ’Em Dead?”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs. Fletcher, specifically the ghost of Marcus Drummond, for whom this theater is named?”

I chuckled. “I haven’t seen him yet and don’t expect to. Thank you.”

As the reporters drifted away, I looked across the lobby and saw a man I hadn’t noticed during the press conference leaning against a wall in a far comer. Perhaps his nondescript appearance contributed to my not having taken note of him. He was of medium height, had sandy hair, and wore a tan raincoat; a beige figure absorbed by the beige lobby walls. He slowly crossed the lobby and stood a few feet from the table. Schrumm disappeared into the theater. “I’ll be back in a minute,” Priscilla said, chasing after a reporter.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” the man said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Lieutenant Henry Hayes, NYPD.” He held out his badge.

“Police? You aren’t here because of what happened, are you? It was just a silly mistake, as I explained to the press.”

His smile was wide and warm. He extended his hand, which I took. “Not specifically,” he said. “I’m heading up the Broadway serial killer task force.”

“I read that you were. Any progress?”

“Afraid not. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Cup of coffee?”

“Tea is appealing.”

“There’s a coffee shop a few doors away.”

I slipped into my coat and came around the table to join him.

“You’ve ripped your coat,” he said.

I looked down. “I forgot. I can’t imagine how it happened.”

He lifted the hem and examined the tear.

“It’s been cut.”

“That’s what Priscilla said. She’s the publicist for the play.”

“When did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t aware of it until I arrived here an hour ago. Priscilla pointed it out to me.”

“A dean cut. Must have been a very sharp object.”

“I don’t recall catching it on anything.”

“A knife.”

“A knife?”

“I’d say so. Has it been in anyone’s possession other than yours?”

“No. I wore it from the hotel, went to a coffee shop, took in a movie, then came straight here.”

He bit his lip and grunted.

“You don’t think someone did it deliberately—do you?”

He shrugged.

“Someone bumped into me outside the theater.”

“Really?”

“A man.”

“Did he bump into you on the side where your coat is torn?”

I thought a moment and said, “Yes.”

“What did he look like?”

“Oh, young, I think, but I can’t be sure, wearing a gray overcoat and a black knit cap. The cap was pulled down low so I didn’t see much of his face.”

Hayes led me to a secluded comer of the lobby. “Let me show you something, Mrs. Fletcher.”

He pulled an envelope from the small briefcase he carried, removed a paper from it, and handed it to me. It was a police artist’s sketch of a man wearing a black knit cap pulled down over his forehead.

“Recognize him?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t bear any resemblance to the man who bumped into you outside?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” I said. “It could be the same person, but that’s only because the cap is the same. As I told you, I didn’t see his face clearly.”

“But you saw it clearly enough to know it was a man, not a woman.”

“I can’t even claim that,” I said. “I assume it was a man because of the clothing. He bumped me and was gone. It could have been a woman wearing a man’s overcoat. A knit hat is unisex, I suppose.”

He said nothing as he slipped the sketch back into the envelope and returned it to his briefcase.

“Is that a sketch of the Broadway serial killer?” I asked, not sure it was appropriate.

“We’re not certain. A witness said he saw someone who looked like this coming out of the alley between this theater and the Von Feurston next door, right after the murder of a producer there. Probably means nothing, but we’re following up every lead, no matter how insignificant.”

“Of course. Mr. Hayes—Detective Hayes, is it?”

“Detective. Lieutenant. Henry.”

“Why are you here today? You didn’t know about my torn coat and the episode on the street until just now.”

“just following a pattern.”

“What sort of pattern?”

“A pattern of where the killer has struck. We’ve laid out a grid, and there seems to be a design of sorts. His first two killings—and we’re operating under the assumption that the killer is male—the first two killings occurred in theaters that were side by side. The third occurred four blocks from the original two. Now this one at the Von Feurston.”

“Which breaks the pattern.”

“Yes, unless he now intends to repeat the first two, strike at theaters next to each other.”

“Any reason you think that’s what he’s doing?”

“Just a hunch. The fact that this theater is next door to the Von Feurston, and your play is a murder mystery—well, maybe it’s my imagination, but the Drummond would seem to be an attractive target for him.”

“Maybe an attractive target for the killer, but not an attractive contemplation for anyone involved with
Knock ’Em Dead.”

“No, it certainly isn’t. Where was this young man coming from? The guy who bumped into you.”