13 - Knock'em Dead
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Final Bow
I shut the door to the costume room, stopping the cold wind. Because the room was so neat and organized, my eye caught a black shoe overturned under a clothing rack. I crouched and grabbed it with the intention of setting it with the others, but it wouldn’t move—because there was a foot in it.
I was tempted to shut my eyes but forced them to stay open as I wheeled the rack away from the wall. It was Harry Schrumm, Knock ’Em Dead’s producer.
He was slumped against the wall, a round circle of blood oozing around the knife in his chest. His eyes were open; he was looking directly at me, as if asking for help.
Too late for that.
Other Murder, She Wrote mysteries
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder in Moscow
Murder on the QE2
The Highland Fling Murders
A Palette for Murder
A Deadly Judgment
Martinis & Mayhem
Brandy & Bullets
Rum & Razors
Manhattans & Murder
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For my mother and father,
who believed in me.
Preface
A Summer Day in Cabot Cove
“What’s new in that city you call home?” Dr. Seth Hazlitt asked my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, and his wife, Olga. They’d taken a week that summer to drive through New England and had stopped for lunch in Cabot Cove.
“Hot and humid,” Olga said. “Nothing new.”
“I was pleased to read that the murder rate in New York is down,” I said as we sat in Mara’s dockside restaurant enjoying her rich, thick New England clam chowder and home baked bread.
“It’ll start going up again if they don’t catch that Broadway serial killer,” Vaughan said, pouring the remains of a chilled bottle of California sauvignon blanc into our glasses.
“Broadway serial killer?” I said. “I hadn’t heard about that.”
“It’ll probably hit the national press,” Olga said, “now that he’s taken his third victim.”
“It’s a man?” Seth asked.
“A sexist assumption on my part,” she said.
“Three murders?” I said. “Why do you call him, or her, the Broadway serial killer?”
“Because all three killings have taken place backstage in Broadway theaters,” Vaughan explained. “First a young actress, then a middle-aged actor. The one just as we were leaving the city involved an up-and-coming director. All very bizarre in the way they’re carried out. He—I have to assume it’s a man—always leaves a calling card of sorts that reflects the play with which the victims are involved.”
“The middle-aged actor was doing Shakespeare,” Olga said. “He was stabbed to death in his dressing room wearing only underwear, according to what I read. But the killer took the time to place the headpiece the actor wore in the show on his head.” She turned to Vaughan. “What did he do with the actress?”
“Posed her with a martini glass in her hand and a cigarette dangling from her lips. She was playing a high-priced prostitute.”
“Any leads?” I asked.
“Evidently not,” Vaughan said, “at least not any the police have reported.”
“I’m surprised more of it doesn’t happen in theaters,” Seth said, sitting back and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
We looked at him.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Well, it seems to me that in order to be an actor or actress, you have to be a little ... strange.”
We laughed.
“I take it from your comment that you think the Broadway killer is an actor or actress,” Olga said.
“Ayuh. Makes sense. Actors and actresses live in their own little fantasy world. They have to be playing other characters all the time instead of being themselves.”
Vaughan glanced at me and smiled.
“Maybe Seth has a point,” I said defensively. “Actors and actresses would have access to backstage areas. And,
their sense of the dramatic could fuel a need to use props on the deceased.”
We dropped the subject, finished our lunch, and the Buckleys spent a few hours at my house before heading off for an inn a hundred miles up the coast.
“Wish you could stay a while,” I said, kissing them on their cheeks.
“Maybe another time, Jess,” said Vaughan. “I hope the talk about the Broadway serial killer hasn’t upset you.”
My laugh was not entirely genuine. The truth was, it had upset me. “Of course not,” I said. “After all, I write murder mysteries.”
“Maybe your next one will be about killers on Broadway,” Olga said.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Broadway is furthest from my mind as a setting for murder. Drive carefully, and stop in on your way back if you have time.”
I watched them leave my driveway, waved, and went inside for a cup of tea. Visions of the murder victims as described kept flashing in front of me.
Whoever is doing the killing on Broadway must be a very sick individual, I thought. The whistling tea kettle broke my reverie, and those grotesque images disappeared in the bracing aroma of the tea and happy contemplation of what was left of the day.
Chapter 1
September of that Same Year
“Bravo!”
We jumped to our feet and applauded as the conductor of Cabot Cove’s symphony orchestra, Peter Eder, took his bows after leading the ensemble through Benjamin Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” from the opera, Peter Grimes. It was the final in a summer series of concerts. Labor Day was only days away.
Dr. Seth Hazlitt leaned over to me and said, “Peter is truly amazing, what he can coax from the orchestra.”
“He’s our gain, Connecticut’s loss,” I said.
That the small town of Cabot Cove had a symphony orchestra at all was remarkable, and to have lured Peter Eder from where he’d been musical director and conductor for the Connecticut Symphony Orchestra only enhanced the experience.
The decision to fund an orchestra came after months of heated debate within the town council. The mayor, Jim Shevlin, was firmly committed to the undertaking. Others on the council considered it folly. Our chamber of commerce tipped the scale in favor of it. Its president, Tony Colarusso, eloquently stated at the pivotal meeting: “Summer tourism in this area is on the upswing, and we have an obligation to provide more than lobster bakes, sandy beaches, and salt water taffy. An orchestra will draw from all the surrounding communities and bring money into Cabot Cove. Tourism will increase, our citizens will benefit from having a rich musical resource in its midst, and Cabot Cove will gain a reputation as a coastal cultural haven.” He presented the council members with a petition supporting an orchestra signed by every member of the chamber.
Actually, launching the orchestra and bringing Peter Eder to town were only part of a cultural boom in that area of Maine, which includes Cabot Cove. Our regional theater had become more adventuresome in the plays it chose to perform, and a writer’s retreat had opened, wooing some impressive names for its faculty from New York City.
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.
A play within a book.
I certainly would raise it with Matt when we hooked up in New York.
Chapter 2
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 transpo
rted 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.”