13 - Knock'em Dead

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  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?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘She’s better than Christie.’ ”

  “Which I’m not, of course, but it was kind of him to say it.”

  “Never use the word ‘kind’ when discussing Harry Schrumm. He’s a first-class bastard, a really nasty guy. But he has clout, can make things happen—he’ ll make this happen. He wants you to collaborate with a playwright he’s chosen to do the adaptation.”

  “Who is that?”

 
“I don’t know. We’ll find out tomorrow night at the party.”

  “What party?”

  “The celebration. At Windows on the World. In your honor. Harry will be there. So will the playwright. And, as an extra added attraction, the actress he’s already approached to play Samantha will join us.”

  “My Samantha? From the book?”

  “Right on.”

  “Matt, I can’t go to a party. I have tickets to see—what are we seeing tomorrow night?—oh, The Beauty Queen of Leenane. It’s supposed to be excellent.”

  “Eight o’clock curtain?”

  “Yes.”

  “No problem. The party’s from six until seven-thirty. I’ll have a limo take you to the theater.”

  “There’s a matinee tomorrow, too.”

  “Fine. I’ll have the limo take you from the theater to the party.”

  “This is all somewhat dizzying. Here I was fantasizing about having my book turned into a stage play, and suddenly it’s reality.”

  He poured wine into my empty glass, picked up his glass again, and offered another toast: “To Jessica Fletcher, the new queen of Broadway.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Eat your veal,” he said as the waiter delivered our entrees. “It’s world class.”

  Chapter 3

  “That’s wonderful news,” Barbara DePaoli said at breakfast at the hotel the next morning, after I’d announced that Knock ’Em Dead would be a Broadway play. Barbara was the secretary of Cabot Cove’s chamber of commerce and one of my dearest friends.

  “About time,” our sheriff, Mort Metzger, said.

  “Amen,” Mort’s wife, Maureen, added.

  “They’re having a party in your honor at Windows on the World?” Charlene Sassi said, wide-eyed. She owned Cabot Cove’s best bakery. “Pretty fancy.”

  “It’s really not in my honor,” I said. “It’s just to announce that this producer, Harry Schrumm, has optioned the book for the stage.”

  “Who’s going to play Samantha?” Bob Daros, whose Heritage Fuel kept our furnaces going in the winter, asked. “I really liked that character.”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I’ll find out tonight.”

  Someone had brought that morning’s edition of the Daily News to the table. The front page headline read: BROADWAY KILLER HITS AGAIN.

  “Did you read about this?” Bob asked, holding up the paper for all to see.

  “How many does this make?” I asked.

  “Four,” he answered, “according to the story.” He handed me the paper.

  “It happened at the Von Feurston Theater,” I said, reading aloud. “That’s next door to the Drummond Theater, where Knock ’Em Dead is scheduled to play.”

  “This time a producer got it,” Charlene said. “He was sixty-three.”

  The reporter pointed out that when the producer’s body was found, a wad of bills was stuffed into his mouth.

  “Damn nut,” someone said.

  Which seemed to sum it up, and ended the conversation about serial killers, at least for that morning.

  We saw a play in the afternoon, Honour, starring one of my favorite actresses, Jane Alexander. When it let out, we returned to the hotel where most of the group planned to have dinner in its restaurant, Fantino, before heading to an evening performance of The Beauty Queen of Leenane.

  “Wish you could join us,” Mort Metzger said.

  “I do, too,” I said, “but the limo is picking me up any minute. Hopefully, they’ll have something to eat at the party. I’ll catch up with you at the theater.”

  My driver was a placid young man who seemed unfazed by the insanely congested streets leading downtown to the financial district at that hour. We chatted pleasantly until he dropped me off at the entrance to one of two towers comprising the World Trade Center, each soaring a quarter of a mile above lower Manhattan. Views from the 107th floor, where the restaurant, bar, and private rooms were located, were legendary, and I looked forward to enjoying them. In all my trips to New York, I’d never gotten there.

  When I stepped off the elevator, Matt Miller and Vaughan Buckley stood waiting. After warm greetings, they escorted me into a handsomely appointed private room with a wall of windows.

  “It’s breathtaking,” I said, looking out over the water and Statue of Liberty.

  “Can’t beat the view,” Vaughan said as a man approached. He was short—I’d say no taller than five feet, five inches—and compactly built. He wore an English-cut blue double-breasted suit, blue-and-white striped shirt with a solid white collar, and red tie. Although he’d gone bald on top, black hair on the side of his head was slicked back, a few strands falling fashionably over his shirt collar. Everything about him said money, power, and ego.

  “Harry, meet Jessica Fletcher,” Matt said.

  “Harry Schrumm,” he said, taking my hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Schrumm. And please call me Jessica.”

  “All right. I’m Harry. We’re in this for the long run and might as well be comfortable with each other.”

  A waiter carrying a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres passed, and I plucked a fried oyster to feed my noisy stomach.

  “Adapting Knock ’Em Dead for the stage won’t be easy,” Schrumm said. “There are structural problems to overcome.”

  “Really? I thought the book’s structure was part of its appeal as a play. Small setting, lots of dialogue.”

  Schrumm’s smile was patronizing. “You just leave the adaptation to us, Jessica. Writing books is different from writing plays.”

  “But good storytelling is good storytelling, no matter what the medium,” I said, somewhat defensive after his mini-lecture on writing.

  Schrumm looked over the crowd that had gathered and waved to someone. We were joined by an older man with flowing gray hair, heavy tortoise shell glasses, and wearing a red-and-yellow checkered shirt with button-down collar, yellow knit tie, brown corduroy jacket with patches at the elbows, jeans, and work boots. A cold pipe was clenched in his teeth.

  “Jessica, say hello to Aaron Manley.”

  We shook hands.

  “Aaron has signed on to adapt your book for the stage.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “You’re a playwright?”

  “Yes.” His inflection said he was surprised I didn’t already know it.

  “Aaron has a show playing Off-Broadway,” Schrumm said. “Revenge of the Honeybadger.”

  “Interesting title,” Vaughan said. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “Very profound,” Schrumm said.

  “A psychological drama,” Manley said. “You know, of course, the tendency of the honeybadger when cornered.”

  Vaughan, Matt, and I looked at each other.

  Manley said, “When a honeybadger is cornered, it instinctively attacks the genitals of its enemy.”

  “Robert Ruark wrote a fine book called The Honeybadger,” Vaughan said.

  “Did he?” Manley said, obviously annoyed that another writer had used the theme before. “I’m not aware of it.”

  “I understand from Matt that I’ll be working with you,” I said.

  “That’s to be discussed,” Schrumm said. “For now, enjoy the drinks and food. It’s costing a damn fortune.” He walked away, shoulders squared, stride arrogant, acknowledging comments made to him with a forced smile and wave of his hand. Aaron Manley excused himself and went over to an attractive young woman who had just entered the room. They pressed cheeks, first one, then the other.

  Matt whispered to me, “Don’t let all this preliminary chitchat get to you, Jess. These theater people can be a little precious at times.”

  “I have no problem,” I said. “I’m still on cloud nine that this is actually going to happen, a book of mine headed for Broadway. It will be Broadway, won’t it? Not Off-Broadway.”

  “Absolutely. That’s being written into the contract”

  “Where’s the actress who’s to play Samantha?”
I asked.

  Matt shrugged.

  “Who is she?” Vaughan asked.

  “No idea,” Matt said. “Schrumm told me she’d be here. Kept her name to himself. Schrumm can be very dramatic, very theatrical.”

  “I’d like to know more about Mr. Manley’s background,” I said.

  “I know a little about him,” Vaughan said. “He’s been around the New York theater scene for a long time. He had a moderately successful play on Broadway a number of years ago. I can’t remember its name. He teaches playwriting at some of the local colleges, made sort of a name for himself in regional theater. He submitted a proposal for a book to us a few years ago, something to do with using acting techniques to find your inner self. A self-help book. We turned it down.”

  “He looks like a playwright,” I said.

  “Out of central casting,” Matt said. “Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  As we stood at the bar, we were approached by an attractive middle-aged couple, dressed for a formal affair later that evening. He wore a tuxedo, she an ankle-length black sheath topped with overtly expensive gold roping, and impossibly high high heels.

  “Jessica Fletcher,” he said, smiling broadly to reveal very white teeth, made more so by the coppery tan of his face. “I’m Arnold Factor. This is my wife, Jill.”

  “A pleasure to meet both of you.”

  “We’re very excited about seeing your book turned into a play,” she said.

  “So am I,” I said. “Are you involved with theater in New York?”

  “Very much so,” he said. “We’ve backed a number of Harry’s plays.”

  “Really? They say backing Broadway shows is a risky investment. Worse than gambling in Las Vegas or Atlantic City.”

  “Not if you know what you’re doing,” Jill said, meaning it. “It’s a matter of choosing the right material, the proper creative talent, and keeping close tabs on the way the money is spent.”

  Arnold laughed. “Which is never easy with Harry,” he said, nodding in Schrumm’s direction. “Blink and suddenly he’s added three alleged cousins to the payroll.”

  I, too, laughed. “That happens on Broadway, too? I’ve heard stories about padded payrolls in Hollywood but—”

  “Hollywood has nothing on Broadway, especially when Harry Schrumm is involved. He’s a good producer, picks good material and pulls together effective creative talent. But—”