The two actors Linda had chosen to play the sons were different physically, so much so that I asked her whether it would make it difficult for the audience to accept that they were from the same family.
“I like the contrast,” she said. “I discussed it with Cy and Aaron and they agree there’s something positive in having different physical types. Not that unusual. You see it all the time, siblings looking nothing like each other. Besides, it’s the way you wrote the characters.”
She was right. I’d written the sons as opposites, the older son, Jerry, a brooding, physically imposing character who tended to solve problems with force rather than finesse; the younger son, Joshua, frail, pale, and sensitive, an introvert who loved books as much as his brother enjoyed pumping up his muscles on gym equipment in his room.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” Linda said as the actor playing Jerry read. “There’s a brute force quality to him, a young Brando-like sensuality.”
“Yes, I see that,” I said. He had a square, rugged face framed by a helmet of black curls. He wore tight jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique. His name was Brett Burton.
Linda’s choice of actor to play Josh, the younger brother, was David Potts, not an especially theatrical name and probably the one with which he was born. He had almost a mystical quality about him, a dreamer, ethereal and introspective. I thought of Montgomery Clift and James Dean. He read a particularly wrenching scene between him and the father that brought tears to my eyes.
The daughter, eighteen years old and named Waldine, “Wally” (I have a close friend, Waldine Peckham, and named the character after her) was bubbly and full of life, at least as I’d envisioned her when creating the role. Hanna Shawn, the actress preselected to play her, was certainly older than eighteen, although she did have a youthful quality.
“Isn’t she a little old to play Wally?” I asked.
“No,” Linda replied. “Cy and Aaron have never been comfortable having the character in her teens. They want her in her midtwenties.”
“Oh? No one mentioned that to me.”
“I agree with them.”
“But the way I wrote her, she brings a teenager’s spark of life into what’s become a heavy, ominous household.”
“You’ll have to discuss that with Cy and Aaron.”
With that, the director and playwright arrived and slipped into seats next to us. It occurred to me that the reason they hadn’t bothered showing up earlier was because the talent for the show had been preordained.
“What do you think?” Walpole asked in a whisper as Ms. Shawn read from the script.
“It’s an impressive array of talent,” I whispered back. “When did you decide to make Wally older?”
“When Harry told us to.”
“Harry? Harry Schrumm?”
“Yes, quite. It’s called rewriting the character to fit the talent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Harry wants Hanna Shawn in the show.”
“Even if she isn’t right for the part?”
His chuckle was muffled. “I don’t mean to be crass, Jessica, but she’s part of Harry’s stable.”
“Stable? A girlfriend?”
“A genteel way of putting it.”
“I see.” The proverbial casting couch at work? Obviously Broadway, like Hollywood, was no place for the naive.
There were two other roles to fill. They, too, had been determined earlier by Linda Amsted in concert with Walpole and Manley.
The younger brother’s girlfriend, Marcia, was to be played by an intense young actress, Jenny Forrest. As I watched her audition—or go through the motions of auditioning—I realized she was perfect for the part. The character I’d created was as introverted as Joshua, a perfect match. She’d dressed appropriately for the audition, a loose, simple, black dress that reached her ankles, hair pulled back into a severe chignon, no makeup, and wearing large, round glasses. Marcia was, as I saw her, a mousy, unpopular young woman who never turned a male head until meeting Josh, and who saw him as her salvation, her proverbial knight in shining armor, a sensitive boy who matched her insecurity and who saw beyond her looks into a good and decent soul.
“She’s wonderful,” I said to Aaron Manley. “Is she that way in person?”
“No. In real life she’s a conniving, ambitious young woman who skirts with being vicious.”
“Really? Then she’s quite an actress.”
“Yeah.”
He fell silent as Linda thanked Ms. Forrest for coming, told her she’d be called back if she made the cut, and announced a break for lunch. It was three o’clock. “We’ll take an hour and then audition for the detective,” she announced.
Sandwiches were brought in from a local deli. As we ate, some of the auditioning talent tried to engage Linda in conversation, but she coolly, professionally avoided them. Holding their fates in her hands was a formidable position of power, and I understood her reluctance to get close to those vying for her attention and approval. Still, their enthusiasm and charm were infectious; I wanted to cast every one of them.
“Is Harry coming by?” Manley asked between bites of an overstuffed pastrami sandwich.
“Not if we’re lucky,” Walpole said, laughing to mitigate the comment’s negative overtones.
“I still have trouble with Burton playing the older brother,” Manley said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t like him. No, to be more accurate, I don’t like his type.”
‘“The perfect ’type’ to play Jerry,” Amsted said matter-of-factly.
“And Harry agrees with you, of course,” Manley said, unable to disguise the anger in his voice.
“Why shouldn’t he?” she replied. “He trusts my judgment.”
“Linda has Harry’s undivided attention,” Cy Walpole said coyly.
“The hell she does,” Manley said. “Just one of many.”
“I resent that,” Amsted said.
“Resent it all you want, Linda. What have you got, a thing going with Burton, too? He is a hunk, but he’s a little young for you, isn’t he?”
She stood, dropped her half-eaten sandwich on the table, and walked away.
“Took your nasty pills this morning, I see,” Walpole said.
“Sensitive, are we?” Manley said. “Linda has your undivided attention, too?”
Walpole rolled his eyes, stood, and shook his head. “Working in the theater would be a joy if one didn’t have to put up with writers.” He looked at me and said, “Present company excluded, of course.”
“That’s what’s nice about writing novels,” I said. “Just me and my word processor. Excuse me.”
I followed in Linda’s direction and found her smoking a cigarette and sitting on stairs leading up to the theater’s balcony.
“Pompous ass,” she muttered.
“I assume you’re referring to Aaron.”
“Jerk. I can’t believe Harry brought him on board to write the script.”
“From what I’ve read, he’s done a good job. I’m surprised how faithfully he’s adhered to the book.” I sat beside her.
She guffawed. “That’s for now, Jessica, for the auditions and the backers’ dog-and-pony show. Once the show is cast and the money is in Harry’s pocket, Manley will start changing every word. You’ll be lucky to recognize what you wrote.”
I thought for a moment before saying, “It’s in the contract that I’m to be consulted on the script.”
Another guffaw. “ ’Consulted.’ But Aaron has final say. Believe what I tell you. He’s a snake, crawls on his belly, especially where Harry’s concerned.”
I made an instant decision not to become involved any further in whatever problems existed among them. All I hoped was that their personal squabbles and professional jealousies wouldn’t get in the way of turning Knock ’Em Dead into a Broadway play of which I could be proud.
At the same time, my natural curiosity kicked into gear. As a write
r, I have a natural interest in people and what makes them tick, their professional lives and how they balance it with their personal ones, especially the interaction, personal and professional, between them. That inquiring tendency of mine has led me into trouble in the past, including finding myself smack dab in the middle of real murder. But hard as I try, I’m unable to turn it off, often to Seth Hazlitt’s chagrin.
Was Linda Amsted romantically involved with Harry Schrumm, and/or with the virile actor Brett Burton? Had the actress Hanna Shawn been cast as the daughter, Waldine, because she was part of Schrumm’s “stable”? It looked like the mounting of Knock ’Em Dead had the makings of a novel of its own.
Manley and Walpole left right after lunch. I wasn’t privy to the conversation between them while I sat with Linda Amsted, but judging from the looks on their faces, it hadn’t been pleasant Even the perpetually jovial Cyrus Walpole scowled and didn’t say good-bye as he departed the theater.
Two weeks later, I returned to Manhattan for the backers’ audition, which was held in the evening at Harry Schrumm’s spacious, somewhat dismal apartment on Manhattan’s West Side. There was a masculine casualness to it, and it was every bit the bachelor pad. Schrumm had been married four times.
“Welcome, Jessica,” Schrumm said, greeting me at the door, wearing a blood-red silk smoking jacket. “You’re the final arrival.”
“Am I late?”
“No, but the others have been here for hours. At least it seems that way when you’re dealing with creative types. Come in, come in. Champagne ?”
It was obvious the Factors were the guests of honor the moment I entered the apartment. They were formally dressed again (did they sleep in formal clothing?), and were seated in matching high-back wing chairs directly in front of what would be the stage. One end of the expansive living room had been cleared of furniture, except for red director’s chairs with white frames lined up facing the wing chairs. The apartment’s lights had been lowered; four spotlights mounted on flimsy stands were aimed at the makeshift stage.
Casting director Linda Amsted was there along with the entire cast. A young blonde woman—I judged her to be in her early twenties—hung on Schrumm’s arm. She wore extremely tight black slacks and a teal blouse unbuttoned almost to her stomach, exposing a large amount of bosom. I would learn later her name was Pamela South and that she was an actress. Another member of Harry Schrumm’s stable?
A party atmosphere prevailed. Drinks flowed freely, and conversations were spirited. Most of the cast members sought me out and we discussed how I saw their characters in the play—what their motivations were for doing and saying certain things. They were a pleasant group of people, perhaps with the exception of Aaron Manley and the actor playing Jerry, the older brother, who sustained the brooding disposition he’d displayed during auditions.
I was in the midst of a conversation with April Larsen when Schrumm stepped to the center of the room, asked for quiet, and announced, “It’s time for the show to go on.” He nodded to Jill and Arnie Factor in the wing chairs, turned, and said, “For those of you who’ve never attended a backers’ audition, let me just say that the purpose is to convince wonderful patrons of the arts like Mr. and Mrs. Factor to choose this particular show in which to pour their money.” The Factors laughed. “As we all know, competition has recently heated up on Broadway. It’s in its renaissance, thanks in part to our crime-fighting mayor and the deep pockets of Disney. That means investors like our esteemed guests this evening have more shows from which to choose. But I know that in Knock ’Em Dead, written by one of the world’s preeminent writers of murder mysteries, Jessica Fletcher, we have something to give them that will not only render next season’s offerings anemic in comparison, it will run on the Great White Way for years to come.” He cast a sly glance at the Factors. “Which, of course, means generating a handsome return for these dear people for years to come, too.”
“Another Mousetrap,” Cy Walpole said, exuberantly.
“Here, here!” someone shouted.
“Then let us raise the curtain on Broadway’s next major theatrical triumph, Knock ’Em Dead.”
The next hour went smoothly. The actors and actresses performed selected scenes Aaron Manley had written. He’d chosen the most dramatic ones from the script we’d worked on together, but deliberately left out the most dramatic of all, the final scene when the detective confronts the family and identifies the killer. The actor playing the detective was a tall, angular, handsome fellow, Charles Flowers, who spoke with a trace of a Southern accent, and who captured perfectly, I felt, the character in the book. They all did, for that matter, especially April Larsen, whose portrayal of the mother was, in my estimation, brilliant. The director provided amusing, clarifying bridges between the unconnected scenes.
“Bravo!” Schrumm shouted when the performance was finished and he’d turned up lights in the apartment.
“No fair,” Arnie Factor said, standing. “Who dunnit?”
“You’ll have to pay for that,” Schrumm replied, good-naturedly.
“We’ll have to read the book,” Factor said.
“That would be cheating,” Schrumm said. “Besides, we might just change the ending.”
Eyes shifted to me.
“You wouldn’t allow them to do that, would you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jill Factor said.
“Over my dead body.”
“Spoken like a true crime writer,” said Joe McCartney, who played the father.
Two uniformed women emerged from the kitchen and placed platters of food on the dining room table, and drinks again were served.
“How long will it take for them to decide whether to invest?” I whispered to Linda Amsted.
“Oh, they’ll invest,” she said. “They loved every second of it. They’ll negotiate with Harry, try to up their take and insist on keeping costs down, but they’ll put their money on the table, or in this case in Harry’s pocket. You can take that to the bank.”
“What’s next?” I asked Schrumm as everyone prepared. to leave.
“Nothing involving you, Jessica. Aaron will settle in and do the real adaptation and—”
“ ’Real?’ This wasn’t real?”
“You know what I mean. A finished script. These were just scenes to entice the Factors into backing the show.”
“Yes, I knew that,” I said, “but I hope he continues being true to the book.”
“Oh, he will, Jessica, my dear. Don’t worry about that. You go on back to that quaint little town of yours in Maine, enjoy the holidays, and get ready to return next February when rehearsals go into full swing.”
“I assume I’ll be conferring with Aaron as he progresses on the script.”
“Of course. Work that out with him, only don’t expect too close a collaboration, at least not while he’s churning out the final draft. Better to leave him alone. He works better that way.”
The Factors stopped to congratulate me on their way out. “We’ve invested in many of Harry’s productions,” Arnie said, “but this one has a scent unlike any of the others.”
“Scent?”
“Sweet smell of success.” He leaned close to my ear and said, “We’re in, Jessica, only don’t tell Harry that. I like to let him sweat for a few days. Enhances the bargaining position.”
“We insist you be our guests at dinner the next time you’re in town,” Jill said. “At our penthouse. You’ll love the views of Manhattan.”
Chapter 6
Two Months Later
Time always seems to pass more quickly as you become older, but my involvement in readying Knock ‘Em Dead for a Broadway opening really chewed up the weeks. Despite Harry Schrumm having said that there was nothing for me to do until serious rehearsals started in February, I spent what felt like half my life in New York City, a virtual commuter to New York, the Westin Central Park South Hotel my second home. Of course, not every trip south had to do with Knock ’Em Dead. There were meetings with my publisher and my agent regardin
g a new novel I’d started, and I made a few journeys to the Big Apple to visit friends and to do some Christmas shopping in Manhattan’s wonderful stores.
But Schrumm, Manley, and Walpole seemed to want my input at various stages, and I was more than happy to accommodate. It made me feel like a Broadway insider, a true part of the creative team readying the play for its March opening.
As Vaughan had predicted, the Broadway serial killer’s four murders had become a national story, and I kept up with it both at home and when in Manhattan. He hadn’t struck since having killed the producer in September at the Von Feurston Theater. The New York PD had established a special task force headed by a detective named Henry Hayes. A reward for the capture and conviction of the killer was being offered by the New York Theater Guild. A number of theaters reported adding extra security to their staff, and one actress appearing in a Broadway musical told the reporter she dreaded going to work and would continue to feel that way until “the fiend is caught and behind bars.”
I made it a point to be in Cabot Cove for Christmas, a special time of year in the lovely town I call home. Christmas Day had dawned crystal clear and surprisingly warm for that time of year, and I joined my friends in a round of afternoon get-togethers where the spirit of the season washed over us, peace on earth and good will toward men very much alive in Cabot Cove, even though it wasn’t in so many other less fortunate parts of the world.
“Plan on stayin’ a while?” Seth Hazlitt asked as we sipped eggnog at his house.
“Until February. I’m behind on so many things, including my newest book. Vaughan has been wonderful pushing the delivery date back, but there’s a limit to how far he can let it slide. The producer wants me in New York for the final three weeks of rehearsal in February. I’ll just stay there until previews start. This commuting back and forth is getting old.”
“As I imagine it would be. Susan was in for a checkup yesterday. She wants to put together another theater group to coincide with Knock ’Em Dead’s opening.”
13 - Knock'em Dead Page 4
