13 - Knock'em Dead

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “That would be wonderful. I’ve talked to Harry Schrumm about being able to bring friends to the rehearsals. He wasn’t especially keen on the idea but said it would be okay. Why don’t you plan to spend a week in February in New York, Seth. Bring some of the others with you. To be honest, I sometimes feel a little lonely there.”

  “I might be able to swing that. The patient load slows down about then. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That would be wonderful. Going to the concert?”

  “Ayuh. Wouldn’t miss that.”

  That night we gathered in the high school auditorium and listened to the orchestra conducted by Peter Eder play Christmas music, culminating with a sing-a-long led by one of our churches’ musical directors, and featuring the lovely voices of a children’s choir. We gathered at Richard Koser’s house following the concert to sing around the piano and extend the day’s good feelings. Richard was a photographer who’d taken most of my book jacket photos.

  “Did Seth tell you about the theater package I’m putting together?” Susan Shevlin asked.

  “Yes. It sounds wonderful. I told him it would be okay for my friends to attend some rehearsals if you’re in New York the last few weeks of February. And I have twenty seats for opening night of previews. My agent had that written into the contract.”

  “That’s wonderful. We can catch a few rehearsals and be there en masse opening night.”

  “For previews, not the real opening, Susan. There’ll probably be last-minute bugs to iron out before the official opening.”

  “So what? We’ll feel like we’re special, in-the-know.” She giggled. “We’re all so proud of you, Jess.”

  I blushed, and joined in the singing of a spirited, out-of-tune version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  “I don’t care,” Cyrus Walpole bellowed from the stage of the Drummond Theater where rehearsals for Knock ’Em Dead were underway. “You’re a vile, twisted, evil woman and I will not tolerate you for another minute.”

  His tirade was directed at Jenny Forrest, the actress playing Marcia, the younger brother’s girlfriend in the show. I’d been sensing that a blowup was imminent; Walpole and Jenny had been at each other’s throats ever since I returned to New York and started attending daily rehearsals. Jenny was a wonderful actress. Simultaneously, she was a foul-mouthed, conniving young woman who seemed always to be at the center of turmoil.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” she shouted back at Walpole, “you fat, disgusting slob.”

  For a moment I thought Cy was going to physically attack her. Instead, he came to where I sat with the casting director, Linda Amsted. His face was crimson with anger, and he visibly shook. “Get her out of here, Linda, and find someone else to play Marcia.”

  “Just like that,” Linda said, shaking her head. “She makes a marvelous Marcia, Cy. You’re the director. Figure out how to direct her.”

  “Don’t lay the responsibility on me for taming that horrible woman,” Walpole said. “You chose her for the part. You fire her and bring in someone I can work with.”

  “Firing is Harry’s job,” she said. “He’s the producer.”

  “I’ve already spoken with Harry about it. He says you’re to handle these things.”

  As they snarled at each other, the rest of the cast, and some of the crew, watched from the stage with bemused interest. Jenny Forrest lit a small cigar and perched on a tall stool, a crooked smile on her round, plain face.

  “Excuse us,” Linda said to me, standing and leading Walpole to the lobby where they could continue their conversation in less public surroundings.

  April Larsen left the stage and sat next to me. “This is extremely distressing,” she said.

  “It certainly is,” I said.

  “Frankly, I think our esteemed casting director has done a frightful job of choosing a cast.”

  “Oh? I thought—”

  “The chemistry between actor and actress on stage is crucial to a play’s success, Jessica. When Harry asked me to play the mother—no, begged me is more apt—he assured me he would surround me with New York’s best talent. He certainly has gone back on his word.” She forced a laugh. “But that isn’t unusual for Harry. He’s the biggest liar I’ve ever known. You should speak up, Jessica. After all, your name is up there on the marquee along with mine. It’s your story that’s being presented to the public. It’s your reputation at stake.”

  I started to respond but she burst into tears, stood, and disappeared into the shadows.

  I sat alone and pondered what had just occurred. Although I was not experienced in theater, certainly not at the Broadway level, it struck me as unusual that a show’s casting director would be so intimately involved in every aspect of the production. My assumption was that once a cast had been chosen, and it had been approved by the producer, director, and lord knows who else, the casting director’s job would be done and she’d move on to casting the next play or movie.

  But it seemed that Linda Amsted wore many hats for Knock ’Em Dead, including being a den mother to the actors and actresses she’d chosen. April Larsen’s unkind comments about her didn’t set well with me. Of everyone involved in the production, Linda was my favorite, and we’d forged a friendship. I liked her personally and respected her professionally. The rumors that she was having an affair with Harry Schrumm, and perhaps with the brooding actor, Brett Burton, were just that to me, rumors. Even if true, it was her business. I could see how men would be attracted to her. She wasn’t beautiful by any standard, but she exuded a quiet sensuality, lips full, dark eyes testifying to having lived a bit, a full but trim figure she maintained by exercising regularly at a gym near her office.

  Without Walpole to direct the rehearsal, the cast dispersed. Lunch was scheduled for one, but since it was now a little after noon, they left the theater for an extended break. I went to the stage where playwright Aaron Manley sat pecking away at his laptop.

  “Still making changes to the script?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I don’t like the way the scene between the detective and the mother plays out in Act Two.”

  I pulled up a folding chair and read what was on his screen. I didn’t like what I saw, but was reluctant to be critical, considering the frayed nerves permeating the theater that day.

  “I suppose you don’t like it,” he said.

  “I just don’t think the detective would say something like that.”

  He sat back with force, clenched his teeth, and said, “How would you know what a detective would say?”

  “How? Because I’ve been writing murder mysteries my entire adult life. I’ve created dozens of fictitious detectives and have spent plenty of time with real ones.”

  “Then you write the script.” He stood, almost knocking over his chair, and walked away. As he did, Cy Walpole emerged from the lobby with Linda Amsted.

  “Where’s jenny?” Linda asked.

  I shrugged, still upset about the exchange with Manley.

  “She’s being replaced,” Walpole said. “Our Miss Jenny Forrest is a former member of this production.”

  “Isn’t it late to replace her?” I asked.

  “Not for our beloved casting director,” Walpole said. “She made the original mistake in hiring Jenny. She can come up with her replacement.”

  “She was cast with your approval, Cy,” Linda said.

  “No,” he said. “She was cast with Harry’s approval, which all of us knew would happen. I’ve always felt that when a casting director is too cozy with the producer, such mistakes are bound to happen.”

  Linda’s eyes narrowed, and her lip trembled.

  “We called Harry,” Walpole said. “He’s on his way. Linda has his permission to throw that insufferable woman out of this theater and out of my life.”

  “Why does Linda have to do it?” I asked. “Why doesn’t Harry fire her? He’s the producer.”

  Walpole’s smile and voice were annoyingly condescending. He patted me on the
shoulder and said, “It’s not your concern, dear Jessica. And don’t worry. Linda will find a new and better actress to play Marcia. Everything will be just fine. Trust me.”

  I went to the lobby and called Matt Miller to see if he was free for lunch. He wasn’t. Neither was Vaughan Buckley. I opted to not try other friends in New York and set out in search of a quiet spot for a solo lunch. I’d no sooner stepped from the theater on to West Forty-fourth Street when Jill and Arnold Factor got out of a cab and stopped me. “We were hoping you’d still be here,” Arnie said. “Free for lunch?”

  “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “Good,” said Jill. “Forty-four, in the Royslton, is just down the street.”

  As we set off, I realized that Jill wasn’t as tall as she appeared to be. She was fond of shoes with spike heels, adding a good four inches to her height. I’ve never understood how women can wear such shoes. I tried it once and felt as though I was on stilts.

  The restaurant, they told me during our short walk, was named because its address was Forty-four West Forty-fourth Street. According to them, it was one of New York’s latest “in” spots, a favorite of Broadway luminaries and publishing tycoons; its unofficial name was the “Conde Nast Lunchroom.” The decor was, I suppose, new age—spare and gleaming and smacking of high-tech. The Factors weren’t strangers there; we were immediately led to a prime table by a gracious maitre d’. Arnold ordered an expensive bottle of white wine despite my objections to anything alcoholic that early in the day and quickly got to why they were looking for me.

  “What’s going on with the show?” Jill asked. She was dressed in a pretty, soft, rose-colored pant suit and wore a large, taupe floppy brimmed hat of the sort usually seen on Southern belles. Her voice didn’t match her outfit’s mellowness. There was steel in it.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Knock ’Em Dead,” Arnold said, sniffing and tasting the wine, proclaiming it satisfactory, and leaning closer to me. “We understand there are major problems.”

  “Oh, you mean the conflict over Ms. Forrest. She was fired this morning. Linda Amsted is looking for a replacement.”

  “We know about that,” Jill said. “We just came from Harry’s office. We’re talking about money.”

  “Money? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t,” Arnold said. He looked at his wife as though seeking permission to continue. She narrowed her eyes and nodded. He said, “Tell me about these new people Harry has added to the production staff.”

  “What new people?”

  He pulled a slip of paper from his blazer pocket and consulted it. “Walter Schrumm, production coordinator. Nancy Schrumm, marketing coordinator. Marlena Mikowski, liaison to the mayor’s office of cultural affairs.”

  Jill added as an aside, “Evidently, Ms. Mikowski is related to Harry by marriage.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said. “I haven’t heard of these people, and I’ve been at rehearsals every day.”

  “Exactly,” Arnold said, bitterness in his voice. “Another Harry Schrumm scam. It’s called adding ghost employees to the payroll to make sure there aren’t any profits.”

  I started to say something, but Jill cut me off. “Harry did less of it with the last few shows we invested in, and we could live with it. But now it looks like he’s back to his old tricks, eating up any profits before the show even opens.”

  “He’s padded the payroll?”

  Jill’s laugh was scornful. “Oh, yes. Oldest trick in the book. Routine in Hollywood, and becoming so on Broadway.”

  “I obviously have a lot to learn,” I said as a waiter came for our lunch order. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve written a book that’s being turned into a play, hopefully a good and successful one. The business side of it interests me, of course, but isn’t my primary concern.”

  “It should be,” Arnold said, ordering three warm chicken salads without bothering to ask my preference. “Your contract calls for you to get a piece of the action.”

  “A percentage of the profits,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “There won’t be any profits if Harry has his way,” Jill said, “no matter how successful the show is.”

  “Then why would you invest in something with him?” I asked.

  “Because this play can be a Broadway block-buster, Jessica, with a long and profitable run. We didn’t put up a million six without being convinced of that.”

  I suppose my wide eyes testified that I was surprised the Factors had invested that much money in Knock ’Em Dead. Arnold said, “Putting on a Broadway show isn’t cheap. Musicals can cost five times that. That’s why we avoid them. We backed your show because of you and your reputation. This play has all the trappings of success, big time, but not if Harry’s allowed to spend money without any checks and balances.”

  “I certainly agree with accountability where large sums of money are involved. But why are you telling me this? If I feel I’m being cheated, I’m sure my agent and lawyer will step in.”

  “By then it will be too late,” Jill said. “Look, the three of us have something major at stake here. We’re too busy to hang around the theater for rehearsals. But you’re there. We want you to be our eyes and ears, let us know what’s going on.”

  I sat back and chewed my cheek before replying: “I’d be uncomfortable in that role.”

  “Why?” Arnold asked.

  “I have natural curiosity as a writer, but that doesn’t extend to being an official snoop.”

  “Even when your financial future is at stake?” Arnold asked, smiling smugly.

  “Even then. I’ll discuss this with my agent. I appreciate your concerns as the people who’ve put up so much money for the show, but I’m afraid you’ll have to get your information from other sources.”

  “Jessica is right,” Jill said, injecting sweetness into her voice. “Let’s eat. The salad looks wonderful.”

  We parted in front of the hotel.

  “We were wrong in trying to use you as a conduit of information,” Arnold said. “Please accept our apologies.”

  “None needed. Thank you for a lovely lunch. The salad was wonderful.”

  I slowly walked back to the theater, stopping to window shop on my way. I was only twenty feet from the theater entrance when the doors opened and Linda Amsted emerged, followed closely by Jenny Forrest. The actress carried a knife. “You rotten bitch!” Jenny screamed, holding the knife above her head and closing the gap between them.

  Linda backed toward the curb, hands held in a defensive position. “Don’t be stupid, Jenny,” she said. “Don’t make a bad situation worse. We can work this out.”

  Dozens of people stopped and watched the confrontation. I moved quickly, placing myself between the actress and the casting director. “Jenny!” I said in my most authoritative voice. “Put that knife down!”

  She became immobile, the knife still raised over her head. She then smiled and said, “Spoken by the famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher. Maybe I should cut your heart out.”

  “What I suggest is that you drop the knife, come back inside the theater, and talk this out. Maybe if you—”

  She moved so quickly I didn’t have a chance to respond. In an instant, she bolted at me and brought the knife down with force against my chest. A bright light flashed. People gasped. A few women screamed, including Linda Amsted.

  I don’t know what I did, or said. The shock was too great. All I know is that Jenny started laughing as the knife, its blade having retracted into the handle, fell to her feet. My hand went involuntarily to my chest. No blood, just an ache from the stage prop having been shoved so hard against me.

  “You’ll hear from me again,” Jenny said, still laughing as she slowly pushed her way through the gathered crowd, disappearing behind them.

  “Are you all right?” Linda asked, coming to me and picking up the knife.

  “Yes, I think so. That young woman is seriou
sly demented.”

  “Tell me about it. When I told her she was through, she went berserk. Sorry it ended with you taking the blow.”

  “I’ve taken worse,” I said. “But I think I’d better go inside and sit down. I’m suddenly feeling a little tired.”

  Chapter 7

  I sat with Linda Amsted in the theater for a half hour until I’d regained my composure.

  “Sure you’re okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine, but I think I’ll go back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No need, but thanks. I’ll probably not show up for rehearsals tomorrow. I’m due for a quiet day to myself, maybe a little shopping, dive into a good book.”

  “Sounds like just the medicine,” she said, walking me to the lobby. “Give a call if you need anything, day or night. I mean that, Jessica.”

  “You’re very sweet, Linda. I’ll stay in touch.”

  I took a nap that afternoon, enjoyed a quiet dinner at a small Japanese restaurant a block from the hotel, returned to my room overlooking Manhattan, changed into pajamas and robe, and read until eleven when my eyes started closing. I’d been relatively successful in blotting out the memory of the scene in front of the theater with Jenny Forrest, but once I’d fluffed up the pillows on the king-sized bed and settled in for what hopefully would be a solid night’s sleep, visions of the crazed young woman lunging at me with the knife filled my brain. Although it had only been a stage prop with a retractable blade, I had no way of knowing that before the fact. In the split second it took for her to make contact, I was convinced I was about to be stabbed to death. Thinking of it made me shudder, and I pulled the covers up tight around my neck, willing myself to sleep.

  I didn’t dream about the incident. At least I didn’t remember any such dreams when I awoke the next morning at six-thirty to the ringing phone next to the bed.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice sounding as though I’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, which was the case.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Martin Willig, assistant manager of the hotel.”

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Yes?”