13 - Knock'em Dead

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “Terribly sorry to wake you so early, but I thought it was better for me to do it than to put the calls through.”

  “I’m usually up at this hour anyway. What calls?”

  “The press. There are a half-dozen reporters in the lobby wanting to talk to you, including a TV crew. Journalists have been calling, too, but I instructed our telephone staff to hold those calls until I had a chance to speak with you.”

  “I appreciate that. Why do they want to see me?”

  “I suppose it’s because of what happened outside the theater yesterday.”

  “You know about that?”

  He laughed. “Me and all of New York. The photo of you being attacked makes quite a front page on the Post this morning.”

  “Picture? On the Post?” I suddenly remembered a flash of light when Jenny attacked me. A press photographer? “Mr. Willig, could you arrange to send up the paper, along with some strong coffee, orange juice, and a croissant?”

  “Of course. Ten minutes.”

  I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face by the time room service arrived, accompanied by Mr. Willig. He handed me the newspaper. The photo of me being “stabbed” was huge, taking up almost the entire front page. The headline read: KNOCK ’EM DEAD—FICTION OR FACT?

  “Oh, my,” I said.

  “What a horrible thing to go through,” Willig said. “Have you reported it to the police?”

  “No.”

  “You should.”

  “It was just—it turned out to be a stage prop, one of those knives whose blade retracts into its handle. It couldn’t have hurt me.”

  “Still—”

  “I’ll think about it. You say the press is in the lobby. Who’s been calling?”

  He handed me a slew of message slips, which I quickly perused. The calls were from media, with the exception of two from Cabot Cove, one from Seth Hazlitt, the other from our sheriff, Morton Metzger.

  “I appreciate the way you’ve handled this, Mr. Willig. Please continue to hold the calls.”

  “Of course. We’ll put nothing through to the room. You can ring down for any new messages.”

  “Wonderful.”

  He gave me a card with his private direct extension and left.

  I showered and dressed, downed the orange juice and a few sips of coffee, and called the hotel’s message center. There were ten additional calls, most from the press, others from my agent, my publisher, Harry Schrumm, and the publicist, Priscilla Hoye. I returned Seth’s call first.

  “You all right, Jessica?” he asked the moment we were connected.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Why did that woman attack you yesterday?”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “TV, one of the morning shows ran a picture of it from some newspaper.”

  “It was just a silly misunderstanding, Seth. It wasn’t a real knife.”

  “One of those publicity setups, a photo op?”

  “No, it wasn’t planned but—”

  “Then why would somebody do somethin’ like that?”

  “Because—she was actually after someone else—I got in the way and ... well, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. No harm done.”

  “Maybe you’d better head on home, Jessica. Sounds to me like crime in New York isn’t down as much as that hotshot mayor says it is.”

  “Everything’s fine, Seth. It was all just a silly mistake.”

  “Talk to Mort this morning?”

  “No, but he left a message. I’ll get back to him after I get off with you.”

  “Well, stay there if you will, but my advice is still for you to head back here. Having a run of unusually mild weather. Jed Richardson pulled in some nice fish down at Junction Pool yesterday.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but I’ll have to postpone any fishing until after the show opens. It’s less than two weeks until previews. Are you still coming with Susan and the others?”

  “Ayuh, unless I’m needed there sooner.”

  “Why would you be—? Great. Looking forward to seeing everyone again.”

  Mort Metzger, too, had seen the morning TV show on which the photo from the Post had been displayed.

  “What in God’s name is going on down there, Mrs. F?” he asked.

  “Just a mistake, Mort. A—a photo op. For publicity.”

  “That’s not what the fella on TV said.”

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “He said the woman who attacked you was an actress in Knock ’Em Dead who’d been fired and was getting even.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It wasn’t even a real knife.”

  “Looked real enough to me in the picture. I’m sending Wendell down to New York.”

  “Wendell? Who’s Wendell?”

  “Wendell Watson, Gloria’s boy. Just got himself his security guard license.”

  “Good for him. But why are you sending him here?”

  “Keep an eye on you. Be your bodyguard. I’d come myself but can’t get the time off till I come down with Susan’s theater group. Wendell will fill in for me till then.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Bodyguard? I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Jessica. You’re a celebrity. Celebrities have bodyguards. There’s plenty of nuts running around stalking people like you, and I have the responsibility of protecting this town’s citizens, no matter where they might be.”

  There was nothing to be gained from arguing with him. Once Mort decided on something, there was no dissuading him.

  “Where will Wendell stay while he’s in New York?” I asked.

  “With Gloria’s brother. He lives somewhere in Brooklyn. But Wendell will be at your side every waking hour.”

  “That’s comforting to know. I have to return some other calls. See you next week.”

  I was about to call Matt Miller when someone knocked at the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher. It’s Priscilla Hoye, from Scott Associates.”

  It took me a second to recognize the name. Priscilla was the publicist. I opened the door to the extent the security chain allowed.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “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.

&
nbsp; 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.”

  Chapter 8

  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 t
hat 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.”