Hayes glanced up at her.
“A meeting with Roy Richardson.”
“The acting teacher?”
“Yes.”
Another entry in Hayes’s notebook.
“What time did you meet?”
“Two.”
“The meeting was about?”
“We meet once a month. Roy chooses his most promising students and has them read for me. If I like what I see, they go into my computer for possible future casting.”
“You’ve been with Richardson ever since?”
“No. We met until five. I had dinner after that.”
“With Richardson?”
“Alone.”
“Where?”
“Looking for a good restaurant, Lieutenant?”
Hayes laughed. “Always.”
“The Gramercy Tavern.”
“Fancy place for a solo meal.”
“I go there often.”
“They know you.”
“Yes. I suppose you want to know what I ate.”
“Only if it was good.”
“A chicken Caesar salad, glass of white wine. I always sit in the front room, the tavern. It’s less expensive.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Linda’s composure when she arrived was frayed, but she’d quickly become calm, and her answers to Hayes’s questions had a confrontational edge to them. Now, she turned to me, took one of my hands in hers, and said softly, “What a tragedy, Jess. And you had to be the one to discover Harry’s body.” To Hayes: “How was he killed, Lieutenant?”
“To be determined by the medical examiner.”
“Did the killer leave his usual grotesque calling card?”
I started to reply, but Hayes cut me off. “I’d just as soon not talk about that for the moment, Ms. Amsted.”
“Then he did—leave his calling card.”
Hayes’s partner, Vasile, came from the stage and joined us. Hayes introduced Linda to him. “I think Lieutenant Vasile would like to ask you some questions, Ms. Amsted,” Hayes said.
“All right,” she said, standing.
“Follow me,” said Vasile. He led her down the aisle, up on to the stage, and into the wings.
Hayes chewed on the cap of his pen and narrowed his eyes. I was hesitant to disrupt his thinking, but didn’t have to. He said absently, “Roy Richardson.”
It took me a second to recognize the name as the person Linda had met with that afternoon.
“The acting teacher,” I said.
“Yes. Know of him?”
“No.”
“A guru. Thousands of acting students. He built his reputation on using analytic techniques to get his students to open up and use their inner pain and turmoil to enhance their performances.”
“Sounds like an interesting approach.”
Hayes shrugged. “I took a couple of classes with him years ago, before I became a cop. I thought I’d take Broadway by storm with a few lessons from him under my belt.”
“And?”
“The experience convinced me to scrap my acting plans and apply to the NYPD. I hated the classes. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a charlatan. No, maybe not. He has had some notable success stories, actors and actresses coming out of his school and doing well. What bothered mel was that there was an exploitative aspect to it, all these dreamy-eyed kids waiting tables in order to pay his fees, and having their guts wrenched by him. I had the feeling he enjoyed their pain beyond what it might contribute to their acting technique.”
“Sounds charming.”
“He’s that, too. Every member of the cast I’ve questioned studied with him at one time or another.”
“Really?”
“I wonder if that’s how they ended up in your friend’s casting computer.”
“Very possibly.”
“Well, Jessica—I feel a little uncomfortable calling one of the world’s greatest mystery writers by her first name.”
“Don’t be. I’d be uncomfortable if you didn’t.”
“I have to get back to headquarters. Tony will stay here. How late do you expect the rehearsal to run?”
“I have no idea.”
“Funny,” he said to himself.
“What’s funny?”
“Ms. Amsted’s assistant at her office said she was supposed to be here at the theater. Never mentioned a meeting with Richardson.”
He snapped out of his contemplative mood. “The entire theater will be a crime scene and off limits to everyone except those who absolutely have to be here.”
“Of course.”
Wendell, who’d sat sipping coffee from a plastic cup a few rows away, immediately got up when Hayes did and came to my side.
“I understand you’re a licensed security guard, young man,” Hayes said pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Looking for a career in law enforcement?”
“Yes, sir. My goal is to become a member of the Cabot Cove police department. Sheriff Metzger already told me I might have a chance in a few years.”
“Good for you, son,” Hayes said, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “Just make sure you take good care of Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You can count on that, sir. I won’t let her out of my sight for a minute.”
I don’t know whether my grimace was evident, but I couldn’t help it. Hayes smiled at me. “Talk to you later, Jessica,” he said and walked away.
The policewoman approached carrying what appeared to be a uniform-issue blue winter coat. “Best I could do,” she said, handing it to me.
“It’ll be just fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
Peter Monroe, the stage manager, suddenly appeared carrying a cell phone.
“You’re back,” I said.
“Yes, and wish I wasn’t.” His left eye was flickering faster than ever. “You have a call. It’s your agent.” He handed the phone to me.
“Matt,” I said.
“I heard on the radio. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Dinner?”
“I—that would be fine except—” I looked at Wendell, who hovered over me.
“Except what?”
“It’ll be a threesome.”
“Who’s the third?”
“My bodyguard.”
“Your what?”
“My bodyguard. Sheriff Metzger sent him down from Cabot Cove. His name is Wendell Watson. He’s licensed.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Not with Wendell at my side.”
“He has to come with us to dinner? I mean, can’t he wait outside?”
“I couldn’t do that, Matt. Besides, you should get to know him. He might become New York’s police commissioner one day.”
“Really?”
“Would you send a car for me, Matt? The sidewalk outside the theater is chockablock with press.”
“Sure, and I’ll be in it. Give me a half hour.”
Chapter 12
Matt took us to dinner at Morton’s, a quintessential power-broker steakhouse in midtown Manhattan, where my porterhouse would have fed four back home, and certainly would have resulted in a large doggy-bag. But since the three of us didn’t have a dog to take anything home to, the sizable leftovers were whisked away, hopefully as a treat to a dog-owning member of the restaurant’s efficient and pleasant staff.
Being there with Wendell Watson made for awkward conversation. It wasn’t anything he did or said—he said little during dinner—but there was a natural reluctance on both my and Matt’s parts to openly discuss what was happening at the Drummond Theater, especially the potential tangible ramifications of Harry Schrumm’s murder. However, Wendell was a smoker, and a polite one. He retreated from the table to the bar a few times to light up, leaving Matt and me to compress our myriad thoughts into short bursts of conversation.
The car that had taken us from the theater to the restaurant waited outside on Forty-fifth Street and returned us to the hotel.
“I underst
and you’ll be staying with your uncle in Brooklyn,” I said to Wendell.
“Yes, ma’am, only I don’t know how to get there. Mom said there’s a subway that goes to Brooklyn. I suppose I’ll take that.”
“Have you talked to your uncle since arriving in New York?” I asked.
“Nope. Went right to the theater after I got off the bus.”
Matt and I looked at each other. The contemplation of this gangly young man who’d never been away from Cabot Cove, Maine, navigating New York City’s subway system at night in search of an uncle in Brooklyn was anathema.
“I’d ask you to stay with me,” Matt said, “but Susan and I have a one-bedroom apartment. The house in the Hamptons is too far away.”
I thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll see if the hotel has a vacant room. They seem to be full, but there’s no harm in asking.” I offered it knowing I’d have to pay for an extra room, but it seemed a small price to ensure Wendell’s safety in Manhattan. Who was protecting whom?
The Westin’s night manager told me they were fully booked, with the exception of a two-bedroom, two-bath suite.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “Can you have me moved right away?”
“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll send people to pack you up and bring everything to the new suite. It’s right down the hall from where you are now.”
I went to where Wendell stood in the lobby.
“You’re staying here,” I said.
He looked around. “It’s pretty fancy, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t have much money with me and—”
“It won’t cost you anything. I’m changing my room to a two-bedroom suite.”
“Stay in your room?” he said, sounding worried. “I don’t know if Sheriff Metzger would approve of that.”
“You’re not staying in my room, Wendell. You’re staying in your room, with your own bath.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. I don’t want you traveling by yourself at night on the subway. When we get to the suite, I want you to call your uncle and mother immediately, tell them you’re safe and that they aren’t to worry.”
“Okay.”
“Would you like something to drink while we wait?”
“A soda would be fine.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The bar, located off the lobby, was busy, but we found a small table, took it, and ordered a Coke for him, a club soda for me. A TV played silently behind the bar, a basketball game’s ten players performing their acrobatics sans sound.
I raised my glass to Wendell. “Well,” I said, “here’s to your arrival in New York. Sorry it involves murder, but—”
I was looking at him, but the TV was in my peripheral vision. The game was suddenly obliterated by breaking news. A newsman filled the screen while a headline crawled across the bottom of it. I was transfixed, my glass held motionless above the table, the words on the screen telling the tale: Broadway serial killer strikes twice in one day—Two murders at the Drummond Theater—The play, Knock ’Em Dead, again the scene of a savage attack—Stay tuned for details at eleven.
“Excuse me,” I said, getting up and going to a public phone in the lobby.
I tried Matt Miller first, then Vaughan Buckley, both without success. I was about to call the theater manager’s office when I remembered that Lieutenant Henry Hayes had given me his card. I tried the main number listed on it and was connected with headquarters. The officer taking the call was reluctant to give me information, but after I properly identified myself and told him Detective Hayes had asked me to stay in close touch, he told me the detective was at the Drummond Theater, and that he’d contact him by beeper. I gave him the number of the booth from which I’d placed the call.
It wasn’t more than two minutes before Hayes called.
“Lieutenant, I just saw a report on TV that there’s been a second murder at the theater.”
“Leave it to the press to get it wrong. There hasn’t been a second murder at the theater.”
“But—”
“It happened a block away, behind a bar.”
“Why would the press say it happened at the theater?”
“Because the deceased is the doorman at the Drummond’s stage door.”
My sharp intake of breath was audible over the phone, I was sure. “Vic?”
“Right.”
“That lovely old man?”
“Yes, that lovely old man. Somebody hit him in the head in an alley behind the bar.”
“How horrible.”
“I just came from there. He’d been drinking since late afternoon.”
“That seems out of character,” I said. “He didn’t seem the sort of man who would abandon his post to go drinking.”
“I wouldn’t know. The press is all over the street here. How are things at the hotel?”
“Quiet. I—”
I looked through the doors to the street where media vehicles mingled with police cars. A number of men and woman, all from the press I assumed, were being kept from entering by the night manager and some of his staff.
“Maybe not so quiet,” I said. “Will you be at the theater tomorrow?”
“Sure will. You?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be there at ten.”
“And so will I. Thanks for the update.”
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but that would be a lie.”
The night manager spotted me, crossed the lobby and said, “We have you moved, Mrs. Fletcher. You can go to the suite any time.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you’d better go now. See what’s happening outside?”
“Yes, I do. Let me get Wendell.”
“Wendell?”
“My bodyguard. He’s from Maine.”
“Oh.”
I paid for our soft drinks and brought Wendell back out to the lobby.
“This is Wendell,” I said to the night manager.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Wendell said, his head bobbing.
“Wendell will be staying in the suite with me.”
“Your bodyguard.”
“Yes.”
“I’m from Cabot Cove, Maine,” Wendell said.
“He’s licensed,” I said.
“Of course. This way, please.”
The suite was perfectly configured. The second, smaller bedroom was physically separated from the living room and my bedroom by doors.
“You go ahead and call your uncle and mother,” I told him once we were inside. “And get to bed. We have an early start tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It suddenly occurred to me that he didn’t have any luggage.
“Do you have fresh clothes with you, Wendell?”
“Yes, ma’am, except I left them at the theater.”
“Oh, well, we’ll have the hotel send up a toothbrush and other necessities. You’ll just have to sleep in what you’re wearing. You can change tomorrow once we get to the theater.”
“Okay,” he said, then headed for his end of the suite. He stopped, turned, and said, “I guess you don’t like having me around, Mrs. Fletcher, and I can’t say that I blame you. But the sheriff said it was important that you be safe here in New York.” His grin was pleasant and genuine. “I’ll just do my job and try to stay out of your way.”
“Wendell,” I said, “I am very happy you are here with me in New York. I feel safe and protected, thanks to you. The sheriff and the others in the theater party will be arriving next week and we’ll all have a good time enjoying New York City.”
“That sounds fine. Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“How come they call it the Big Apple?”
I smiled. “Because you can taste life here with one bite like no other place on earth. Good night, Wendell.”
“Good night, Mrs. Fletcher.”
And taste murder, too, I thought after he’d closed the door and I was alone.
Murder!
&
nbsp; An unwelcome intruder into my dream of having one of my books turned into a Broadway play.
Chapter 13
Wendell and I had breakfast at seven and headed directly for the theater. The second murder of someone connected with Knock ’Em Dead and the Drummond Theater was again front page news, as expected. But the press corps that had camped in front of the hotel earlier in the evening evidently had been called to cover bigger and better stories—bigger and better murders? Only a few stragglers were in front of the Westin when we climbed into a cab.
The scene on West Forty-fourth Street was a different matter. TV remote trucks were parked in front of the theater, their telescoping antennas jutting up like church spires, the religion of fast-breaking news. Reporters hurled questions at me as I exited the cab but I ignored them, answering only with a smile and wave of my hand. As we reached the front doors where two uniformed officers stood guard, a young woman asked, “Is it true you had a bodyguard brought in from Maine because you’re afraid for your life?”
I turned and faced her. “Of course not,” I said.
“Then who’s he?” she asked, indicating Wendell, wearing his green security guard’s uniform.
“He’s—just a friend.” To Wendell: “Come on. Let’s get inside.” He looked as though he was about to respond to the reporter.
One of the officers was reluctant to allow us to enter, but Lieutenant Hayes’s partner, Tony Vasile, spotted me from the lobby and waved us inside.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” He looked at Wendell but said nothing.
“My friend, here, left his suitcase at the theater overnight. He needs to get it.”
“Where did you leave it?” Vasile asked.
“In there,” Wendell replied, indicating the theater itself.
“What did it look like?” Vasile asked.
Wendell shrugged. “A big old thing. It’s my mom’s. She let me use it for the trip.”
“Cloth? Green? With yellow flowers?”
“Yes, sir, that’s it.”
“It’s at headquarters.”
“How did it end up there?” I asked.
“Bomb squad took it.” “Bomb squad?”
“Couldn’t take any chances. You see a strange suitcase standing alone and you think bomb.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Can we arrange to have it returned?”
13 - Knock'em Dead Page 9
