13 - Knock'em Dead

by Fletcher, Jessica; Bain, Donald

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Find the Factors and come up with a replacement.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, he’s not joking,” Joe McCartney said.

  “Where did they go?” Linda asked.

  “That way,” Walpole said, pointing.

  “We want to talk to you,” Vasile said to Linda.

  “I know, I know, but this is more important.” She headed in the direction taken by the Factors.

  Vasile started after her, but Hayes grabbed his arm and shook his head. I lip-read, “Later.”

  I sat with Wendell while the cast and crew wandered about the theater, not knowing what to do, or what was in store for them as far as the play was concerned. I shared their confusion. Did this mean, at best, a postponement of the previews and opening of Knock ’Em Dead?

  That prospect was not pleasant.

  It was a half hour later when the Factors and Linda Amsted reappeared.

  Jill said, “All right, everyone, here’s what’s happening. We’ve replaced Pamela in the show.”

  We all looked at each other. Who could possibly step in at such a late moment to fill an important role? Who could learn all those lines in little more than a day?

  “Who’s replacing her?” Walpole asked.

  “Jenny Forrest,” Jill answered.

  Chapter 23

  The rehearsal resumed after a half hour of responses to the news that Jenny Forrest, the original Marcia in Knock ’Em Dead, would be rejoining the cast. Reactions were mixed. Cyrus Walpole let out a string of obscenities in his charming British accent; David Potts, playing the younger son with a romantic interest in Marcia, was delighted with the news: “She’s the best actress I’ve ever worked with.” April Larsen said she felt faint and slouched in a chair; a stagehand brought her a glass of water and a wet towel.

  My reaction was to become numb.

  Lieutenant Hayes came to where I sat with Wendell.

  “There’s no business like show business,” he said, smiling.

  “I’m not so sure it’s a business,” I said.

  “How are you going to feel about being around the erratic Ms. Forrest?” he asked.

  “I’ll manage,” I said, “provided she doesn’t decide to attack me again.”

  “Who attacked you?” Wendell asked.

  “The actress who is going to replace the one who quit.”

  “The one Sheriff Metzger told me about? That’s why he sent me to New York as your bodyguard.”

  “I know, but it’s nothing for you to be concerned about, Wendell. It wasn’t a real attack. It wasn’t a real knife.”

  “When is she due here?” Hayes asked.

  “I heard the Factors say they’d reached her by phone and that she’d be at the theater within the hour.”

  The security guard at the front door came to the auditorium and called for Hayes. A minute later, the detective returned, followed by Jenny Forrest. She’d been denied access to the Drummond because she didn’t have one of the passes issued by the NYPD, but Hayes had cleared her.

  She walked with confidence, head high, down the aisle, went directly to the stage, came up to Cy Walpole and said, a smile on her face, hands on her hips, “Here I am, Mr. Director. Ready?”

  Walpole’s face turned beet red, and I silently prayed he wouldn’t have a stroke. Jill broke the tension by saying, “All right, we have our original Marcia back. I suggest we forget everything that’s gone before and get down to the business of whipping this play into opening night shape. Places!”

  I returned to my suite at the Westin Central Park South a little after midnight. The rehearsal had gone well with Jenny Forrest back in the cast as Marcia. Walpole and the others obviously recognized that there was a lot more at stake than their personal feelings about Jenny and dug into their parts with renewed vigor. Aaron Manley, who appeared to me to have had more than a single drink, tried to inject some rewrites, but Jill brought him up short. “The script we have is the script we’ll go with,” she said sternly. “There’s been enough tampering with it to last a lifetime.”

  “I bloody well agree,” Walpole said.

  And so they rehearsed into the night. Jenny never acknowledged me and I was grateful for that. I wasn’t sure how I would react if she approached me and was content to keep my distance. One thing was certain: She made a much better Marcia than Pamela South had, and Dave Potts’s performance was elevated a few notches in his scenes with her.

  Detectives Hayes and Vasile had left the theater at ten. On their way out, Hayes stopped to tell me that he intended to have plainclothes detectives in the audience for the previews—“Just in case the serial killer views it as a dramatic moment to strike again.” His parting words, whispered in my ear, were, “Remember what I said about watching your back, Jessica.”

  I was happy to return to the hotel. I changed into my pajamas, put on a fluffy terrycloth robe provided by the Westin, ordered smoked salmon and sparkling water from room service, and perused the pile of phone messages handed me at the desk when I arrived. It was too late to return most of them, but I knew my agent would be up; Matt’s message was to call any time up until two.

  “How’s things?” he asked.

  Going through the litany of events was too exhausting to contemplate, so I simply said, “Fine. How was your trip?” He’d been in Los Angeles negotiating film deals for other clients.

  “Great. Everything went smoothly. I read that the Factors are now producing Knock ’Em Dead.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll have to call them in the morning. There was a payment to you due one week prior to previews. I haven’t seen any check.”

  “They’ve been so busy picking up the pieces after Harry Schrumm’s murder, I don’t doubt they’ve let administrative matters slip.”

  “Nice of you to make excuses for them, Jess, but a deal’s a deal. There’s another payment due the day of opening night. I don’t want them to fall too far behind.”

  “I’m ready for bed,” I said. “Can we touch base tomorrow?”

  “Count on it. Will you be at the theater?”

  “Not for most of the day. My friends from Cabot Cove are arriving at about noon. I want to be here to greet them and get them settled. But we’ll be at dress rehearsal. That starts at four.”

  “I’ll swing by after four,” he said. “Excited about the opening night of previews?”

  “I haven’t really had time to get excited, but now that you mention it, yes, I am very excited. You’ll be there?”

  “Of course. Schrumm’s office provided Susan and me tickets. We’re sitting with Vaughan and Olga Buckley.”

  “Should be quite a night.”

  “Should be.” He chuckled. “I was going to say ‘break a leg,’ but considering everything that’s happened, maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Your discretion is appreciated. See you tomorrow.”

  The conversation with Matt left me wide awake. In all the commotion since dinner last September in New York when Matt announced that Knock ’Em Dead had been optioned for Broadway, the true impact had gotten lost for me. The ensuing months had become a blur of personal conflicts, runaway egos, things going wrong, and, of course, murder. But now, as I stood by the window and looked out over the imposing concrete canyons and neon splendor of Manhattan, the reality of the play opening to live audiences hit home. It was a delicious expectation, and I couldn’t contain an involuntary giggle.

  Knock ’Em Dead would open on time. The previews were sold-out; so were the first ten months of regular nightly performances. That morning’s New York Times had carried a two-page ad for the play in which my name was larger than anyone else’s from the show. Stories had been appearing in every publication about the play, sadly fueled to a great extent by the tragedies surrounding the Drummond Theater, and Broadway in general. I’d felt somewhat guilty about not cooperating with Priscilla Hoye’s requests for me to make myself available for radio and tele
vision interviews, but I simply couldn’t bring myself to do them. She’d been gracious about my constant refusals and had managed to mount an impressive publicity campaign without me. Maybe now that the play was about to be an actuality, I’d feel differently, especially if the reviews were kind.

  I climbed into bed thinking about the arrival of my dear friends from Cabot Cove. All arrangements had been made for them to attend the dress rehearsal and opening night of previews. It would be wonderful being surrounded by their warmth and unabashed enthusiasm for me and the play.

  I fell asleep humming, badly, “Another Opening, Another Show.”

  The worst was over, the best was yet to come.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter 24

  “This is so exciting,” Pat Hitchcock, Cabot Cove’s most popular nurse and our town’s “Woman of the Year,” said when I met my hometown contingent in the hotel lobby a little past noon. “We’re actually going to the dress rehearsal?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and opening night of previews. But remember, things might be a little rough, some bumps to be smoothed out before opening night.”

  “Will all the critics and celebrities be there?” Mort Metzger’s wife asked.

  “I have no idea whether they review Broadway plays during previews or on opening night,” I said. “I’m new to this.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “How was your acting lesson, Jessica?” Seth Hazlitt asked.

  “My what? Oh, yes, my acting lesson. It was—interesting.”

  Wendell stood behind me.

  “Have you been behavin’ yourself?” Sheriff Metzger asked him. Seeing Mort in civilian clothes was always a shock to me. He seemed to live in his uniform in Cabot Cove.

  Wendell grinned sheepishly at him. “Sure have, Sheriff.”

  “He’s been a wonderful bodyguard,” I said. “The best.”

  “Good to hear. Now, what about this serial killer who’s been running around loose on Broadway? They still haven’t nailed him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, “but let’s not talk about him. We’re here to celebrate Knock ‘Em Dead, not real murder. Is everyone hungry? I’ve reserved a table for us at the Redeye Grill.” I shielded my mouth with my hand to feign passing along a very important and secret point: “It’s a v-e-r-y ’in’ place. We’re only going to ’in’ places.”

  “Oooh,” said Beth Mullin, owner with her husband, Peter, of Cabot Cove’s flower shop. “Did everyone hear that? We’re only going to the ’in’ places.”

  “Come on,” I said. “It’s a popular restaurant. We don’t want to be late and lose the table.”

  After a wonderful lunch punctuated by effervescent conversation, we walked to the Drummond Theater on West Forty-fourth Street, where the guard perused a list of names I’d provided Lieutenant Hayes, checking each of my friends off as they entered.

  We paused in the lobby. “Just a word of caution,” I told them. “These are temperamental people, and a dress rehearsal is bound to be tense. All I’m saying is that we have to be quiet. You know, sort of fade into the background. Harry Schrumm, the original producer who was killed, arranged for you to be here. The new producers, Mr. and Mrs. Factor, were reluctant to honor my request for you to be at the dress rehearsal. So, let’s just stay out of their way. Okay?”

  “Fine by me,” Seth said. “Wouldn’t want to offend anybody’s artistic temperament.” His pique was evident.

  We entered the auditorium.

  “We’ll sit there,” I said, indicating the center section, toward the rear. Technicians were busy preparing the stage for Act One. Jill and Arnold Factor huddled with Cyrus Walpole at stage right. The cast, I assumed, was backstage having makeup applied and changing into opening act costumes.

  I looked for Detectives Hayes and Vasile but didn’t see them. Nor were there any uniformed officers, with the exception of the private security guard at the front entrance, and undoubtedly the one positioned at the stage door.

  My friends seemed enthralled with what was going on in the theater. So was I. This was the first time I’d get to see Knock ’Em Dead in its entirety, straight through from beginning to end without scenes being performed out of sequence, or with the constant interruptions that had characterized earlier rehearsals.

  Cy Walpole came to where a small table and microphone had been set up in the third row center. I’d been told by one of the technical crew that the director would be able to talk from that position with the lighting and sound technicians, as well as having the capability of stopping the rehearsal and giving instructions over the theater’s speaker system. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to exercise that option.

  Jill took the stage.

  “We’re about to begin,” she said. “It’s unusual to have anyone in the audience for a dress rehearsal, but Mrs. Fletcher was promised this courtesy and we have no choice but to go along with it.”

  I stiffened. Her snide comment was uncalled for.

  “What does she think we are, a bunch of school kids?” Seth muttered under his breath.

  Jill looked at Walpole, who’d slid behind his makeshift third row desk. “Are we ready?” she asked.

  “Yes, we’re ready,” he said.

  “Good. Act One.”

  Jill joined her husband next to Walpole. The lights in the theater dimmed, in itself a dramatic moment. Then, the curtain opened to reveal the living room of my fictitious family’s modest home. April Larsen and Joe McCartney, the mother and father, sat in matching easy chairs. He read a newspaper, she concentrated on needlepoint. Their reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the younger son, Joshua, played by David Potts, and his girlfriend, Marcia, her role once again in the hands of Jenny Forrest.

  “Isn’t that the one who attacked you?” Mort Metzger whispered to me.

  “Sssh,” I said, putting my finger to my lips.

  The first act progressed smoothly. I was beguiled by what I saw and heard. Although Aaron Manley had rewritten much of the script, what was being spoken by the actors was very much my work. The characters and scenes I’d created were being played before my eyes. More important, others were being exposed to it simultaneously. I glanced at my friends’ faces. Smiles erupted at the right times, as did frowns of concern at what was being presented between the characters.

  Cy Walpole was evidently pleased because he never stopped the play to suggest changes. Even the lighting and sound cues worked to perfection, something I was led to believe seldom happened at dress rehearsals.

  We were nearing the end of Act One. I’d learned from working with Manley that it was important to end each of the first two acts with a dramatic flourish. I always tried to do that with the end of each chapter of my books, but it was obviously even more crucial with a play. Act One would end with April Larsen discovering the body of her husband offstage. Her loud and prolonged scream would bring down the curtain.

  I waited with anticipation for that moment to occur, my eyes moving between the stage and my friends’ faces. The entire fictitious family, now gathered on stage, were in the midst of an intense confrontation between the father and his two sons. Jerry, the oldest, flings a nasty accusation in his father’s face, causing the father to storm from the room. The others leave; April Larsen sits alone, despairing over the rift that has developed within her family.

  She calls out for her husband, but receives no reply. Then, she leaves the stage to look for him in their bedroom.

  Now! I thought. The scream.

  Maureen Metzger, who sat next to me, flinched at the first pained hint of the howl as it arose from offstage, and grasped her husband’s arm. The scream increased in intensity, filling the theater and threatening to peel the paint from its walls.

  Except—the scream hadn’t come from April Larsen. It took me a split second to become aware of this and then to realize it had emanated from the opposite side of the stage from where April had made her exit—the side on which the offices, dressing rooms, and costume and prop room wer
e located—the side where Harry Schrumm had been murdered.

  I stood. April ran on to the stage in response to the scream. Cy Walpole said into his microphone, “What in bloody hell is going on?”

  The stage filled with cast and crew. The house lights came up. It was chaos. My friends from Cabot Cove looked at each other in shock: “What’s happened?” “Is this part of the play, Jess?”

  Suddenly, Charles Flowers ran to the stage from the direction of the scream: “It’s the serial killer. He’s got Jenny.”

  I immediately headed down the aisle, followed by Wendell Watson and Mort Metzger. We climbed the few steps up to the stage, went into the wings, and ran down the long hallway to where Detectives Hayes and Vasile were pressed against the wall on opposite sides of the women’s dressing room door.

  “The serial killer is here?” I asked, breathlessly.

  “In there,” Hayes said, pointing to the closed door. He motioned for us to move past them and out of the way, and we followed his silent instructions. Cold air came from around the corner, just as it had the day I discovered Harry Schrumm’s body. I moved in that direction, Wendell at my side. The stage door was wide open. The security guard who’d been posted there lay on his back, a magazine at his side. Wendell immediately knelt over him and said, “Hey, you okay?”

  To my relief, the guard raised his head, then slowly came up to a sitting position with Wendell’s help.

  Thank God, I thought. He was alive.

  I moved back to where Hayes and Vasile, guns drawn, continued their vigil, whispering instructions to each other. Mort Metzger had taken a position against the wall, next to Vasile.

  “One more time,” Hayes said aloud to the door and whoever was behind it. “Let the girl come out. Don’t hurt her. Let her go, and you come out with your hands raised.”

  There was no response.

  I looked past the detectives to where a dozen people were congregated at the other end of the hallway. A few started in our direction, but I held up my hand. The last thing Hayes and Vasile needed was a crowd. “Are you sure Jenny is in there with him?” I asked Hayes.