13 - Knock'em Dead (10 page)

Hayes shrugged. “We’re just beginning our investigation, Mr. Factor. Were you in the theater this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Well, now that you’re here, I’d like to have a chance to chat with you, learn something about the deceased. As the show’s backer, you obviously had a close relationship with him as producer.”

“I knew him well. We were involved in a number of theatrical projects.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Hayes said, “would you mind if I spoke with Mr. Factor first?”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Factor,” Hayes said, indicating the backer was to follow him up the aisle in the direction of the lobby.

When they were gone Walpole said, “All right, let’s get to it. We’ve got a bloody mess of problems to address, and the bloody previews are two weeks away. Places everyone for act two, scene three. This show must go on—no matter who dies in the process!”

I sat in the darkened theater and watched the rehearsal. There was no doubt that the shock of Harry Schrumm having been murdered was taking its toll on the cast. They seemed to walk through the scenes, all energy drained from them. Frankly, I didn’t know how any of them could continue, knowing that their producer’s body lay twenty yards away in the costume room.

But that reality was changed when a half hour later, Harry Schrumm’s shrouded corpse was carried on a stretcher down the theater aisle and to the street where an NYPD ambulance waited. I turned from it as it passed. Not that avoiding seeing his covered body would spare me any unpleasant memories. All I could see was him propped up against the wall behind the costume rack, eyes wide open, looking almost silly with the hat on his head at an odd angle and the pipe drooping from his mouth.

My attention was then divided between the rehearsal on stage and the work of the police officers and members of the NYPD’s forensic unit as they combed the theater for clues. I doubted they’d find anything out there, considering the murder had taken place backstage and that the killer had probably escaped into the alley through the stage door. But they had to cover all bases.

My mind also wandered back to what Detective Hayes had said earlier, that the Broadway serial killer seemed to work in a geographic pattern. Hayes had been right. The killer had chosen a theater adjacent to the scene of his last crime.

Then I reminded myself that I was assuming Harry Schrumm had been murdered by the serial killer. It certainly looked that way, but I’d lived long enough to know that things weren’t always as they appeared to be where murder was involved—
especially
where murder was involved.

Still, all signs pointed to Schrumm being the serial killer’s fifth victim.

My pragmatic New England side also kicked in. What would this do to the opening of
Knock ’Em Dead?
Despite Cyrus Walpole’s determination that the show must go on in grand theatrical tradition, losing one’s producer at this late stage had to have an impact. Unless, of course, what Matt Miller said was true, that a producer’s only function was to raise money and hire talent. In that case, his work had been completed quite a while ago.

Hayes reappeared, followed by Arnold Factor. “If I’m no longer needed,” Factor said, “I’ll be going. I’m meeting Mrs. Factor and friends for dinner at Twenty-one.”

“Nice place,” Hayes said.

“You’ll excuse me?”

“Sure,” said Hayes.

The detective and I watched Factor leave the theater.

“Interesting guy,” Hayes said.

“How so?”

“Made a few stabs at being upset about the producer’s murder, but then started talking about how this would boost ticket sales.”

“How callous.”

“He’s right, I guess. The press has surrounded the theater, Mrs. Fletcher. I called for one of our press officers to handle it. I don’t suppose you want to deal with them.”

“No, I certainly don’t.”

“Ready for a talk?”

“Of course. By the way, did you examine the body?”

“Looked at it, that’s all.”

“Did you notice the bruise on his left temple?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering whether he received the bruise after falling from the wound to his chest, or whether he was killed by a blow to the head.”

Hayes smiled. “I see why you’re a mystery writer.”

“Just a naturally curious lady, Detective. I’m ready if you are.”

The theater manager’s office was off the small second floor lobby from which two doors led to the balcony. The manager, Peter Monroe, was a prissy little fellow with an array of nervous tics—a twitch in his left eye, index fingers constantly tapping against his thumbs, and a habit of hunching his narrow shoulders against some unseen force. Nervous traits aside, he was a pleasant man who, when not closeted in his small, cramped office, could be seen scurrying about the theater in search of things needing attention. He seemed always to be there; that he wasn’t present that day was unusual.

The door was open. Detective Hayes took Mr. Monroe’s chair behind the desk, and I sat in the only other chair available, positioning it so I could see Hayes between high piles of paper on the desk.

“Might as well start from the beginning, Mrs. Fletcher,” the detective said, pulling out a slender notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

“How do you define the beginning?” I asked.

“I suppose going back to your episode yesterday in front of the theater.”

“When I was attacked with that stage prop? There really isn’t much to tell about that. A young actress was fired from the play. I happened along when she was arguing with the casting director, Linda Amsted, who’d been handed the unpleasant task of telling her she was no longer a member of the cast. It looked to me—I suppose it looked the same to anyone who was present—that she was attacking Ms. Amsted with a real knife. When I arrived, she shifted her attention from Linda and came after me, ramming the knife into my chest. The blade retracted into the handle the way it was designed to do and that was that.”

“Ms. Forrest. Jenny Forrest,” Hayes said.

“That’s right.”

“Quite a picture in the Post.”

“I had no idea someone had taken a photo. I was surprised to see it on the front page.”

“Did Ms. Forrest have a grudge against Mr. Schrumm for being fired?”

“I wouldn’t know, although it’s reasonable to assume she did. After all, he would have had to approve her dismissal from the show.”

“Why was it left to Ms. Amsted to fire her? It’s unusual, at least according to my experience, for a casting director to do the firing.”

“I thought the same thing. But Linda seems to have an expanded role in the production. She and Harry Schrumm were—well, it’s just a rumor but they supposedly were close personally.”

“I see,” he said, noting it in his book. “You said you were looking for her when you discovered the body. Did you know she was in the theater?”

“One of the crew told me she was, but I never saw her.”

Hayes thought for a moment before asking, “Anyone else personally close, as you put it, with the deceased?”

I shrugged. “Just rumors.”

“I learned a long time ago never to dismiss rumors. There’s often something behind them.”

I nodded. “The actress who replaced Jenny Forrest, Pamela South, is alleged to be—was—one of Harry Schrumm’s girlfriends. But I emphasize I don’t know this firsthand.”

“What about the man I spoke with downstairs, Arnold Factor. He’s the backer?”

“He and his wife, Jill. They’ve evidently backed a number of Schrumm’s shows.”

“Happy investors?”

I thought back to the conversation I’d had with the Factors in the restaurant. “Again, Detective Hayes, I only know what I’ve been told. The Factors indicated to me they weren’t happy with the way Schrumm was padding the payroll. They said it wasn’t unusual for him to do this, that he’d done it with previous shows with which they’d been involved.”

“But they keep investing.”

“Yes.”

“What about others in the cast? Any friction between them and Schrumm?”

I laughed. “There’s friction between everyone involved with this play, from what I’ve observed. I suppose it goes with the artistic temperament and the pressures of putting on a Broadway production.”

“I suppose so. The director, the British gentleman? He and the deceased get along?”

“They seemed to. A few minor flaps but nothing more serious than that.”

“What about Ms. Larsen?”

“April? She’s expressed her disappointment in certain aspects of the show, although she seems to have been most upset with Linda Amsted, at least recently.”

“What about her relationship with the deceased?”

April Larsen had termed Harry Schrumm a liar. I told the detective this.

“She goes back a long way with him,” Hayes said.

“Does she?”

“Yes. Remember the scandal with her and Schrumm. out in Hollywood?”

“No. I don’t keep up with showbiz scandals.”

“Good for you. I don’t remember the details, but I’ll check it out. Have you seen the man again who bumped into you on the street?”

“No.”

“I’d like to borrow your coat, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Borrow it?”

“Yes. Have the lab examine the cut more closely. I promise to have it back to you within twenty-four hours.”

“It’s the only warm coat I brought with me.”

“Maybe your wardrobe mistress can come up with another. If not, I’ll arrange for one.”

“All right. I left it downstairs. Anything else?”

“Once again, the circumstances under which you found the body.”

I repeated it step-by-step for him, ending with, “It looks as though Harry Schrumm’s murder was at the hand of your so-called Broadway serial killer.”

“On the surface, yes. Same MO, same pattern. Theaters adjacent to each other. The killing occurred backstage. The killer takes the time to pose the victim in some macabre way. Not a bad bet that Mr. Schrumm has become the serial killer’s latest victim.”

“I get the feeling it’s a bet you’re not willing to make,” I said.

“I’m a cop, not a gambler, Mrs. Fletcher. If it was the serial killer, you and everyone else connected with
Knock ’Em Dead
can rest easy. The killer will go on to another theater.”

Hayes stood, arched his back against a stiffness, and groaned.

“Bad back?” I asked, also standing.

“Yeah. Always tightens up when I’m investigating a murder.”

“And loosens up once you’ve solved one?”

“Exactly. Are you planning on being in New York until the opening?”

“Yes. I’m staying at the Westin Central Park South.”

We left the office and went downstairs to the lobby.

“Do me a favor?” Hayes asked.

“Sure.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open for me, keep in touch.”

“Of course. You’ll be questioning the others now?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll try to schedule things so that anyone not rehearsing a scene at the moment is next. Your coat?”

We went into the theater where I’d left it on a seat. Hayes put it over his arm and motioned for a uniformed policewoman to join us. “Maggie, this is Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer.
Knock ’Em Dead
is based upon her novel. She needs a warm coat for a few days. Think you can rustle one up for her?”

“Sure.”

I followed Hayes to where Aaron Manley sat talking with Charles Flowers. I introduced Hayes to them.

“Would you please come with me, Mr. Flowers?” Hayes said. The actor followed him up the aisle.

“What did he ask you?” Manley asked me.

“Nothing special.”

“It’s a waste of time questioning any of us,” Manley said. “None of us is the serial killer.”

I didn’t respond. Although everything pointed to Harry Schrumm being another victim of the Broadway serial killer, I shared Detective Hayes’s reticence about coming to that conclusion too quickly.

I wandered aimlessly back in the direction of the lobby and stood in it, looking out through the glass doors leading to the street where the sidewalk was packed with members of the press, uniformed officers, and gawkers. Marked NYPD cars with lights flashing sent spears of light over everything and everybody. Then I noticed a young man who seemed to be arguing with one of the officers guarding the door. The officer saw me and asked, “You’re Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes,” I said.

“This kid claims he’s your bodyguard.”

I peered through the glass at the face pressed against it. It belonged to a tall, gawky young man with a prominent nose and Adam’s apple, a mop of red hair covering his ears and forehead, and wearing what looked like a uniform.

“He says his name is—”

“Wendell Watson,” I said.

Wendell smiled and wiggled his fingers at me.

I waved back.

“What is he, some nut?” the officer asked.

“No,” I said with a deep, resigned sigh, “he’s—Please let him in.”

After receiving permission from Detective Hayes, Wendell Watson, son of Gloria Watson of Cabot Cove, was allowed to enter the theater.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. Sheriff Metzger sent me to protect you.”

I smiled.

“Mom sends her best.”

“That’s nice.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” he said. “I won’t leave your side. I’m licensed, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that, and I’m pleased to be here.”

“And I’m—I’m pleased that you are. Should I call you Officer Watson?”

“No, ma’am. Wendell will be just fine.”

“Then that’s what it will be. Welcome to New York, Wendell.”

The questioning of
Knock ’Em Dead’s
cast and crew by Detective Henry Hayes promised to last well into the night. I was taken with his demeanor and calm approach. Previous brushes with members of New York’s police department had left me impressed with their professionalism but put off by their gruff, at times insensitive manner.