13 - Knock'em Dead (17 page)

“Jessica Fletcher,” he said. “Welcome.”

I stood and took his outstretched hand. “You undoubtedly are Roy Richardson.”

“I was when I got up this morning. The detective said he’d see if you were free today to sit in on one of the classes. I’m delighted you could find the time.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I said. “I’ve never attended an acting class before, and I understand you’re among the city’s best teachers.”

He adopted a pose and expression that feigned modesty. “Don’t say that,” he said, “or I might start believing it.”

“What will happen in the class this morning?” I asked.

“The usual. Certain students have been assigned scenes to learn for today, and they’ll perform them.”

“Sounds like fun. I understand you’ve trained virtually all the actors and actresses in Knock
’Em Dead,
the play based upon my book.”

“True. You have a talented cast—provided the so-called Broadway serial killer doesn’t wipe them out.”

“A horrific thought,” I said.

“Know what I’ve been thinking?”

“What?”

“You’ll appreciate this, being a mystery writer. I keep wondering whether the serial killer is someone I’ve trained, some actor or actress, probably a very talented one but with a serious mental illness that’s contributed to his or her acting ability.”

“Interesting thought,” I said.

“In a sense, I’d almost enjoy it if that were the case. You know, the mad acting teacher creating Manhattan’s murderous Frankenstein. I’d enjoy the publicity. I’ve lost students lately and could use an infusion of new blood, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

I smiled. “That’s one thing none of us needs now, new blood. Don’t let me keep you from your class. It looks like you’ve got a lot of students anxious to get started.”

“Can’t keep the little darlings waiting,” he said. “Free for lunch?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“Good. The class runs until one. Can you hold out till then?”

“I think so.”

He looked at Wendell. “Are you supposed to be here?” he asked.

“He’s with me,” I said. “He’s a friend.”

“Sure.”

Richardson returned to the stage and sat in a tall director’s chair with THE TEACHER stenciled across its red canvas back. A matching chair was occupied by a young woman with long black hair wearing jeans and an orange sweater. She held a clipboard. She and Richardson talked for a minute before she shouted, “All right, let’s get started. Calm down. Come on, knock off the talk.”

The students settled into seats and conversation ceased.

“Molly St. James and Dirk Browder. You’re up.”

The persons belonging to those names came to the stage and stood before Richardson.

“You’re doing
Streetcar,”
Richardson said.

“Right,” the actor said.

“You’re playing Mitch, she’s Blanche.”

“Yup.”

“Ready?”

The actor and actress looked at each other and smiled, drew deep breaths, and launched into the scene. I was familiar with the scene from Tennessee Williams’s classic play and leaned forward, my arms on the back of the chair in front of me. I was impressed with what I saw, but Richardson obviously wasn’t. He left the chair, arms raised, and said loudly, “You’re supposed to be playing characters from Tennessee Williams, not Gilbert and Sullivan. You’re showing about as much emotion as A1 Gore. Jesus, haven’t you gotten anything from these classes?”

The actor and actress looked sheepishly at the stage floor.

Richardson’s volume rose in concert with the nastiness of his tone. He berated the two students unmercifully, going so far as to criticize the girl’s appearance and the man’s masculinity. I winced at every word. Why would anyone, I wondered, subject themselves to such cruel treatment—and pay for the privilege?

Richardson eventually returned to his chair and the students started the scene again. Their approach this time was markedly different from their initial attempt. Frankly, I thought it was better the first time, but Richardson felt otherwise. Not that he praised them. The ensuing half hour was filled with his invective and insulting tirades. I was as relieved when it was over as I was sure the students were.

A second pair was called to the stage and performed a scene from Arthur Miller’s
The Crucible.
It was more of the same, only this time the actress didn’t have the control of her emotions the way the first actress did. She started sobbing under Richardson’s barrage of personal insults and eventually ran from the stage. Richardson laughed and said to those of us in the audience, “That’s the first honest emotion I’ve seen this morning. If she could only apply it to her acting, she might stand a chance of becoming an actress instead of a pathetic wannabe waiting tables in some greasy spoon and wondering why she never made it.” He turned to the woman with the clipboard: “Next!” Then, as an aside, “If I can live through another amateur performance.”

I considered leaving. I abhor cruelty of any sort, to any living thing, whether it’s a four-legged or two-legged species of the animal kingdom. At home, I keep a thin piece of cardboard and a paper cup handy to capture a moth or other insect that’s found its way inside, to release it outdoors. Roy Richardson was, to my mind, a sadist, someone who reveled in the power he held over these aspiring people, and who enjoyed their pain.

But the announcement by Richardson’s assistant of who was next to perform kept me solidly in my seat.

“Joe Eberly and Jenny Forrest, you’re next.”

The actor and actress ascended to the stage carrying their scripts. Eberly was a handsome young man who looked as though he could be a model for a military recruiting poster. Immediately behind him was the familiar face of Jenny Forrest, the original younger son’s girlfriend, Marcia, in
Knock ’Em Dead,
and my attacker in front of the Drummond Theater.

Richardson’s demeanor with this pair was decidedly different than it had been with the previous two, especially with Jenny. He was actually pleasant and kind in the way he addressed her.

After Richardson had delivered a series of compliments about Jenny’s performance two weeks ago, he asked, “Ready to give us some Albee?”

“No,” Jenny said. She wore the same simple long black dress she’d worn at Linda Amsted’s open audition for
Knock ’Em Dead.
It had been designated by Cyrus Walpole as her costume in the show. Familiar large, round glasses sat low on her nose.

“No?” Richardson said, laughing.

“We’ve changed our minds,” Jenny said. “There’s a scene from a show that hasn’t opened yet we’d like to do.”

“Which is?” Richardson asked.

“Knock ’Em Dead,
the murder mystery opening at the Drummond.”

I sat back as though pushed. Why would she decide to use
Knock ’Em Dead
as a vehicle for her class performance? Did she know I was there, perhaps knew I’d be coming before I ever got there? Was this some warped attempt at humor?

“Interesting choice,” Richardson said, glancing at me. “We happen to have with us this morning the author of the book on which the play is based, Jessica Fletcher.” He pointed to me; some of the students applauded.

“That doesn’t matter,” Jenny said. “She didn’t write these lines. The playwright, Aaron Manley, did.” She looked down at me and smiled, or was it an angry, pointed, twisting of her thin lips?

“All right,” Robertson said, “go to it.”

They played a scene from the first act in which they profess love for each other, with the character, Marcia, admitting to Joshua her self-loathing. Things look bright for them, until a few scenes later the father is found murdered in the attic following a birthday party for him attended by a dozen people other than the immediate family.

It was a short scene, no longer than six minutes. The other students applauded; so did Roy Richardson. As unsettling as seeing Jenny Forrest again, and having her choose a scene from my play, had been, at least Richardson hadn’t berated them.

Before the teacher could give his critique, Jenny came to the stage apron, peered down at me and said, “See what you lost, bitch!” With that she was gone.

Students in the auditorium looked to me for my reaction. I didn’t have one. I was too shaken to come up with anything except a blank expression and an inner struggle to keep from shaking.

If the incident had rattled Richardson, he didn’t show it. His assistant simply called up the final pair of students for their performance. I sat through their scene, still trying to make sense out of what had happened and occasionally looking over my shoulder to see if Jenny Forrest was in the auditorium. She was so deranged, in my opinion, that I feared she might come up behind me and physically attack me again, maybe this time with a real knife.

She didn’t. The class ended with Richardson hurling invective at the two students who’d just performed, then leaving the stage and coming over to me.

“Ready for lunch?” he asked. “I have another class at two, but there’s an Italian place around the comer that’s pretty fast.”

“Would you mind if I take the proverbial rain-check, Mr. Robertson? I just remembered an appointment I have uptown.”

He shrugged. “Sure. What did you think?”

“About the class? It was—interesting. Did you know Ms. Forrest would be reading a scene from
Knock ’Em Dead?”

“No. But then again, Jenny is always full of surprises.”

“Like what she said to me when she finished the scene?”

He laughed. “That’s Jenny. Being fired from
Knock ’Em Dead’s
cast sent her over the edge. Typical. Open a dictionary to the word volatile and there’s a picture of Jenny Forrest to illustrate the meaning. Ignore it. She’s a hell of an actress. If she ever gets her personal life together, she’ll accomplish great things in theater.”

“I don’t doubt that. You’ve been very kind to allow me to sit in. I appreciate it.”

“Any time. How’s
Knock ’Em Dead
going now that Harry Schrumm’s out of the picture?”

“Just fine. Did you know Harry?”

“Sure. He was on my list of people I wouldn’t want to sit next to on a long plane trip, but your new producers aren’t any better.”

“The Factors?”

“Yeah. Lowlifes living the high life.”

“I understand Linda Amsted gets to see your most promising students.”

“That’s right. She was here when Harry got it. She left at five. I told the cops that.”

“So I heard. Was Jenny Forrest one of the special students Linda got to see perform?”

“I don’t remember. Yes, she was. A year or more ago. You sound like the detective who was here. By the way, he took a few of my classes a while back. Was going to be an actor but decided a steady check from the NYPD made more sense. I agree. He didn’t have any talent. He probably makes a better cop.”

It was obvious that Roy Richardson had few kind words for anyone, except Jenny Forrest and, I assumed, Linda Amsted.

“I have to get to that appointment,” I said, extending my hand. “Thanks again.”

“My pleasure.”

Wendell and I started to walk up the aisle.

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Watch out for the Broadway serial killer.” He laughed.

“I intend to, Mr. Richardson.”

“And if he’s one of my students, I hope he gives a good performance at his arraignment. My reputation will be on the line.”

I left the theater and breathed in the fresh outside air. It was a warm day for February, the sun shining brightly, a clean, bracing scent in the air.

“Boy, he’s weird,” Wendell said as we headed east.

“He certainly is different,” I agreed.

“People shouldn’t talk to other people like that,” Wendell said. “My mom always says that if you don’t have something nice to say to people, you shouldn’t say anything.”

“Good advice,” I said, picking up the pace.

“And that woman swearing at you. I was ready to go up and ...”

“And what?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Tell her to apologize, I guess.”

“You’ve had a good upbringing, Wendell,” I said, pushing a button supposedly to cause the traffic light to change, but as I’ve always suspected, being nothing more than a placebo to placate pedestrians to make them feel they’re exercising some sort of control.

The light changed.

“Where to now?” Wendell asked as we stepped into the street.

“The Drummond Theater, Wendell. As they say in the theater, the show must go on.”

NYPD Lieutenant Henry Hayes and his partner, Tony Vasile, were at the theater when we arrived. The cast and crew were in the midst of a lunch break; large platters of cold cuts brought in from a local delicatessen had been laid on a table stage left. I was glad to see it. The brisk walk from Robertson’s studio to the Drummond had worked up an appetite.

“How was your morning with Robertson?” Hayes asked after I’d made a turkey and Muenster sandwich and poured myself a Diet Coke. Wendell had dug in and retreated to a comer of the auditorium with an overflowing plate.

“Fascinating.”

“He’s a character.”

“He’s a sadistic character,” I said. “The abuse he heaped on the students performing scenes was distasteful.”

“Did he mention me?”

“Yes. He said you were very talented.”

Hayes laughed. “No, he didn’t,” he said. “He probably told you what he told me at my last class, that I was a no-talent jerk with as much chance of making it as an actor as he has of becoming an astronaut.”

“He’s cruel.”

“Worse than that.”

“Why did you want me to go there?” I asked between bites of sandwich.

“Just thought you’d find it interesting.”

“I have a feeling you had another reason, Lieutenant.”

He flashed a boyish grin. “What was your evaluation of him physically?”