13 - Knock'em Dead (20 page)

“What the hell is going on?” Jill Factor demanded in a loud voice from where she sat in the front row of the empty house.

Pamela stood center stage, shaking, crying, her arms wrapped tightly about herself.

“What happened?” Cy Walpole asked.

“I saw him,” Pamela gasped.

“Saw who?” Charles Flowers said as he came to Pamela and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“The ghost,” she managed. “Marcus Drummond.”

Pamela South’s “sighting” of the ghost of Marcus Drummond created instant chaos onstage. Some laughed. “Was he giving acting lessons?” someone quipped. Others tried to comfort Pamela, who’d sunk to her knees and was crying uncontrollably. Aaron Manley, obviously disgusted, left the stage, announcing he needed a drink. Jill Factor tried to exhibit patience but eventually ran out of it and demanded that the rehearsal resume.

Pamela got to her feet, came to the apron and said to Jill, like a performer delivering a soliloquy to the audience, “I’m out of here. First Harry, then the doorman, now the ghost of Marcus Drummond decides to show up. Good-bye!”

“Wait a minute,” Walpole said. “You can’t walk out now. Why don’t you get yourself a drink or something to calm down?”

“I’m history with this damn play,” Pamela said. “Nothing’s worth losing my life.”

“You can’t do this!” Jill shouted. “Previews are two days away. You don’t have an understudy.”

“Shove your previews,” Pamela said. “This show is jinxed, spooked, doomed. See you around.” With that she bounded down the stairs to the auditorium and ran up the aisle toward the lobby.

Detectives Hayes and Vasile, who’d left the theater to get something to eat, now joined the chaos.

“What happened?” Vasile asked. “What the hell is going on?”

“A ghost,” Walpole said disgustedly. “One of the cast met Marcus Drummond.”

Hayes laughed. “I’ve been dying to meet him myself.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jill said, slapping her hands against her thighs and pacing in front of the stage.

“She’s frightened, poor thing,” I said.

Jill spun around and fixed me in a hateful stare. “She’s frightened? Isn’t that sweet? She’s frightened, and Arnie and I are facing bankruptcy if this show doesn’t open as scheduled.”

“Maybe I can talk to her,” I offered. “I thought I saw the ghost, too, and—”

Jill walked away to where the cast had gathered stage left. As she did, Arnold came down the aisle, stopped, looked around, and asked, “What did I do, walk into a wake by mistake? I thought—”

“Oh, shut up,” Jill said.

Arnold came over to me, hands outstretched in a plea for an explanation.

I explained the circumstances leading to Pamela South’s quitting the show.

“Now? At this late date?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Jill joined us. “We’d better talk,” she told her husband.

“I’d say so,” he said. They walked up the aisle together, presumably to find a quiet place to explore their alternatives.

I went over to where Wendell Watson sat alone in the center of the house.

“I suppose this sort of thing happens in the theater,” I said in reaction to his worried expression.

“She saw a ghost?” he said, voice quivering.

I laughed. “Of course she didn’t see a ghost, Wendell. She
thought
she saw a ghost. It’s a silly legend about this theater.”

“But I believe in ghosts, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I sat next to him. “You do?”

He nodded. “My uncle Jimmy lived in a haunted house in Cabot Cove. He had to sell it because they kept him and his wife awake every night”

“Oh.”

I was spared having to explain my lack of belief in ghosts when Linda Amsted suddenly appeared on stage.

“You’d better find the Factors,” Walpole told her. “Pamela has quit the show.”

“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.

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 television 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.

“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.”