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.”
Chapter 10
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.”
Chapter 11
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.
Hayes was a different breed. Perhaps it was his artistic bent that softened his attitude toward the gritty task of solving murders. Maybe it represented a simple determination to improve the image of the New York PD, which had taken so many hits lately because of corruption and bias-generated use of excessive force. Whatever the reason, I liked Detective Hayes and his quiet, polite manner while investigating the murder of Harry Schrumm.
Not that the murder was his alone to investigate. He was joined by his partner in the homicide division, a stocky young man of Mediterranean origins whose personality was as abrasive as Hayes’s was affable. His name was Tony Vasile. He had the face of a prize fighter—flat, broad nose, heavy black eyebrows, and a mane of close-cropped black hair that hugged the contours of his head as though it had been painted on.
Did Hayes and Vasile represent the classic good cop-bad cop team? I watched their interaction with interest. After Hayes had questioned someone from the show and allowed him or her to return to the rehearsal, Vasile pulled the person aside and went to another room off the backstage hallway for further interrogation. Judging from the expressions on their faces, time spent with Vasile was considerably more stressful than it had been with Hayes.
Hayes emerged from having interviewed Charles Flowers and sat next to me in the theater. Wendell Watson, whom I’d earlier introduced to Hayes, was in the seat to my right.
“Mind if Mrs. Fletcher and I have a private conversation?” Hayes said to my young protector, who hadn’t left my side since arriving.
Wendell looked to me for the answer.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Why don’t you sit over there, Wendell, or get a cup of coffee backstage.”
He reluctantly unfolded from the seat and slowly left us, glancing back every few steps, hurt on his face.
“Seems like a nice young man,” Hayes said.
“He is, although I’d prefer he not be here, at least not as my so-called bodyguard. Our sheriff back in Cabot Cove, Mort Metzger, sent him. Mort meant well, but I don’t think I’ll get used to having Wendell tag along everywhere I go.”
“Probably can’t hurt. Mrs. Fletcher, I—”
“Please call me Jessica.”
“Okay. What can you tell me about the casting director, Ms. Amsted?”
“Linda? Nothing, really, just that she has a wonderful reputation in her field and is very nice. I’ve become more friendly with her than with any other person involved with the play.”
“Any idea where she might be?”
“No. At home?”
“We’ve tried that. No luck. She’s not at her office either. An assistant said she was supposed to be here at the theater.”
“That was my understanding, too. Are you concerned about her?”
“No, but I would like to speak with her. She seems to have been somewhat pivotal in Schrumm’s life.”
“I hope she’s all right,” I said.
A uniformed officer came to us. “Lieutenant, the woman you’ve been looking for, Ms. Amsted, just arrived. She’s in the lobby.”
Hayes and I looked at each other and smiled.
“Send her down,” Hayes told the officer.
Linda Amsted arrived flustered and breathless. “I just heard about Harry,” she said to me. “I can’t believe it.”
“Linda, this is Lieutenant Henry Hayes. He’s investigating the murder.”
Hayes stood and extended his hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Ms. Amsted.”
“Oh. What? You’re a detective. Who could have done such a thing? The s
erial killer who’s been murdering people on Broadway?”
“That’s one possibility we’re looking into,” Hayes said. “Had you been at the theater earlier in the day, Ms. Amsted?”
“No. Well, I was for only a few minutes. I had an appointment downtown.”
“What time were you here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. About one, one-thirty.”
“How long did you stay?”
“A half hour at the most.”
I did a mental calculation. I’d arrived at the theater in time for the four o’clock press conference, and started looking for Linda after it had concluded, which was approximately four-thirty. The crew member said he’d seen her a half hour before that.
“One of the crew said he’d seen you after the press conference ended,” I said to her. “I was looking for you when I came upon Harry’s body.”
I couldn’t tell from the look she gave me whether she was surprised, angry, or both.
“He must have been mistaken,” she said. “I was long gone by then.”
“At your appointment downtown,” Hayes said.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I ask who you met with?”
“Of course not. Are you suspecting me of Harry’s murder?”
“No, ma’am, but I’m questioning everyone involved with this play. I understand you and the deceased were close.”
Another sharp look from her.
“You’d worked together professionally before,” Hayes quickly added, stressing professionally.
“That’s right,” Linda said. “I’d cast for him a number of times, theater and motion pichues.”
It was the second time someone had mentioned motion pictures in connection with Harry Schrumm. Detective Hayes had referred to an incident of some sort between Schrumm and April Larsen in Hollywood, and now Linda brought it up. I didn’t know Harry Schrumm’s age, but he was undoubtedly older than he’d appeared, thanks to a regimen of personal trainers, hair dye, and tanning salons.
Hayes made notations in his book.
“No, I wasn’t here later in the afternoon,” Linda said. “As I told you, I had a meeting downtown.”
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