The telephone rang.
“Where’s Mrs. Factor?”
“She wasn’t feeling well. A sudden headache.”
“Please thank her for me, and tell her I hope she’s feeling better.”
As he opened the door, I heard Jill Factor say in an angry voice from another room, “So, sue me!” She slammed down the phone.
“Good night,” I said.
“Good night,” he said.
Chapter 17
I was happy to see Wendell when I walked into the suite. I’m one of those fortunate people who is quite comfortable on my own. Being alone, and being lonely, aren’t synonymous with me. But there was something pleasant about being greeted by his grinning face and expressions of concern.
He’d ordered up a hamburger platter, a double order of French fries, a chocolate milk shake, and cherry pie a la mode. There wasn’t a morsel of food, or a drop of shake, left on the rolling serving cart.
We talked for a few minutes until I announced, “I have some reading to do before I get to bed. See you in the morning.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, there were some phone calls for you.” He handed me paper on which he’d listed them. Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Mort Metzger were among the names.
“Had a nice chat with the sheriff,” Wendell said. “He asked how it was going and I said just fine. He told me I was doing a good job.”
“Because you are.”
“The sheriff and Dr. Hazlitt heard all about the murders, Mrs. Fletcher. They’re real worried even with me here. They said to call them back tonight no matter how late it got.”
“I’ll do that right now.”
“Oh, and some policeman delivered my suitcase to the room. I’ve got all my things back.”
“That’s wonderful. See you in the morning.”
I closed the door that segregated the living room and my bedroom and bath from his and called Mort Metzger at home.
“From all the news, Mrs. F, it sounds like there won’t be anybody left to be in your play.”
“Of course there will be.”
“Not if that Broadway serial killer keeps murdering people.”
“He seems to have slowed down,” I said, wishing it were true.
“I heard about that doorman who was killed. Some detective—I think his name was Hayes—said on TV that his murder wasn’t by the serial killer. That true?”
“It looks that way, Mort.”
“Well, we’ll all be down to see you in New York in a few days. In the meantime, don’t let Wendell lose sight of you.”
“I won’t. Best to Maureen.”
When I reached Seth, he said the Broadway serial killer had been dominating the television news from Portland and Bangor. The fact that a local citizen, me, was currently involved with a Broadway play, and that the theater in which it was being rehearsed had been the scene of the latest murder, enhanced the coverage.
“Joe Reedy from the Bangor station called just this morning. He wants to send a crew down to New York with us when we come to see the play. He wants to interview you.”
“I suppose I can’t stop him, but I could do without TV interviews.”
“I understand. How is the play goin’, Jessica? All ready for the previews and opening night?”
“Some rough spots, but I think it will shape up. The backers of the show, Arnold and Jill Factor, are now the producers. They offered to sell me half of their interest in Knock ’Em Dead for a half million dollars.”
“Did they now? I assume you said no.”
“Of course I did.”
“Worst investment in the world,” he said. “Remember when Sue Marshall and her husband, Bill, bought shares in that musical a few years back? Lost everything they put in.”
“I remember. Seth, is everything set for the group to come to New York?”
“Ayuh. Day after tomorrow.”
“I’m really looking forward to it.”
“So are we. What do you have planned for tomorrow, Jessica?”
“An acting lesson.”
“An acting lesson? You? Are you plannin’ to play a role in your play?”
“No, but I thought I ought to see how the actors and actresses in Knock ’Em Dead were trained. They all studied with a teacher named Roy Richardson. He’s supposed to be very good.”
“I’m glad you’ll be away from that theater for a spell. No telling when that madman might strike again.”
“Not to worry with Wendell here.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Fine. He’s a very nice boy. I have some reading to do, Seth, and then to bed. Can’t wait to see everyone.”
I waded through the clippings from the library until after midnight when I climbed into bed and turned out the light. I looked forward to attending Roy Richardson’s acting class in the morning, not because I was seeking insight into how actors and actresses are taught, but because Lieutenant Hayes wanted me to go there.
Why?
Chapter 18
Roy Richardson’s acting studio was on the Upper West Side of Manhattan in what appeared to be a converted warehouse, or factory. A sign to the left of the door read THE RICHARDSON STUDIO.
I was to be there at eleven; it was ten-thirty when I arrived. I stood with Wendell across the street and watched the comings and goings. A steady stream of men and women, mostly young but with some older persons included, streamed through the door or congregated outside laughing and smoking. It looked very much like the exterior of any schoolhouse during recess, the only difference being the age of the students.
I would have preferred to visit the studio without Wendell at my side, but knew it would be fruitless to object to his accompanying me.
At ten of eleven we crossed the street and entered the building. For some reason, I thought the studio of a leading acting teacher would be bright and modem. To the contrary, the large entry hall was drab and poorly lighted. Yellow linoleum on the floor was dirty and torn in places. The paint on the white walls wasn’t in better shape. There was a stairway to the left leading down to a basement and up to a second floor. Directly in front of me were double doors that were open, revealing an auditorium and a stage. I estimated there to be a hundred students, most of them seated in the auditorium while others milled about on the stage or in the lobby.
As we entered the auditorium, I observed the stage where students gathered about a man I assumed was Roy Richardson. He looked older than I’d anticipated, although that probably had more to do with the fact that his hair was grayer than his chronological age. He wore his hair in a long ponytail that fell over the back of a billowing white shirt. Jeans and boots completed his attire. He was talking with considerable animation to those around him, laughing loudly at things he said, twisting his slender body to physically enhance his words. The students seemed to be enjoying what he was saying, judging from their laughter.
Wendell and I slipped into aisle seats in the third row. I’d no sooner gotten comfortable when Richardson shielded his eyes from the lights with his hand, focused on me, and bounded down a short set of steps, hand extended.
“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.
&
nbsp; 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.
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