“Yeah,” he replied, sotto voice. “He came through the stage door, grabbed her, and shoved her in there. I happened to be coming out of one of the offices as it was happening.”
“I didn’t know you were in the theater,” I said.
He held up his hand to silence me.
“Listen to me,” he said loudly to the door, “don’t be a fool. You can’t go anywhere. You’re going to have to come out eventually, so do it now before anybody gets hurt.”
We waited; it seemed like minutes although only a few seconds elapsed before we saw the doorknob turn, and the door opened slowly. Hayes and Vasile kept their guns trained on the person standing in the doorway. It was Jenny Forrest. She had a crooked smile on her face and held her head at a defiant angle.
“Thank God you’re all right,” I said.
Hayes motioned for her to come fully into the hallway. She complied. We all peered into the dressing room, but, saw no one.
“He’s in there?” Vasile asked Jenny.
She nodded.
“Go on, get out of here,” Hayes told her.
I watched Jenny deliberately leave us, but instead of walking in the direction of the onlookers at the other end of the corridor, she headed for the stage door.
I returned my attention to the room she’d just exited. Detectives Hayes and Vasile moved closer to the doorway in order to have a wider view of the room.
“Jesus,” Hayes muttered, lowering his weapon and stepping inside, followed by Vasile. I took a few steps into the room and saw what had prompted his exasperated comment. Sprawled on a small couch was Roy Richardson. Blood oozed from around a knife stuck firmly into his chest.
“Get her!” Hayes commanded, spinning around and returning to the hall. “Get her!”
We reached the stage door in time to see Jenny Forrest’s back as she left the theater and entered the alley separating it from the Von Feurston.
Wendell, who’d helped the security guard into his wooden chair, didn’t hesitate. His long, lanky frame was out the door in a flash. We poured through the door and saw my young bodyguard from Cabot Cove tackle Jenny Forrest from behind, sending both of them tumbling on to the sidewalk, knocking down pedestrians, and ending up in Forty-fourth Street’s gutter. Hayes and Vasile picked her up, brought her hands behind her, and cuffed her wrists. Simultaneously, marked police cars roared to a stop in front of the theater, lights blazing, a swarm of uniformed police spilling from them.
“Let’s get back inside,” I said to Mort and Wendell, whose green uniform was torn at the knees from hitting the pavement. We paused to see Jenny being placed in the back seat of a patrol car, then returned to the auditorium where everyone had gathered. My friends from Cabot Cove, who had been standing together at one end of the stage apron, flocked to me, as did most of the cast and crew.
“What happened?” they asked, almost as a chorus.
“I’m afraid—I’m afraid that Jenny has been arrested.”
“For what?”
“For murdering someone most of you know, Roy Richardson.”
“Roy?” Hanna Shawn cried out.
“Jenny killed him?” Brett Burton mumbled.
“Looks like you won’t have to worry about your Broadway serial killer any more,” Mort announced proudly.
“What happened to you?” someone asked Wendell, noticing his torn uniform and dirt on his face.
“This young man apprehended the murderer,” Mort said. “He’s a genuine hero.”
“Jenny is the serial killer?” Joe McCartney said in a voice swelled with disbelief.
“Is it true?” Arnold Factor asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but it looks that way.”
Lieutenants Hayes and Vasile joined us. So did Jill Factor, who’d stayed with Cy Walpole at the director’s third-row desk.
“The entire Broadway theater community, and all of New York City, owes you a huge debt of gratitude,” she said to the detectives in a sweet, sincere voice I’d not heard from her before.
Cy Walpole came forward. “It doesn’t surprise me in the least that our Ms. Forrest turns out to be a cold-blooded killer,” he said. “The question is, what do we do now for the role of Marcia?”
“Maybe our beloved casting director has the answer,” Jill said, looking past us to Linda Amsted, who seemed to have suddenly, and simply, appeared from the rear of the house.
“I just arrived,” she said, “and saw all the commotion out front.”
I explained what had happened.
Linda slumped in an aisle seat. “Jenny Forrest a murderer,” she said into the air, “and Roy Richardson a victim. That’s a switch.”
“But what do we do about Jenny’s role?” Walpole asked.
“Get Pamela South back,” Linda said matter-of factly. “Now that the serial killer has been apprehended, she shouldn’t be afraid any longer.”
“There’s the ghost she saw,” David Potts said.
“We’ll hire ghostbusters,” Linda quipped, standing and walking away in search of a phone. She returned twenty minutes later to announce that Pamela South was on her way to the theater.
The rehearsal resumed an hour later. I sat with my Cabot Cove friends and watched the cast once again attempt to get through the play without interruption. Although the energy level was down, particularly Dave Potts, who wasn’t as comfortable playing his scenes with Pamela as he’d been with Jenny, and despite the heavy, palpable air of murder that hung over the theater—the backstage area, especially the dressing rooms, were declared off-limits, necessitating the removal of all the costumes to the small offices that lined the hallway—and the loss of concentration created by the night’s nontheatrical events, it went well, as well as could be expected. My friends applauded loudly when the final curtain came down and the house lights came up.
I looked across the theater and was surprised to see Lieutenant Hayes sitting alone.
“I thought you’d left,” I said.
“I intended to, but decided to see whether your play would come together after everything that’s happened. Looks like it has.”
“I think so.”
“You were lucky to have that other actress ready to step in.”
“I agree, although I’m not sure she makes as good a Marcia as Jenny Forrest.”
“Maybe not, but she’s a lot less lethal. By the way, Ms. Forrest is the Broadway serial killer. Tony Vasile says she hasn’t stopped babbling about it since she arrived at headquarters. She’s certifiably insane. Well, I’ve got to be going. Tony’s at the precinct helping start the arraignment process. I’d better get back to help him. He gets his Italian dander up if he thinks I’m not pulling my weight.”
The amplified voice of Cyrus Walpole filled the theater. “We’ll take a half hour break, then gather for my comments and notes. I know it’s late, but we still have some adjusting to do before previews tomorrow night.”
“Are you staying for the postmortem?” Hayes asked me.
“Yes, and I wish you would, too.”
His eyebrows went up. “Why?”
“Something that occurred to me while I was watching the end of the third act.”
“Maybe you should tell your director.”
“Oh, I will. But I’d feel better if you were present. Please?”
“All right. I’ll call Tony and tell him I’m running late.”
I spent the next half hour with my friends. Naturally, the real murderous events took conversational priority over Knock ’Em Dead, although there was plenty of talk about it, too.
“Sure you want to stay to hear what the director has to say?” I asked them. “You’ll see the results tomorrow night—without anyone getting killed as an unplanned intermission. It’s late. You must be exhausted.”
“We wouldn’t miss a minute of it, Jess,” Peter Eder said. “The play would make a great musical. Maybe you can mention that to your producers.”
“I’ll introduce you,” I said. “Excuse me.” I we
nt to where Linda Amsted sat alone, obviously very much into her private thoughts.
“Mind an intrusion?” I asked.
“What? Oh, sure, Jess. I was just thinking.”
“About what?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“I was thinking about Roy.”
“I only met him that once at his acting class,” I said, “and must admit I didn’t especially like him. But when you’re dead, all those bets are off, as they say. Tragic.”
“He knew about Jenny.”
Her statement stunned me into momentary silence.
“Shocked, Jess? I was too when he told me. He wasn’t certain, of course, but he was convinced she was the serial killer. Roy was very much in love with her.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And he thought she was the best young actress he’d ever coached. Of course, they were both a bit mad. The only difference was that Roy was content to take out his madness on his students through verbal abuse and character assassination. Jenny needed greater satisfaction.”
“He told me he hoped the serial killer turned out to be one of his acting students,” I said. “He was obviously toying with me.”
“Roy toyed with everyone.”
“Do you know why he came here tonight?”
She shook her head. “Unless he was going to make his final attempt at getting her to stop running around killing people. He succeeded, didn’t he?”
“And he paid for it with his life. So did Harry Schrumm.”
“Yes, poor, poor Harry. I shall miss him. I’ll miss everyone.”
“All right everybody, gather round for Uncle Cy’s critique,” Walpole announced through the speakers.
“Coming?” I asked, standing.
“No. I’m going home. Maybe we’ll touch base before you go back to Maine.” She stood, too, and took my hand. “I hope Knock ’Em Dead is a smash, Jess. I really do. Take care. You’re a terrific woman.”
Tears formed in my eyes as I watched her go up the aisle and disappear into the lobby. ‘I’ll miss everyone,’ she’d said. Was she suicidal? Had she lost too many people in her life to want to go on living? All I could do was hope that wasn’t the case, and I silently pledged to call her first thing in the morning.
Cy Walpole’s notes about the performance were long and detailed. For the most part, they were complimentary to the cast and crew.
When he was through, Jill and Arnold Factor stood and delivered what was intended to be a pep talk. They spoke for ten minutes, heaping praise on everyone connected with the show. Jill ended with, “Unfortunately we’ve all been forced to confront real murder instead of just make-believe. If there is such a thing as closure, we can thank this wonderful detective and all his people for solving the mystery of who killed Harry Schrumm, and all the others who suffered at the hands of the Broadway serial killer. It makes me shudder to think that someone as close to us as Jenny has turned out to be a vicious killer.”
“Well, it’s been a long night,” Arnold said. “I wish a broken leg for everyone tomorrow night. The celebration party is on us.”
He and Jill beamed at each other.
I stood.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” Jill said. “None of us would be here if it wasn’t for the fertile and creative mind of Jessica Fletcher. We’re all in your debt, Jessica.”
The Factors applauded. Others joined in. When they were finished, I said, “I think before we call it a night, I’d like to thank everyone for being so gracious to me on this, my baptism on Broadway. You’ve all been very kind.”
“Our pleasure,” Aaron Manley said, standing and stretching. “God, I’m tired.”
Others began gathering their things.
“Mrs. Factor,” I said.
She’d been walking away arm-in-arm with her husband. She turned.
“Yes?”
“Was it money that caused you and Arnold to kill Harry Schrumm?”
Lieutenant Hayes, who’d been sitting next to me, stood.
“Would you repeat that?” Jill said.
“I asked whether it was a disagreement over money that led to you killing Harry Schrumm.”
Jill closed the distance between us. “Are you crazy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Harry Schrumm was killed by that insane young woman, Jenny Forrest.”
“No,” I said, “Jenny didn’t kill him.”
“Come on,” Arnold said to his wife, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Hayes stepped in their path and said pleasantly, “I’d like to hear more of this.”
Arnold started to say something but Jill snapped, “Shut up. Go on, Mrs. Fletcher. I think your too-active writer’s imagination is working overtime.”
“How did you know that the pipe wedged in Harry’s mouth was the one used as a prop in the play?”
“I—I read about it.”
“No, you didn’t. None of the press accounts of the murder reported that. But Arnold mentioned it when I was at your apartment.”
“I did?” he asked.
“Yes, you did. You’re desperate for money, aren’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have offered to sell me half your share in the play at a discounted price.”
“I find this quite offensive, Mrs. Fletcher, and don’t feel compelled to respond to anything you say. But for your information, I learned about the pipe from Joe.” She nodded at Joe McCartney, who smoked a pipe during the performance.
McCartney said, “I never told you about the pipe. Why would I? There were three or four pipes in the prop room and I just grabbed another one. I never said a word to you or anyone else about it.”
I said, “You didn’t mean to kill him, I’m sure. But it must have been a very intense argument to cause you to hit him in the head. When you saw he was dead from the blow, you stabbed him in the chest and arranged the hat and pipe on him to make it appear like another serial killing.” I turned to her husband. “Or was it you, Arnold, who did the stabbing of a dead man? It’s too unladylike an act for your wife to commit.”
Arnold stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Look,” he said, “this is getting out of hand. You don’t understand the pressure we’ve been under. It wasn’t my idea. I—”
Jill was carrying a heavy flashlight she used to read from the script in the darkened theater. She swung it at her husband, catching him on the left temple. He fell to one knee, his hand touching the blood that ran down on to his glistening, starched white tux shirt and the shoulder of his black tuxedo jacket.
“You could have been a contender, Mrs. Factor,” Lieutenant Hayes said. “In a boxing ring, not on Broadway.”
“Good night,” Jill said, marching up the aisle, leaving her dazed husband behind. Hayes helped him to his feet.
“Mrs. Fletcher makes sense,” the detective said.
“I didn’t kill Harry,” Arnold said.
“But you did kill Vic, the doorman, didn’t you?” I said. “It was you who gave him the bribe to vacate his post so that you and Jill could meet secretly with Harry. I imagine Jill realized that Vic might identify. you as having bribed him to leave the stage door. He had to be killed, too.”
“Am I free to go?” Arnold asked Hayes, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding temple.
“You’re free to go with me to headquarters to answer some questions,” Hayes said. “Don’t worry about ordering a limo for your wife. A police cruiser will do just fine.”
Arnold didn’t offer any resistance when Hayes took him by the arm and started to lead him from the theater. The detective said to me as he passed, “Any time you’d like to change careers, Mrs. Fletcher, and run down real murderers, give me a call.”
I smiled. “Thanks, but no thanks, Lieutenant. But we will be in touch.”
Chapter 25
The opening night party was held at New York’s venerable show business hangout, Sardi‘s, just up the street from the Drummond Theater. The celebratory air at the gathering was tempered,
to an extent, by the human tragedies surrounding Knock ’Em Dead. But the show had gone smoothly, which was reflected in early reviews, and the mood was one of triumph. I’d invited Detectives Hayes and Vasile to the party. I didn’t expect them to show up, but Hayes eventually walked in as things were winding down. He was greeted warmly, and a drink was quickly handed him.
“I’m officially off duty,” he said, flashing his boyish smile and holding up the glass in a toast: “To Knock ’Em Dead, may it live forever on Broadway.”
Cast and crew started to file out into the night. My Cabot Cove friends had gone back to Maine after attending the first night of previews and taking in other Broadway shows.
Linda Amsted said good night and left. She seemed to have gotten over the initial shock of losing people close to her and was in good spirits during the festivities.
Soon, I found myself alone with Lieutenant Henry Hayes as restaurant staff began the cleanup.
“Get you a drink before they take everything away?” he asked.
“Thank you, no. I’m glad you decided to come.”
“I’m happy I did. It was Ms. Forrest who sliced your coat.”
“She admitted it?”
“Yeah, along with everything else. She was wearing Roy Richardson’s coat and hat when she did it. She also wrote those notes to Walpole and Linda Amsted. She’s incapable of divorcing fact from fiction, acting from real actions. The DA’s office is asking the court to commit her to a psychiatric facility to see if she’s fit to stand trial.”
“There will be a trial?” I asked. “She’s already admitted to the murders.”
“Just a formality. The court will have to determine what to do with her. I’m hoping she gets the help she needs.”
“I’ve been wondering, Lieutenant—”
“Henry.”
“I’ve been wondering, Henry, why you arranged for me to go to Roy Richardson’s acting class that morning.”
He laughed. “My version of a lineup.”
“Meaning?”
“We’d been looking at Richardson for over a month as a prime suspect in the serial killings. Frankly, I was convinced he was the killer, and that he was the one who bumped into you on the street and slashed your coat. I thought that by going there and seeing him in person, you might come to the same conclusion. You didn’t.”
13 - Knock'em Dead Page 17