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 serial 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.”
Hayes glanced up at her.
“A meeting with Roy Richardson.”
“The acting teacher?”
“Yes.”
Another entry in Hayes’s notebook.
“What time did you meet?”
“Two.”
“The meeting was about?”
“We meet once a month. Roy chooses his most promising students and has them read for me. If I like what I see, they go into my computer for possible future casting.”
“You’ve been with Richardson ever since?”
“No. We met until five. I had dinner after that.”
“With Richardson?”
“Alone.”
“Where?”
“Looking for a good restaurant, Lieutenant?”
Hayes laughed. “Always.”
“The Gramercy Tavern.”
“Fancy place for a solo meal.”
“I go there often.”
“They know you.”
“Yes. I suppose you want to know what I ate.”
“Only if it was good.”
“A chicken Caesar salad, glass of white wine. I always sit in the front room, the tavern. It’s less expensive.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Linda’s composure when she arrived was frayed, but she’d quickly become calm, and her answers to Hayes’s questions had a confrontational edge to them. Now, she turned to me, took one of my hands in hers, and said softly, “What a tragedy, Jess. And you had to be the one to discover Harry’s body.” To Hayes: “How was he killed, Lieutenant?”
“To be determined by the medical examiner.”
“Did the killer leave his usual grotesque calling card?”
I started to reply, but Hayes cut me off. “I’d just as soon not talk about that for the moment, Ms. Amsted.”
“Then he did—leave his calling card.”
Hayes’s partner, Vasile, came from the stage and joined us. Hayes introduced Linda to him. “I think Lieutenant Vasile would like to ask you some questions, Ms. Amsted,” Hayes said.
“All right,” she said, standing.
“Follow me,” said Vasile. He led her down the aisle, up on to the stage, and into the wings.
Hayes chewed on the cap of his pen and narrowed his eyes. I was hesitant to disrupt his thinking, but didn’t have to. He said absently, “Roy Richardson.”
It took me a second to recognize the name as the person Linda had met with that afternoon.
“The acting teacher,” I said.
“Yes. Know of him?”
“No.”
“A guru. Thousands of acting students. He built his reputation on using analytic techniques to get his students to open up and use their inner pain and turmoil to enhance their performances.”
“Sounds like an interesting approach.”
Hayes shrugged. “I took a couple of classes with him years ago, before I became a cop. I thought I’d take Broadway by storm with a few lessons from him under my belt.”
“And?”
“The experience convinced me to scrap my acting plans and apply to the NYPD. I hated the classes. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a charlatan. No, maybe not. He has had some notable success stories, actors and actresses coming out of his school and doing well. What bothered mel was that there was an exploitative aspect to it, all these dreamy-eyed kids waiting tables in order to pay his fees, and having their guts wrenched by him. I had the feeling he enjoyed their pain beyond what it might contribute to their acting technique.”
“Sounds charming.”
“He’s that, too. Every member of the cast I’ve questioned studied with him at one time or another.”
“Really?”
“I wonder if that’s how they ended up in your friend’s casting computer.”
“Very possibly.”
“Well, Jessica—I feel a little uncomfortable calling one of the world’s greatest mystery writers by her first name.”
“Don’t be. I’d be uncomfortable if you didn’t.”
“I have to get back to headquarters. Tony will stay here. How late do you expect the rehearsal to run?”
“I have no idea.”
“Funny,” he said to himself.
“What’s funny?”
“Ms. Amsted’s assistant at her office said she was supposed to be here at the theater. Never mentioned a meeting with Richardson.”
He snapped out of his contemplative mood. “The entire theater will be a crime scene and off limits to everyone except those who absolutely have to be here.”
“Of course.”
Wendell, who’d sat sipping coffee from a plastic cup a few rows away, immediately got up when Hayes did and came to my side.
“I understand you’re a licensed security guard, young man,” Hayes said pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Looking for a career in law enforcement?”
“Yes, sir. My goal is to become a member of the Cabot Cove police department. Sheriff Metzger already told me I might have a chance in a few years.”
“Good for you, son,” Hayes said, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “Just make sure you take good care of Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You can count on that, sir. I won’t let her out of my sight for a minute.”
I don’t know whether my grimace was evident, but I couldn’t help it. Hayes smiled at me. “Talk to you later, Jessica,” he said and walked away.
The policewoman approached carrying what appeared to be a uniform-issue blue winter coat. “Best I could do,” she said, handing it to me.
“It’ll be just fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
Peter Monroe, the stage manager, suddenly appeared carrying a cell phone.
“You’re back,” I said.
“Yes, and wish I wasn’t.” His left eye was flickering faster than ever. “You have a call. It’s your agent.” He handed the phone to me.
“Matt,” I said.
“I heard on the radio. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Dinner?”
“I—that would be fine except—” I looked at Wendell, who hovered over me.
“Except what?”
“It’ll be a threesome.”
“Who’s the third?”
“My bodyguard.”
“Your
what?”
“My bodyguard. Sheriff Metzger sent him down from Cabot Cove. His name is Wendell Watson. He’s licensed.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Not with Wendell at my side.”
“He has to come with us to dinner? I mean, can’t he wait outside?”
“I couldn’t do that, Matt. Besides, you should get to know him. He might become New York’s police commissioner one day.”
“Really?”
“Would you send a car for me, Matt? The sidewalk outside the theater is chockablock with press.”
“Sure, and I’ll be in it. Give me a half hour.”
Chapter 12
Matt took us to dinner at Morton’s, a quintessential power-broker steakhouse in midtown Manhattan, where my porterhouse would have fed four back home, and certainly would have resulted in a large doggy-bag. But since the three of us didn’t have a dog to take anything home to, the sizable leftovers were whisked away, hopefully as a treat to a dog-owning member of the restaurant’s efficient and pleasant staff.
Being there with Wendell Watson made for awkward conversation. It wasn’t anything he did or said—he said little during dinner—but there was a natural reluctance on both my and Matt’s parts to openly discuss what was happening at the Drummond Theater, especially the potential tangible ramifications of Harry Schrumm’s murder. However, Wendell was a smoker, and a polite one. He retreated from the table to the bar a few times to light up, leaving Matt and me to compress our myriad thoughts into short bursts of conversation.
The car that had taken us from the theater to the restaurant waited outside on Forty-fifth Street and returned us to the hotel.
“I understand you’ll be staying with your uncle in Brooklyn,” I said to Wendell.
“Yes, ma’am, only I don’t know how to get there. Mom said there’s a subway that goes to Brooklyn. I suppose I’ll take that.”
“Have you talked to your uncle since arriving in New York?” I asked.
“Nope. Went right to the theater after I got off the bus.”
Matt and I looked at each other. The contemplation of this gangly young man who’d never been away from Cabot Cove, Maine, navigating New York City’s subway system at night in search of an uncle in Brooklyn was anathema.
“I’d ask you to stay with me,” Matt said, “but Susan and I have a one-bedroom apartment. The house in the Hamptons is too far away.”
I thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll see if the hotel has a vacant room. They seem to be full, but there’s no harm in asking.” I offered it knowing I’d have to pay for an extra room, but it seemed a small price to ensure Wendell’s safety in Manhattan.
Who was protecting whom?