“I think we’d better eat. That’s our table over there.”
“Kelly will put the drinks on the bill. Enjoy.”
I dropped a dollar tip on the bar, and we sat at the table.
“Seems like a nice fella,” Wendell said, his eyes dancing over the menu.
“Very nice. I think I’ll have the Irish stew.”
“I never had that before,” Wendell said. “I don’t like things all mixed up together. I’ll have a hamburger.”
“Good. And then we have to get back to the theater. There are a few questions I’d like answered.”
Chapter 15
The first person I saw when we returned to the theater was Priscilla. She was in the lobby. I was surprised she hadn’t shown up earlier, considering the frenzy of media activity over the two murders.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Couldn’t be better. I know that sounds ghoulish, but it’s also reality. Dead bodies aren’t my thing, but since we now have two of them—no fault of mine—and the press wants to treat the murders as front page news—again, no fault of mine—I have no choice but to deal with it. I’ve been in my office fielding requests for you to appear on TV.
The Today Show, Good Morning America, CBS Morning, Larry King, The Tonight
Show—the list is endless.”
“I hope you told them I’m not available.”
“Of course I did. Well, I did leave the door open in case you decide to accept one or two. You know, just selected shows, the biggies.”
“Hmmm.”
“Here’s today’s papers,” she said, handing them to me. “It’s still page one.”
I’d kept up with what the press wrote about Harry Schrumm’s murder. Fortunately, no photograph of the crime scene had been released to the media, sparing him the loss of dignity such a picture would have engendered, sprawled up against a wall wearing a silly hat, a pipe suspended from his mouth. Stories I read mentioned that the killer had propped a hat and pipe on the deceased, but didn’t identify them as being part of the show’s props and costumes. The bruise on his temple wasn’t mentioned in any of the reports I saw; cause of death, even though it hadn’t been officially released, was a stab wound to the chest.
The theater manager, Peter Monroe, joined us. He was considerably more animated than I was accustomed to seeing.
“Ticket sales are strong,” he said, “v-e-r-y strong. Sold out for three months.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, meaning it, yet reticent to express joy that people were snapping up tickets to see my murder mystery because of
real
murders.
“People are reserving as much as a year ahead,” he added.
“It’s a guaranteed hit,” Priscilla chimed in.
“Is Detective Hayes in the building?” I asked, changing the subject.
“He was here a few minutes ago,” Monroe said. “Backstage.”
“Excuse me.” I left them and ascended to the stage where the rehearsal was in full swing. A uniformed officer kept people from going into the wings. Wendell walked in lock-step with me.
“Is Detective Hayes back there?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“May I go back and see him?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would you please get him for me?”
He responded by backing up a few steps and shouting to an unseen officer: “Tell the lieutenant there’s someone out here to see him.” Cy Walpole glared at us for interrupting, sighed, shook his large head, and continued giving directions to the actors and actresses.
Hayes appeared a minute later, and we retreated to the house seats.
“How was lunch?” he asked.
“Fine. We went to Rafferty’s.”
A knowing smile crossed his lips. “I figured you would.”
“You did? A nice place, very friendly. The food was good.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
I said to Wendell, “Would you see if you can rustle me up a cup of tea?”
When he hesitated, Hayes said, “It’s okay, son. I’ll make sure nothing happens to Mrs. Fletcher while you’re gone.”
“I have a couple of questions,” I said once Wendell was out of earshot.
“Shoot.”
“Is there any possibility that Schrumm’s body was moved to the costume and prop room after being killed elsewhere?”
“No. Forensics thoroughly covered that possibility. He was killed where you found him. Why do you ask?”
“Because I was curious why he’d gone to that room. I’d never seen him there before, which proves nothing, of course. It’s the room closest to the stage door.”
“Yes, it is. Next question?”
“With any of the previous serial killings, was a doorman missing when one of them occurred?”
He rubbed his chin. “I don’t believe so. No, that wasn’t the case in any of the previous murders.”
“Thanks.”
“What did you find out at Rafferty’s?”
“Find out? What makes you think I wanted to find out anything?”
“Because I figure you wouldn’t have gone there unless you wanted to ask questions. That seems to be your nature.”
I laughed. “I suppose it is. What did I find out? Let’s see. Vic Righetti went there earlier than usual because someone he described as ’the man’ gave him two hundred dollars to abandon his post at the stage door. This unnamed man, according to a few pleasant fellows at the bar who were with Vic yesterday, supposedly wanted to meet someone secretly, either in the alley behind the theater, or just inside the stage door.”
“You don’t know the man’s name?”
“No, although it could have been Harry Schrumm. Maybe the person he was meeting is the killer.”
“Go on.”
“According to the bartender at Rafferty’s, Harry Schrumm wasn’t an especially popular person. And, again according to the bartender, Mr. and Mrs. Factor have a habit of not paying their bills.”
Hayes grinned. “You found out a lot.”
“All hearsay.”
“And confirmed by people I talked to at Rafferty’s.”
“Oh?”
“All except the scuttlebutt about the Factors. Patrons we questioned are assuming it was someone at the bar who killed Vic. He was evidently flashing the two hundred dollars he’d been given to get lost.”
“I heard that theory, too. Maybe the Broadway serial killer hangs out in Rafferty’s.”
“Everybody’s got to be someplace, as the saying goes. But Vic wasn’t killed by the serial killer. As I said, the MO is completely different.”
“There’s another old saying.”
“Which is?”
“People can change, including their MOs.”
“Not in this case.”
“You’re the expert. One more question?”
“As many as you like.”
“Why did you take me into your confidence about a possible break in the serial murder case?”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Oh, right. I don’t know. I suppose I consider you part of my investigating team, Mrs. Fletcher, considering your preeminence in the world of murder mysteries, and the fact that you discovered Schrumm’s body. And, I might add, you seem to be asking all the right questions.”
“Thank you for the compliment. Care to extend your trust in me?”
“How?”
“Tell me what the break in the case is.”
“Can’t do that at this moment.” He made an exaggerated point of looking around, leaned close, and said, smiling, “In due time—partner. Excuse me.”
I watched him retreat into the wings and settled in a seat to observe the rehearsal. It didn’t seem to this untrained eye to be going very well. Tempers flared. Walpole totally lost his composure and began screaming at the cast, causing a few of them to storm off the stage, Pamela South, Jenny Forrest’s last-minute replacement, in tears.
Walpole then turned his wrath on the playwright, Aaron Manley.
“These bloody changes you keep coming up with have thrown off the entire rhythm of the production. You keep making changes for the sake of making them, damn it, and I want you to stop!”
Manley, who’d been sitting at his laptop computer making additional revisions, jumped to his feet and crossed the stage to Walpole. “Don’t you blame the writing for how lousy this play is going, you fat, no talent, British slob!”
Walpole closed the gap between them even further; they now stood six feet apart. Walpole’s face was vivid red; his rotund body shook. Manley held one hand behind him, as though ready to throw a punch.
I ran down the aisle to the stage apron.
“Please,” I said, “everyone calm down. This will accomplish nothing.”
My presence brought members of the cast back to the stage, led by the star of Knock ’Em Dead, April Larsen. Everyone started talking at once, hurling insults at one another, cursing, voices rising in pitch until the Drummond Theater reverberated with dissonant, hysterical threats.
I climbed the short set of stairs at stage right, placed myself in the midst of them, held up my hands, and summoned my loudest voice: “Stop
it!”
There was immediate silence.
“You’re acting like petulant children,” I said.
“He is,” Walpole said, pointing at Manley.
Manley cocked his fist and snarled.
“Put your fist down,” I said to the playwright.
He looked as though he might hit me.
“Down
!
” I said.
Joseph McCartney, who played the father, quietly applauded.
I broke into a nervous smile.
“You’re right, Jessica,” David Potts said. “This is no way to get a play ready for Broadway.”
Charles Flowers, raised his hand. “I have an idea. Why don’t we all sit down with Jessica and have a good old-fashioned, soul-searching talk. Vent our frustrations. You’re the voice of reason, Jessica. Willing to play shrink to a group therapy session?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“That’s a ridiculous suggestion,” April Larsen said. “Are we professionals or not? Group therapy! Good Lord.”
“I like the idea,” Dave Potts said. “When can we do it?”
“No time like the present,” McCartney replied. “The rehearsal’s not going anywhere. Let’s order in food and hash it out.” He swiveled to take in the others’ reactions. April Larsen left the stage, followed by Brett Burton, the pensive actor playing the older son.
“The hell with them,” Flowers said. He turned to the assistant director, Wade Agus. “Order in some food, Wade, and wine. This might go on into the night.”
Agus looked to Walpole.
“Oh, go order some bloody food,” Walpole said. “This rehearsal’s a disaster anyway.”
“Maybe we should call Linda Amsted,” Pamela South said. “She could use some head shrinking.”
“I’ll call her,” Hanna Shawn offered.
“Maybe our new producers ought to be here, too,” Walpole said. “Now that Harry’s dead, we all work for them.”
Linda Amsted hadn’t been on my mind lately, but now that her name had been mentioned, I wondered how things had gone with Lieutenant Hayes’s further questioning of her. I was able to ask because he appeared just then, apparently lured by the commotion.
“What’s going on?” he asked me.
“I got your tea, Mrs. Fletcher,” Wendell said. “I left it down there.”
“What? Oh, thank you, Wendell. Any scones or biscuits around?”
“Scones?”
“Something sweet to go with the tea. Please?”
He walked away.
“He takes guarding you seriously,” Hayes said.
“Yes. He’s a sweet boy. I know his mother.”
“Sounded like a real ruckus,” Hayes said.
“Artistic temperaments rising to the surface. We’re about to have a group therapy session.”
He looked puzzled.
“A chance to vent frustrations. Did you meet with Linda Amsted again?”
“No, although I did interview Roy Richardson.”
“Who’s he?”
“The acting teacher.”
“Oh, right, I’d forgotten his name. Linda said she’d been with him at the time of Schrumm’s murder.”
“Richardson confirms it.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d hate to think that Linda might be involved. I really like her.”
“Her office says she had to fly to Los Angeles on a last-minute casting job. I should have told her she was to stay in New York until the investigation is completed. Slipped my mind.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”
“I suppose not. I have the hotel she’s staying at in L.A. if I need to speak with her. You should meet him.”
“Meet who?”
“Roy Richardson.”
“From the little you told me about him, I’m not sure I’d want to.”
Hayes laughed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did. He trained everyone in this cast.”
“So you mentioned.”
“I arranged for you to attend one of his classes tomorrow.”
“I—”
“I know I should have asked you first, but I was there and it seemed an opportune moment. You’ll enjoy it. Or at least find it interesting.”
I cocked my head and looked at him quizzically.
His smile was amiable. “I’d like to know what you think of Richardson and his methods.”
“I’m hardly the one to judge. I’m not an actress. ”
“But you are observant. Eleven tomorrow morning? I lied a little. I told him because your play was about to open, and because the cast had trained with him, you’d expressed a keen interest in his classes.”
“Don’t you mean that
you
have a keen interest in his classes, or, more accurately,
him?”
“You’ll go?”
“Of course. Any other little white lies I should be aware of?”
He shook his head.
“Then I’d better get ready to lead the group therapy session.”
We’d no sooner parted, he returning to the wings, I heading for where most of the cast and crew had congregated on stage, when Jill Factor strode down the aisle with purpose. She wore a severely cut gray pantsuit, a red beret that might have come from the Israeli army, and carried a large briefcase obviously stuffed with something, presumably papers. She stopped in front of the stage, dropped the briefcase to the floor, placed her hands on her hips and asked in a loud, authoritative voice, “What’s going on here?”