“Who delivered it?” Walpole asked.
“I don’t know. It was handed to the security guard at the front door.”
Walpole tore open the envelope, pulled a single sheet of paper from it, brought his half-glasses down to his nose from where they’d been resting on top of his head, and scowled as he read. It was obviously a short message; it took him only a few seconds to read it. He looked out into the auditorium, his face set in anger and, I thought, concern.
“Where are the police?” he asked loudly.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“This
is what’s wrong,” he said, tossing the paper and envelope in my direction.
I picked up the envelope. Hand printed on it in block letters was WALPOLE.
I picked up the paper that had been in the envelope. The same handwritten block letters spelled out a terse, pointed communication: YOU’RE NEXT YOU TUBBY CLOWN!
“Is Lieutenant Hayes still here?” I asked aloud.
He appeared from the wings and came to me. I handed him the note.
“Who was this meant for?” he asked.
“Me,” Walpole said.
I handed Hayes the envelope with Walpole’s name on it.
“How did you get this?” Hayes asked.
“It was delivered to the security guard,” Monroe answered.
“I’ll go talk to him,” Hayes said, heading up the aisle. I followed.
The guard, in response to Hayes’s questions, said a man wearing a gray overcoat and black knit cap had handed it to him, saying it was important that Mr. Walpole receive it immediately.
“You get a look at his face?” Hayes asked.
The guard shrugged, licked his lips. “No, I didn’t. Just a man. Just a face.”
“Did he have a beard?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Height? Weight?”
“Average. Normal.”
Hayes turned to me. “Sounds like a description of the man who bumped into you on the street and cut your coat.”
I nodded.
Hayes asked the guard, “Sure it was a man? Couldn’t have been a woman?”
Another shrug, a brow furrowed in thought. “Could have been. I didn’t really look. I mean, all he was doing was delivering an envelope for Mr. Walpole. Why should I look at him that closely?”
“You’re right,” Hayes said. “Thanks.”
We started to return to the auditorium when Hayes stopped, looked around, then asked me,
“Are you
sure it was a man who bumped you?”
“No,” I said. “I assumed it because he—whoever it was—was dressed like a man. The coat, the hat. But yes, it could have been a woman.”
Jenny Forrest?
I wondered. She’d been fired by Linda Amsted, but it had been Cyrus Walpole’s instructions to get rid of her. They’d been at each other’s throats from the first day of rehearsals. And she had to be equally angry at Harry Schrumm. He was, after all, the producer, and it would be logical that he had to approve her firing.
I forced myself to think back to the brief encounter I’d had on the street with the man in the overcoat. Could it have been a woman? Could it have been Jenny Forrest? Would she have blamed me, too, for her dismissal from the cast?
I decided it hadn’t been Jenny who’d bumped into me and cut my coat. She wasn’t right physically, slighter than the person in the gray overcoat.
Then again ...
“What do you make of the note?” Hayes asked Walpole after we’d returned to the stage where the rehearsal was at a standstill.
“The bloody Broadway serial killer,” he shot back. “Why can’t you find the bastard and put him away?”
Hayes said, calmly, “We’re getting close, Mr. Walpole. Very close. It won’t be long before the serial killer is out of business, and well know who killed Harry Schrumm.”
“It’s about time,” Walpole said, sulking from the stage.
“Come back here,” Jill Factor called after him. “The rehearsal.”
He stopped, turned, and gave her the sort of single finger gesture usually reserved for irate drivers who’ve been rudely cut off.
Hayes looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
“Have time for another talk?” I asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
Chapter 21
Lieutenant Vasile was in the costume and prop room when we arrived. He was seated in a yellow canvas director’s chair with his eyes closed, either napping or deep in thought.
“Tony, wake up,” Hayes said.
Vasile slowly opened his eyes and smiled.
“Who was it this time?” Hayes asked. “Sharon Stone or Sandra Bullock?”
Vasile straightened up in the chair and shook his head. “I wasn’t dreaming. Meg Ryan. I wasn’t asleep.”
“What
were
you doing?” Hayes asked nonchalantly.
“Thinking about this case.”
“Schrumm?”
“And the doorman, Righetti.” Vasile looked at me. “What’s with you?” he asked. “You join the force?”
Hayes answered for me. “Mrs. Fletcher is our unpaid consultant on the serial killer case.”
“That so?” Vasile said, adding a crooked smile. “Henry ought to give you a badge and a gun.”
“I can do without both,” I said. “If you’d rather I not be here, I’ll—”
“No, no,” Vasile said, “welcome to the team. You got it figured out yet?”
“You mean who killed Harry Schrumm? No.”
Vasile asked Hayes, “Have you told her the ME’s read on cause of death?”
“Yes,” Hayes said, absently going through costumes on the rolling rack. A crude sign taped to it said ACT ONE.
“So, Ms. Unpaid Consultant, what does that say to you?” Vasile asked.
I didn’t hesitate: “It says to me that it wasn’t the serial killer who murdered him. It was someone who wanted us to
think
it was another serial killer victim.”
“Hey, she’s good, Henry,” Vasile said to his partner, laughing.
“May I offer another observation?” I asked.
“Please do,” Hayes said.
“If Harry Schrumm was killed by a blow to his left temple, it means the blow was delivered by a right-handed person.”
“Maybe she’s not so good,” Vasile said. “It could have been a left-handed person hitting him from behind.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “As Lieutenant Hayes and I have discussed, hitting someone in the head isn’t usually a premeditated act. Of course, it can be, but I don’t believe that was the case with Harry Schrumm. If I were painting the picture of how he died, I’d say he was in an argument that got out of hand—and was facing his assailant.”
“An argument with who?” Vasile asked.
“I don’t have an answer for that, Detective, but I think the list can be narrowed down.”
“We’re listening,” Hayes said.
I thought for a moment before continuing. “Harry Schrumm, as you know, was a short man, no taller than five feet, five inches.”
“Five four and a half,” Hayes said. “The ME measured the corpse.”
“All right, five feet, four and a half inches,” I said. “He was struck on his left temple. Did the medical examiner indicate whether he was struck squarely, or was it a glancing blow, meaning had it come from above or below?”
“Straight on,” Vasile answered. “Blunt force injury to the weakest part of the head, the temple. Fighters go down when an opponent catches them just right on that particular spot.”
“Which means,” I said, “that Schrumm was hit in the temple by someone not much taller than he was.”
Hayes and Vasile looked at each other and smiled, which made me feel good enough to proceed with my thesis.
“If that’s true—and it’s only supposition on my part—it means you can rule out members of the cast and crew who are considerably taller than Harry Schrumm.”
“Fair enough,” Vasile said. “We’ll line everybody up and mark their height on the wall, like my mother did with me and my five brothers.”
“Must have been quite a family,” I said, laughing. “But I don’t think it’s necessary to go to that length. It’s fairly obvious just by looking at the people involved with
Knock ’Em Dead
who’s tall, and who’s short.”
“Any of the women in the show qualify,” Hayes said.
“Except April Larsen,” I said. “She’s a tall woman.”
“Not
that
tall,” Vasile said.
“No, not that tall,” I repeated because he was right. Although she was five feet, seven inches tall, that wouldn’t automatically preclude her from the suspect list.
The tallest person, aside from some male crew members—I decided to remove all crew members from my suspect list, at least for the time being, because I wasn’t aware that any of them had had a rancorous relationship with Schrumm—was the director, Cy Walpole.
Did that mean he was ruled out in my mind as a possible suspect? Only if my scenario about height determining possible guilt was valid. As much as it made sense to me, I’d been around enough murder investigations not to dismiss anyone as a suspect based upon conjecture. Walpole’s relationship with Harry Schrumm wasn’t especially combative, but it wasn’t friendly either.
Aaron Manley fit the height requirement. He looked taller than he was because of his slender build and the way he carried himself. There had been no love lost between the producer and the playwright.
The second tallest cast member was Brett Burton, the brooding hulk who played Jerry, the oldest son in the play. The problem with considering him a viable suspect was that I had no idea what his relationship with Harry Schrumm had been. He certainly had the physique to deliver a lethal blow to anyone’s temple.
There was, of course, Linda Amsted. She was the right height. She was rumored to be one of Schrumm’s girlfriends. And she’d been placed in a position of authority by Schrumm.
Too, another rumor had her romantically, or simply sexually, involved with Brett Burton. Did this create in Harry Schrumm a level of jealousy that could have erupted into a confrontation between the two men? Not if my deduction about height being a determining factor held water.
David Potts, who played the younger son, was short, too. In terms of feet and inches, he was a possibility. But like Brett Burton, I knew nothing of his relationship with Schrumm.
And then there were the Factors. Plenty of tension between them and Harry Schrumm over money. They’d invested heavily in Knock ’Em Dead, and certainly weren’t brimming with confidence over Schrumm’s way of doing business. Arnold Factor was too tall; his wife, Jill, was just the right height to have delivered the killing blow to Harry’s head.
Hayes said to his partner, “I’ve asked Mrs. Fletcher to keep spreading the rumor among the cast and crew that we’re certain the serial killer murdered Schrumm, and that we’re close to a break.”
“But do you
really
have leads in that case?” I asked.
“We’re getting there,” Vasile said.
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “I think I’ll go out and watch some more of the rehearsal. Previews are right around the corner.”
“Besides, your bodyguard is probably getting nervous,” Vasile said. “Is this guy really a security guard where you come from?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Our sheriff recommended him. You’ll meet Sheriff Metzger. He’s coming to New York with a group from Cabot Cove.”
“I can’t wait,” Vasile said.
I gave him a disapproving look and went to open the door.
“One thing,” Hayes said.
“What’s that?”
“If Schrumm was murdered by someone in the cast or crew, that same person is right here in this theater. If he or she thinks you’re a little too effective in your snooping, Jessica, you could be in jeopardy. In other words, watch your back.”
“Thanks for the concern,” I said, opening the door and standing face to face with Linda Amsted, who’d obviously been out there during our conversation.
“Hello,” I said. “Back from Hollywood?”
“Just got in.”
“Can I do something for you, Ms. Amsted?” Hayes asked.
“No,” she said. “I was just—I was on my way out the stage door.”
“Uh-huh,” Hayes said. “I’d like some time with you if you don’t mind.”
“I’m late for an appointment.”
“With Roy Richardson again?” Hayes asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I sat in on one of his classes this morning,” I said.
“So I heard,” she replied. “Well, excuse me. As I said, I’m running late.”
“Are you coming back here?” Hayes asked.
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Why don’t you change your plans, Ms. Amsted,” Vasile said, his tone hard, the message unmistakable.
She glared at him. “All right. I will change my plans.”
I closed the door behind us and followed her around the comer to the stage door, where the guard sat reading a magazine.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes. Actually, no.”
“Care to share it with me?”
She glanced at the guard, who seemed disinterested in our conversation.
“I’ve been threatened,” she whispered to me.
“Threatened?” I said in an equally low voice. “By whom?”
“I don’t know. I received a note at my office.”
“Cy received a threatening note at the theater a little while ago,” I said.
“He did? What did it say?”
“It said ‘You’re next,’ along with a few unflattering descriptive words.”
“Mine said the same thing,” Linda said.
“Do you have it with you?”
“No. I left it at the office.”
“You should give it to the police, to Lieutenant Hayes or his partner.”
She guffawed and spoke louder. “No thanks. The less I get involved with them the better.”
“But—”
“I have to go, Jessica. I’ll be back later.”
A cold wind swept through the stage door as she departed. It closed with a dense metallic clang.
“They’re predicting snow tonight,” the guard said, looking up from his magazine.
“It’s that time of year,” I said, walking away, passing the closed door to the prop and costume room where the two detectives were huddled, along the hallway, through the darkened section—I made a mental note to ask Peter Monroe to replace the bulbs—and to the wings from where I could watch the rehearsal that was underway. I’d been there only a minute when a scream filled the entire theater, reverberating from every wall, filling every crevice and eardrum. Then, deathly silence, followed by the sound of running feet from the opposite backstage area. All heads turned to see Pamela South rush from the wings to the middle of the stage.