“Nothing involving you, Jessica. Aaron will settle in and do the real adaptation and—”
“ ’Real?’ This wasn’t real?”
“You know what I mean. A finished script. These were just scenes to entice the Factors into backing the show.”
“Yes, I knew that,” I said, “but I hope he continues being true to the book.”
“Oh, he will, Jessica, my dear. Don’t worry about that. You go on back to that quaint little town of yours in Maine, enjoy the holidays, and get ready to return next February when rehearsals go into full swing.”
“I assume I’ll be conferring with Aaron as he progresses on the script.”
“Of course. Work that out with him, only don’t expect too close a collaboration, at least not while he’s churning out the final draft. Better to leave him alone. He works better that way.”
The Factors stopped to congratulate me on their way out. “We’ve invested in many of Harry’s productions,” Arnie said, “but this one has a scent unlike any of the others.”
“Scent?”
“Sweet smell of success.” He leaned close to my ear and said, “We’re in, Jessica, only don’t tell Harry that. I like to let him sweat for a few days. Enhances the bargaining position.”
“We insist you be our guests at dinner the next time you’re in town,” Jill said. “At our penthouse. You’ll love the views of Manhattan.”
Chapter 6
Two Months Later
Time always seems to pass more quickly as you become older, but my involvement in readying
Knock ‘Em Dead
for a Broadway opening really chewed up the weeks. Despite Harry Schrumm having said that there was nothing for me to do until serious rehearsals started in February, I spent what felt like half my life in New York City, a virtual commuter to New York, the Westin Central Park South Hotel my second home. Of course, not every trip south had to do with
Knock ’Em Dead.
There were meetings with my publisher and my agent regarding a new novel I’d started, and I made a few journeys to the Big Apple to visit friends and to do some Christmas shopping in Manhattan’s wonderful stores.
But Schrumm, Manley, and Walpole seemed to want my input at various stages, and I was more than happy to accommodate. It made me feel like a Broadway insider, a true part of the creative team readying the play for its March opening.
As Vaughan had predicted, the Broadway serial killer’s four murders had become a national story, and I kept up with it both at home and when in Manhattan. He hadn’t struck since having killed the producer in September at the Von Feurston Theater. The New York PD had established a special task force headed by a detective named Henry Hayes. A reward for the capture and conviction of the killer was being offered by the New York Theater Guild. A number of theaters reported adding extra security to their staff, and one actress appearing in a Broadway musical told the reporter she dreaded going to work and would continue to feel that way until “the fiend is caught and behind bars.”
I made it a point to be in Cabot Cove for Christmas, a special time of year in the lovely town I call home. Christmas Day had dawned crystal clear and surprisingly warm for that time of year, and I joined my friends in a round of afternoon get-togethers where the spirit of the season washed over us, peace on earth and good will toward men very much alive in Cabot Cove, even though it wasn’t in so many other less fortunate parts of the world.
“Plan on stayin’ a while?” Seth Hazlitt asked as we sipped eggnog at his house.
“Until February. I’m behind on so many things, including my newest book. Vaughan has been wonderful pushing the delivery date back, but there’s a limit to how far he can let it slide. The producer wants me in New York for the final three weeks of rehearsal in February. I’ll just stay there until previews start. This commuting back and forth is getting old.”
“As I imagine it would be. Susan was in for a checkup yesterday. She wants to put together another theater group to coincide with Knock ’Em Dead’s opening.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ve talked to Harry Schrumm about being able to bring friends to the rehearsals. He wasn’t especially keen on the idea but said it would be okay. Why don’t you plan to spend a week in February in New York, Seth. Bring some of the others with you. To be honest, I sometimes feel a little lonely there.”
“I might be able to swing that. The patient load slows down about then. I’ll see what I can do.”
“That would be wonderful. Going to the concert?”
“Ayuh.
Wouldn’t miss that.”
That night we gathered in the high school auditorium and listened to the orchestra conducted by Peter Eder play Christmas music, culminating with a sing-a-long led by one of our churches’ musical directors, and featuring the lovely voices of a children’s choir. We gathered at Richard Koser’s house following the concert to sing around the piano and extend the day’s good feelings. Richard was a photographer who’d taken most of my book jacket photos.
“Did Seth tell you about the theater package I’m putting together?” Susan Shevlin asked.
“Yes. It sounds wonderful. I told him it would be okay for my friends to attend some rehearsals if you’re in New York the last few weeks of February. And I have twenty seats for opening night of previews. My agent had that written into the contract.”
“That’s wonderful. We can catch a few rehearsals and be there en masse opening night.”
“For previews, not the
real
opening, Susan. There’ll probably be last-minute bugs to iron out before the official opening.”
“So what? We’ll feel like we’re special, in-the-know.” She giggled. “We’re all so proud of you, Jess.”
I blushed, and joined in the singing of a spirited, out-of-tune version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
“I don’t care,” Cyrus Walpole bellowed from the stage of the Drummond Theater where rehearsals for Knock ’Em Dead were underway. “You’re a vile, twisted, evil woman and I will not tolerate you for another minute.”
His tirade was directed at Jenny Forrest, the actress playing Marcia, the younger brother’s girlfriend in the show. I’d been sensing that a blowup was imminent; Walpole and Jenny had been at each other’s throats ever since I returned to New York and started attending daily rehearsals. Jenny was a wonderful actress. Simultaneously, she was a foul-mouthed, conniving young woman who seemed always to be at the center of turmoil.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” she shouted back at Walpole, “you fat, disgusting slob.”
For a moment I thought Cy was going to physically attack her. Instead, he came to where I sat with the casting director, Linda Amsted. His face was crimson with anger, and he visibly shook. “Get her out of here, Linda, and find someone else to play Marcia.”
“Just like that,” Linda said, shaking her head. “She makes a marvelous Marcia, Cy. You’re the director. Figure out how to direct her.”
“Don’t lay the responsibility on me for taming that horrible woman,” Walpole said. “You chose her for the part. You fire her and bring in someone I can work with.”
“Firing is Harry’s job,” she said. “He’s the producer.”
“I’ve already spoken with Harry about it. He says you’re to handle these things.”
As they snarled at each other, the rest of the cast, and some of the crew, watched from the stage with bemused interest. Jenny Forrest lit a small cigar and perched on a tall stool, a crooked smile on her round, plain face.
“Excuse us,” Linda said to me, standing and leading Walpole to the lobby where they could continue their conversation in less public surroundings.
April Larsen left the stage and sat next to me. “This is extremely distressing,” she said.
“It certainly is,” I said.
“Frankly, I think our esteemed casting director has done a frightful job of choosing a cast.”
“Oh? I thought—”
“The chemistry between actor and actress on stage is crucial to a play’s success, Jessica. When Harry asked me to play the mother—no, begged me is more apt—he assured me he would surround me with New York’s best talent. He certainly has gone back on his word.” She forced a laugh. “But that isn’t unusual for Harry. He’s the biggest liar I’ve ever known. You should speak up, Jessica. After all, your name is up there on the marquee along with mine. It’s your story that’s being presented to the public. It’s your reputation at stake.”
I started to respond but she burst into tears, stood, and disappeared into the shadows.
I sat alone and pondered what had just occurred. Although I was not experienced in theater, certainly not at the Broadway level, it struck me as unusual that a show’s casting director would be so intimately involved in every aspect of the production. My assumption was that once a cast had been chosen, and it had been approved by the producer, director, and lord knows who else, the casting director’s job would be done and she’d move on to casting the next play or movie.
But it seemed that Linda Amsted wore many hats for
Knock ’Em Dead,
including being a den mother to the actors and actresses she’d chosen. April Larsen’s unkind comments about her didn’t set well with me. Of everyone involved in the production, Linda was my favorite, and we’d forged a friendship. I liked her personally and respected her professionally. The rumors that she was having an affair with Harry Schrumm, and perhaps with the brooding actor, Brett Burton, were just that to me, rumors. Even if true, it was her business. I could see how men would be attracted to her. She wasn’t beautiful by any standard, but she exuded a quiet sensuality, lips full, dark eyes testifying to having lived a bit, a full but trim figure she maintained by exercising regularly at a gym near her office.
Without Walpole to direct the rehearsal, the cast dispersed. Lunch was scheduled for one, but since it was now a little after noon, they left the theater for an extended break. I went to the stage where playwright Aaron Manley sat pecking away at his laptop.
“Still making changes to the script?” I asked.
“Yeah. I don’t like the way the scene between the detective and the mother plays out in Act Two.”
I pulled up a folding chair and read what was on his screen. I didn’t like what I saw, but was reluctant to be critical, considering the frayed nerves permeating the theater that day.
“I suppose you don’t like it,” he said.
“I just don’t think the detective would say something like that.”
He sat back with force, clenched his teeth, and said, “How would you know what a detective would say?”
“How? Because I’ve been writing murder mysteries my entire adult life. I’ve created dozens of fictitious detectives and have spent plenty of time with real ones.”
“Then
you
write the script.” He stood, almost knocking over his chair, and walked away. As he did, Cy Walpole emerged from the lobby with Linda Amsted.
“Where’s jenny?” Linda asked.
I shrugged, still upset about the exchange with Manley.
“She’s being replaced,” Walpole said. “Our Miss Jenny Forrest is a
former
member of this production.”
“Isn’t it late to replace her?” I asked.
“Not for our beloved casting director,” Walpole said. “She made the original mistake in hiring Jenny. She can come up with her replacement.”
“She was cast with your approval, Cy,” Linda said.
“No,” he said. “She was cast with Harry’s approval, which all of us knew would happen. I’ve always felt that when a casting director is too cozy with the producer, such mistakes are bound to happen.”
Linda’s eyes narrowed, and her lip trembled.
“We called Harry,” Walpole said. “He’s on his way. Linda has his permission to throw that insufferable woman out of this theater and out of my life.”
“Why does Linda have to do it?” I asked. “Why doesn’t Harry fire her? He’s the producer.”
Walpole’s smile and voice were annoyingly condescending. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “It’s not your concern, dear Jessica. And don’t worry. Linda will find a new and better actress to play Marcia. Everything will be just fine. Trust me.”
I went to the lobby and called Matt Miller to see if he was free for lunch. He wasn’t. Neither was Vaughan Buckley. I opted to not try other friends in New York and set out in search of a quiet spot for a solo lunch. I’d no sooner stepped from the theater on to West Forty-fourth Street when Jill and Arnold Factor got out of a cab and stopped me. “We were hoping you’d still be here,” Arnie said. “Free for lunch?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“Good,” said Jill. “Forty-four, in the Royslton, is just down the street.”
As we set off, I realized that Jill wasn’t as tall as she appeared to be. She was fond of shoes with spike heels, adding a good four inches to her height. I’ve never understood how women can wear such shoes. I tried it once and felt as though I was on stilts.
The restaurant, they told me during our short walk, was named because its address was Forty-four West Forty-fourth Street. According to them, it was one of New York’s latest “in” spots, a favorite of Broadway luminaries and publishing tycoons; its unofficial name was the “Conde Nast Lunchroom.” The decor was, I suppose, new age—spare and gleaming and smacking of high-tech. The Factors weren’t strangers there; we were immediately led to a prime table by a gracious maitre d’. Arnold ordered an expensive bottle of white wine despite my objections to anything alcoholic that early in the day and quickly got to why they were looking for me.
“What’s going on with the show?” Jill asked. She was dressed in a pretty, soft, rose-colored pant suit and wore a large, taupe floppy brimmed hat of the sort usually seen on Southern belles. Her voice didn’t match her outfit’s mellowness. There was steel in it.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Knock ’Em Dead,”
Arnold said, sniffing and tasting the wine, proclaiming it satisfactory, and leaning closer to me. “We understand there are major problems.”