“Oh, you mean the conflict over Ms. Forrest. She was fired this morning. Linda Amsted is looking for a replacement.”
“We know about that,” Jill said. “We just came from Harry’s office. We’re talking about money.”
“Money? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” Arnold said. He looked at his wife as though seeking permission to continue. She narrowed her eyes and nodded. He said, “Tell me about these new people Harry has added to the production staff.”
“What new people?”
He pulled a slip of paper from his blazer pocket and consulted it. “Walter Schrumm, production coordinator. Nancy Schrumm, marketing coordinator. Marlena Mikowski, liaison to the mayor’s office of cultural affairs.”
Jill added as an aside, “Evidently, Ms. Mikowski is related to Harry by marriage.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said. “I haven’t heard of these people, and I’ve been at rehearsals every day.”
“Exactly,” Arnold said, bitterness in his voice. “Another Harry Schrumm scam. It’s called adding ghost employees to the payroll to make sure there aren’t any profits.”
I started to say something, but Jill cut me off. “Harry did less of it with the last few shows we invested in, and we could live with it. But now it looks like he’s back to his old tricks, eating up any profits before the show even opens.”
“He’s padded the payroll?”
Jill’s laugh was scornful. “Oh, yes. Oldest trick in the book. Routine in Hollywood, and becoming so on Broadway.”
“I obviously have a lot to learn,” I said as a waiter came for our lunch order. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve written a book that’s being turned into a play, hopefully a good and successful one. The business side of it interests me, of course, but isn’t my primary concern.”
“It should be,” Arnold said, ordering three warm chicken salads without bothering to ask my preference. “Your contract calls for you to get a piece of the action.”
“A percentage of the profits,” I said. “That’s right.”
“There won’t be any profits if Harry has his way,” Jill said, “no matter how successful the show is.”
“Then why would you invest in something with him?” I asked.
“Because this play can be a Broadway block-buster, Jessica, with a long and profitable run. We didn’t put up a million six without being convinced of that.”
I suppose my wide eyes testified that I was surprised the Factors had invested that much money in
Knock ’Em Dead.
Arnold said, “Putting on a Broadway show isn’t cheap. Musicals can cost five times that. That’s why we avoid them. We backed your show because of you and your reputation. This play has all the trappings of success, big time, but not if Harry’s allowed to spend money without any checks and balances.”
“I certainly agree with accountability where large sums of money are involved. But why are you telling
me
this? If I feel I’m being cheated, I’m sure my agent and lawyer will step in.”
“By then it will be too late,” Jill said. “Look, the three of us have something major at stake here. We’re too busy to hang around the theater for rehearsals. But you’re there. We want you to be our eyes and ears, let us know what’s going on.”
I sat back and chewed my cheek before replying: “I’d be uncomfortable in that role.”
“Why?” Arnold asked.
“I have natural curiosity as a writer, but that doesn’t extend to being an official snoop.”
“Even when your financial future is at stake?” Arnold asked, smiling smugly.
“Even then. I’ll discuss this with my agent. I appreciate your concerns as the people who’ve put up so much money for the show, but I’m afraid you’ll have to get your information from other sources.”
“Jessica is right,” Jill said, injecting sweetness into her voice. “Let’s eat. The salad looks wonderful.”
We parted in front of the hotel.
“We were wrong in trying to use you as a conduit of information,” Arnold said. “Please accept our apologies.”
“None needed. Thank you for a lovely lunch. The salad was wonderful.”
I slowly walked back to the theater, stopping to window shop on my way. I was only twenty feet from the theater entrance when the doors opened and Linda Amsted emerged, followed closely by Jenny Forrest. The actress carried a knife. “You rotten bitch!” Jenny screamed, holding the knife above her head and closing the gap between them.
Linda backed toward the curb, hands held in a defensive position. “Don’t be stupid, Jenny,” she said. “Don’t make a bad situation worse. We can work this out.”
Dozens of people stopped and watched the confrontation. I moved quickly, placing myself between the actress and the casting director. “Jenny!” I said in my most authoritative voice. “Put that knife down!”
She became immobile, the knife still raised over her head. She then smiled and said, “Spoken by the famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher. Maybe I should cut
your
heart out.”
“What I suggest is that you drop the knife, come back inside the theater, and talk this out. Maybe if you—”
She moved so quickly I didn’t have a chance to respond. In an instant, she bolted at me and brought the knife down with force against my chest. A bright light flashed. People gasped. A few women screamed, including Linda Amsted.
I don’t know what I did, or said. The shock was too great. All I know is that Jenny started laughing as the knife, its blade having retracted into the handle, fell to her feet. My hand went involuntarily to my chest. No blood, just an ache from the stage prop having been shoved so hard against me.
“You’ll hear from me again,” Jenny said, still laughing as she slowly pushed her way through the gathered crowd, disappearing behind them.
“Are you all right?” Linda asked, coming to me and picking up the knife.
“Yes, I think so. That young woman is seriously demented.”
“Tell me about it. When I told her she was through, she went berserk. Sorry it ended with you taking the blow.”
“I’ve taken worse,” I said. “But I think I’d better go inside and sit down. I’m suddenly feeling a little tired.”
Chapter 7
I sat with Linda Amsted in the theater for a half hour until I’d regained my composure.
“Sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m fine, but I think I’ll go back to the hotel.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No need, but thanks. I’ll probably not show up for rehearsals tomorrow. I’m due for a quiet day to myself, maybe a little shopping, dive into a good book.”
“Sounds like just the medicine,” she said, walking me to the lobby. “Give a call if you need anything, day or night. I mean that, Jessica.”
“You’re very sweet, Linda. I’ll stay in touch.”
I took a nap that afternoon, enjoyed a quiet dinner at a small Japanese restaurant a block from the hotel, returned to my room overlooking Manhattan, changed into pajamas and robe, and read until eleven when my eyes started closing. I’d been relatively successful in blotting out the memory of the scene in front of the theater with Jenny Forrest, but once I’d fluffed up the pillows on the king-sized bed and settled in for what hopefully would be a solid night’s sleep, visions of the crazed young woman lunging at me with the knife filled my brain. Although it had only been a stage prop with a retractable blade, I had no way of knowing that before the fact. In the split second it took for her to make contact, I was convinced I was about to be stabbed to death. Thinking of it made me shudder, and I pulled the covers up tight around my neck, willing myself to sleep.
I didn’t dream about the incident. At least I didn’t remember any such dreams when I awoke the next morning at six-thirty to the ringing phone next to the bed.
“Hello?” I said, my voice sounding as though I’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, which was the case.
“Mrs. Fletcher, this is Martin Willig, assistant manager of the hotel.”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Yes?”
“Terribly sorry to wake you so early, but I thought it was better for me to do it than to put the calls through.”
“I’m usually up at this hour anyway. What calls?”
“The press. There are a half-dozen reporters in the lobby wanting to talk to you, including a TV crew. Journalists have been calling, too, but I instructed our telephone staff to hold those calls until I had a chance to speak with you.”
“I appreciate that. Why do they want to see
me
?”
“I suppose it’s because of what happened outside the theater yesterday.”
“You know about that?”
He laughed. “Me and all of New York. The photo of you being attacked makes quite a front page on the Post this morning.”
“Picture? On the
Post?”
I suddenly remembered a flash of light when Jenny attacked me. A press photographer? “Mr. Willig, could you arrange to send up the paper, along with some strong coffee, orange juice, and a croissant?”
“Of course. Ten minutes.”
I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face by the time room service arrived, accompanied by Mr. Willig. He handed me the newspaper. The photo of me being “stabbed” was huge, taking up almost the entire front page. The headline read: KNOCK ’EM DEAD—FICTION OR FACT?
“Oh, my,” I said.
“What a horrible thing to go through,” Willig said. “Have you reported it to the police?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“It was just—it turned out to be a stage prop, one of those knives whose blade retracts into its handle. It couldn’t have hurt me.”
“Still—”
“I’ll think about it. You say the press is in the lobby. Who’s been calling?”
He handed me a slew of message slips, which I quickly perused. The calls were from media, with the exception of two from Cabot Cove, one from Seth Hazlitt, the other from our sheriff, Morton Metzger.
“I appreciate the way you’ve handled this, Mr. Willig. Please continue to hold the calls.”
“Of course. We’ll put nothing through to the room. You can ring down for any new messages.”
“Wonderful.”
He gave me a card with his private direct extension and left.
I showered and dressed, downed the orange juice and a few sips of coffee, and called the hotel’s message center. There were ten additional calls, most from the press, others from my agent, my publisher, Harry Schrumm, and the publicist, Priscilla Hoye. I returned Seth’s call first.
“You all right, Jessica?” he asked the moment we were connected.
“Yes, of course.”
“Why did that woman attack you yesterday?”
“How do you know about it?”
“TV, one of the morning shows ran a picture of it from some newspaper.”
“It was just a silly misunderstanding, Seth. It wasn’t a real knife.”
“One of those publicity setups, a photo op?”
“No, it wasn’t planned but—”
“Then why would somebody do somethin’ like that?”
“Because—she was actually after someone else—I got in the way and ... well, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. No harm done.”
“Maybe you’d better head on home, Jessica. Sounds to me like crime in New York isn’t down as much as that hotshot mayor says it is.”
“Everything’s fine, Seth. It was all just a silly mistake.”
“Talk to Mort this morning?”
“No, but he left a message. I’ll get back to him after I get off with you.”
“Well, stay there if you will, but my advice is still for you to head back here. Having a run of unusually mild weather. Jed Richardson pulled in some nice fish down at Junction Pool yesterday.”
“That sounds wonderful, but I’ll have to postpone any fishing until after the show opens. It’s less than two weeks until previews. Are you still coming with Susan and the others?”
“Ayuh, unless I’m needed there sooner.”
“Why would you be—? Great. Looking forward to seeing everyone again.”
Mort Metzger, too, had seen the morning TV show on which the photo from the Post had been displayed.
“What in God’s name is going on down there, Mrs. F?” he asked.
“Just a mistake, Mort. A—a photo op. For publicity.”
“That’s not what the fella on TV said.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
“He said the woman who attacked you was an actress in
Knock ’Em Dead
who’d been fired and was getting even.”
“That’s ridiculous. It wasn’t even a real knife.”
“Looked real enough to me in the picture. I’m sending Wendell down to New York.”
“Wendell? Who’s Wendell?”
“Wendell Watson, Gloria’s boy. Just got himself his security guard license.”
“Good for him. But why are you sending him here?”
“Keep an eye on you. Be your bodyguard. I’d come myself but can’t get the time off till I come down with Susan’s theater group. Wendell will fill in for me till then.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Bodyguard? I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Jessica. You’re a celebrity. Celebrities have bodyguards. There’s plenty of nuts running around stalking people like you, and I have the responsibility of protecting this town’s citizens, no matter where they might be.”
There was nothing to be gained from arguing with him. Once Mort decided on something, there was no dissuading him.
“Where will Wendell stay while he’s in New York?” I asked.
“With Gloria’s brother. He lives somewhere in Brooklyn. But Wendell will be at your side every waking hour.”
“That’s comforting to know. I have to return some other calls. See you next week.”
I was about to call Matt Miller when someone knocked at the door.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher. It’s Priscilla Hoye, from Scott Associates.”
It took me a second to recognize the name. Priscilla was the publicist. I opened the door to the extent the security chain allowed.
“Hi,” she said.