13 - Knock'em Dead (13 page)

“Did you interview other patrons, or the staff?”

“Not personally, but others did. I haven’t seen their report. Actually, I didn’t catch that case. I’m strictly full-time on the serial killer.”

“And you don’t think there’s any connection?”

“No. Entirely different MO. The old guy’s wallet was missing. Hit over the head. I don’t see any linkup.”

“I suppose you’re right. I just heard that the Factors, the show’s backers, have taken over as co-producers.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really? When did that happen?”

“Must have happened right away. Mr. Monroe told me he received a call from Mrs. Factor informing him of it.”

“The body’s not even cold yet.”

“I suppose it’s a matter of the show having to go on.”

Cyrus Walpole and Aaron Manley arrived.

“Dreadful thing, what happened to Vic,” Walpole said. “Another victim of the serial killer, Lieutenant?”

“No. Unrelated.”

 

“A robbery victim?”

“Appears that way.”

“I hate to say it,” Manley said, “but I’m glad it was just a robbery. I’ve reached an age where I read the obits every day. When I see someone my age has died, I always hope it was from some motorcycle accident, or a fall from a mountain. I don’t want to know about death by natural causes.”

“What did you know about Vic?” Hayes asked the two men.

“Nice chap,” Walpole said. “Quiet. Pleasant.”

“He gave me the creeps,” Manley said.

His comment surprised Hayes and me. “Why do you say that?” Hayes asked.

“He had a funny look about him. You know, he had that one eye that didn’t open all the way.”

Hayes ignored the statement and asked, “Either of you know why he left the stage door?”

They shook their heads.

“He ever do it before?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Walpole. “I don’t keep track of the stage door. I have a play to whip into shape. Speaking of that, Lieutenant, I’ve called a rehearsal for noon. Any chance you and your people will be finished up and gone by then? Your presence is unnerving to the cast and crew.” He looked at me and said, “I had to beg Hanna to stay with the show. She’s convinced that if she comes to this theater, she’ll end up like Schrumm. Dave Potts has expressed similar fears.”

“I’d think having the police here would help allay those concerns,” I offered.

“No offense, Lieutenant,” Manley said, “but I’d like to see you gone, too. I have rewrites to do. I can’t concentrate with a bunch of cops around.”

Hayes, ever calm, said, “I’m as anxious to be out of here, Mr. Manley, as you are to have me gone. We’re moving as fast as we can, believe me.”

“It can’t be fast enough,” Manley said, walking away.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Walpole said. “He’s a writer, and we all know what they’re like.” He smiled. “With Mrs. Fletcher an obvious exception.”

“No need to exclude me, Cy,” I said, smiling sweetly.

“I have work to do,” Walpole said, and left.

“Everyone’s a little high-strung,” I said as the homicide detective and I sat next to each other.

“Mind going over how you discovered Mr. Schrumm’s body again?” he asked.

“Not at all, although I don’t think I forgot anything the first time around.”

I went step-by-step, from the moment I left the stage in search of Linda Amsted until pulling out the costume rack and finding Harry Schrumm.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Well, no, there is one other thing I neglected to mention.”

“Oh?”

“I saw the ghost of Marcus Drummond.”

“Did you now?”

“Of course, it really wasn’t a ghost. It must have been something the light created—you know, an interplay of light and shadow.”

“But it looked like Marcus Drummond?”

“Yes, but only because I must have been subconsciously thinking of him at that moment. The old purple elephant syndrome at work.”

“I’m not familiar with that.”

I explained.

“Interesting,” he said. “Any chance what you thought was a ghost was actually a person—maybe the person who’d just killed Harry Schrumm?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just a thought. Oh, by the way, the lab examined your torn coat. It
was
cut, with a very sharp knife with a serrated blade.”

“Then it wasn’t an accident.”

“No, I think not. I had one of our people take it to a tailor. You should have it back this afternoon better than new.”

“That’s very kind, but you didn’t have to go to that trouble,” I said. “I sort of like the uniform issue you gave me.”

“No trouble at all.” He stood. “You’ll be here for the rehearsal?”

“That’s my plan, although I thought I might skip out for lunch.”

“Have you spoken with Ms. Amsted?”

“No.”

“I plan to see her again this afternoon, at her office.”

“Have
you
spoken with Jenny Forrest?”

“Your attacker? Yes. Last night. I imagine she’s a wonderful actress.”

“I thought so.”

“Not your most stable of young women, however.”

“No argument from me.”

“Keep a confidence, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’m pretty good at that.”

“We may have a break in the serial killer case.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“I can’t be specific, but Mr. Schrumm’s murder might have provided the evidence we need.”

“Something to do with the knife used to kill Schrumm?”

“No. It was clean. No prints. It evidently came from the small kitchen backstage. Its handle matches the rest of a set in there.”

“Well, I hope you solve it soon. I don’t blame the cast members who are afraid to come to work. Having a madman running around killing people in Broadway theaters is unnerving, at best.”

“See you later.”

I wondered why he’d not only chosen to share that information with me, but why it had come immediately following his comments about Jenny Forrest. It was a fleeting question because things became busy in the theater. The cast and crew drifted in over the next half hour, each cleared by police manning the doors to the premises. Wendell returned shortly before noon carrying shopping bags.

“Successful shopping trip?” I asked.

“I guess so. Things sure cost more here in the Big Apple than back in Cabot Cove.”

He showed me his purchases, which he’d made at a discount men’s store on Times Square. At least he had some clean clothing in the event he never saw his suitcase again.

“Hungry?” I asked.

He grinned. “I always am, Mrs. Fletcher. My mother says I eat more than any ten people she knows.”

I would have preferred to leave the theater alone, but knew that would be impossible, not with Wendell Watson’s heightened sense of duty.

“Let’s go get some lunch,” I said, standing. “I know a wonderful Irish pub just a block away.”

Although it was only a few minutes past noon when Wendell and I entered Rafferty’s, the bar and restaurant were crowded. We were greeted by a pretty young redheaded woman wearing a Kelly green T-shirt with RAFFERTY’s in white across her chest. Lilting Irish music came from speakers behind the bustling bar.

“Two for lunch?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but we’d like to have a drink at the bar first.”

“All right. I’m afraid all the tables in the back are taken, but you can have that one over there in the comer. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Fine, thank you.”

There were two available bar stools at the long, scarred wooden bar manned by a beefy, red-cheeked gentleman wearing a green apron with the bar’s name on it over a white shirt and green tie. The moment we settled on our stools, he was in front of us.

“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.

“Wendell?”

“Just a Coke, please.”

It might have been a wince that came over the bartender’s broad face, I couldn’t be sure.

“You, ma’am?” he asked.

“Ah, club soda with a slice of lime.”

As he went to fetch our drinks, Wendell leaned close to me and whispered, “I’m not sure I should be in a bar wearing my uniform. I’m on duty.”

“As long as you don’t drink anything alcoholic, I’m sure it’s all right for you to be here. After all, this is where I am, and you’re supposed to be with me.”

“That’s true,” he said, obviously relieved.

Rafferty’s was a spirited place, with conversations running up and down the bar. Our drinks were served, and I sipped while tuning in on what was being said on either side of me.

“... and it had to be robbery,” a man said between swallows of a dark beer in a large mug. “Poor old bastard had all that money on him. Must have talked too loud.”

“That’s the way I figure. Had to be somebody here who heard him, saw the wad he laid on the bar.”

“Nice old guy, huh?”

“Sure was.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying. You’re referring to what happened to Vic Righetti last night.”

“Was that his name? Never knew his last name. Always called him Vic. You’re a friend of his?”

“Yes, a good friend. You obviously were here with him yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, we were,” the second gentleman said.

“You knew Vic from here?” I asked.

“Knew him from lots of places. He’s—he’d been around Broadway for years. Sort of a fixture, I suppose you’d say. Been tending stage doors as long as I can remember.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Strange, wasn’t it, that he left the stage door at the Drummond to come here. Not like Vic.”

One of the men laughed. “We kidded him about being here earlier than usual. He always came in on his supper break, around five. Surprised to see him wander in when he did.”

“Did he say why he was here earlier than usual?”

“The money the man gave him,” said the other customer.

“What money?” I asked. “What man?”

They looked at each other and shrugged. One of them said, “All Vic said was that the man— yeah, that’s what he called him, ‘the man’—gave him a couple of hundred dollars to leave for a few hours.”

“Did he say why he was given the money?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, he did,” said the second customer. “Something about needing to meet somebody.”

“Vic was meeting someone?”

“No, the man who gave him the money was. You never really understood everything Vic was saying. He was, you know, kind of slow, didn’t always say things right.”

I leaned back on the stool, cupped my glass of club soda in both hands, and digested what I’d heard. As I sorted through it, one thought dominated. The man who gave Vic money to vacate his post at the Drummond Theater had to have been someone Vic knew—knew well—and furthermore was someone in power. I couldn’t conceive of Vic abandoning the stage door for money from a stranger, or even someone with whom he was familiar but who did not have the authority to make such a request.

Who could that be?

I immediately thought of Harry Schrumm. That scenario played for me. What if Schrumm had planned to meet secretly with someone, paid Vic to absent himself for a few hours, met the visitor, and was killed by that person?

On the flip side, it might have been Schrumm’s murderer who paid Vic to leave the stage door in order to enter the theater unobserved and kill Schrumm.

Those possibilities led me to silently question what Schrumm had been doing in the costume and prop room. I’d never seen him there, although I certainly hadn’t been observing his comings and goings with any regularity. I made a mental note to ask Lieutenant Hayes whether it was possible that Schrumm had been killed elsewhere, and brought to the costume room by his murderer, perhaps to more easily stage the bizarre setting for the body.

I also intended to ask Hayes whether previous murders by the so-called Broadway serial killer involved a missing doorman. If so, that would certainly lend credence to the serial killer having taken Harry Schrumm’s life, too.

Wendell had sat silently during my exchange with the other customers. I turned to him and asked whether he was ready to take our table. Before I could, the bartender, who’d obviously overheard the conversation, leaned his elbows on the bar and asked, “Are you some sort of cop?”

My look of surprise faded into a smile. “No,” I said, “I’m just a friend of the man who was killed last night behind your bar.”

“I’ve told the cops everything I know.” He looked at Wendell: “You a cop?”

Wendell grinned. “No, sir, but I intend to be one some day. I’m a security guard right now, assigned to protect Mrs. Jessica Fletcher.”

“That so?” said the bartender. To me: “Are you Jessica Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“You write books, murder mysteries.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t read much but I know your name. Hey, isn’t that your play going to open at the Drummond?”

“Yes. In less than two weeks.”

“The serial killer got your producer, too. Harry Schrumm.”

“Did you know him?”

“Sure.” He looked left and right and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Hate to say anything bad about the dead, but he was no prince, I’ll tell you that.”

I chose to ignore the unkind comment. “The Factors are producing my play now.”

The bartender screwed up his face in thought before saying, “Right, that husband and wife team that backs shows. Always on the society pages, attending some fancy party or another. I heard they’re living way over their heads.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah. A lot of my customers are theater people, not the weirdos but crew types, union workers. One of their union delegates comes in here all the time. He told me last week the Factors have more lawsuits against them than the president. I love people like that. They live the high life and stiff everybody they do business with. A couple of bartender friends of mine work in pretty fancy places. The Factors run up big bills, throw big parties, then toss the bills in the garbage. ‘So, sue me’ is what they say. Hell of a way to live. Another Coke, officer? You, ma’am?”