13 - Knock'em Dead (3 page)

“What?”

“He said, ‘She’s better than Christie.’ ”

“Which I’m not, of course, but it was kind of him to say it.”

“Never use the word ‘kind’ when discussing Harry Schrumm. He’s a first-class bastard, a really nasty guy. But he has clout, can make things happen—he’ ll make
this
happen. He wants you to collaborate with a playwright he’s chosen to do the adaptation.”

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out tomorrow night at the party.”

“What party?”

“The celebration. At Windows on the World. In your honor. Harry will be there. So will the playwright. And, as an extra added attraction, the actress he’s already approached to play Samantha will join us.”

“My Samantha? From the book?”

“Right on.”

“Matt, I can’t go to a party. I have tickets to see—what are we seeing tomorrow night?—oh,
The Beauty Queen of Leenane.
It’s supposed to be excellent.”

“Eight o’clock curtain?”

“Yes.”

“No problem. The party’s from six until seven-thirty. I’ll have a limo take you to the theater.”

“There’s a matinee tomorrow, too.”

“Fine. I’ll have the limo take you from the theater to the party.”

“This is all somewhat dizzying. Here I was fantasizing about having my book turned into a stage play, and suddenly it’s reality.”

He poured wine into my empty glass, picked up his glass again, and offered another toast: “To Jessica Fletcher, the new queen of Broadway.”

“Oh, my.”

“Eat your veal,” he said as the waiter delivered our entrees. “It’s world class.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Barbara DePaoli said at breakfast at the hotel the next morning, after I’d announced that
Knock ’Em Dead
would be a Broadway play. Barbara was the secretary of Cabot Cove’s chamber of commerce and one of my dearest friends.

“About time,” our sheriff, Mort Metzger, said.

“Amen,” Mort’s wife, Maureen, added.

“They’re having a party in your honor at Windows on the World?” Charlene Sassi said, wide-eyed. She owned Cabot Cove’s best bakery. “Pretty fancy.”

“It’s really not in my honor,” I said. “It’s just to announce that this producer, Harry Schrumm, has optioned the book for the stage.”

“Who’s going to play Samantha?” Bob Daros, whose Heritage Fuel kept our furnaces going in the winter, asked. “I really liked that character.”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I’ll find out tonight.”

Someone had brought that morning’s edition of the
Daily News
to the table. The front page headline read: BROADWAY KILLER HITS AGAIN.

“Did you read about this?” Bob asked, holding up the paper for all to see.

“How many does this make?” I asked.

“Four,” he answered, “according to the story.” He handed me the paper.

“It happened at the Von Feurston Theater,” I said, reading aloud. “That’s next door to the Drummond Theater, where
Knock ’Em Dead
is scheduled to play.”

“This time a producer got it,” Charlene said. “He was sixty-three.”

The reporter pointed out that when the producer’s body was found, a wad of bills was stuffed into his mouth.

“Damn nut,” someone said.

Which seemed to sum it up, and ended the conversation about serial killers, at least for that morning.

We saw a play in the afternoon,
Honour,
starring one of my favorite actresses, Jane Alexander. When it let out, we returned to the hotel where most of the group planned to have dinner in its restaurant, Fantino, before heading to an evening performance of
The Beauty Queen of Leenane.

“Wish you could join us,” Mort Metzger said.

“I do, too,” I said, “but the limo is picking me up any minute. Hopefully, they’ll have something to eat at the party. I’ll catch up with you at the theater.”

My driver was a placid young man who seemed unfazed by the insanely congested streets leading downtown to the financial district at that hour. We chatted pleasantly until he dropped me off at the entrance to one of two towers comprising the World Trade Center, each soaring a quarter of a mile above lower Manhattan. Views from the 107th floor, where the restaurant, bar, and private rooms were located, were legendary, and I looked forward to enjoying them. In all my trips to New York, I’d never gotten there.

When I stepped off the elevator, Matt Miller and Vaughan Buckley stood waiting. After warm greetings, they escorted me into a handsomely appointed private room with a wall of windows.

“It’s breathtaking,” I said, looking out over the water and Statue of Liberty.

“Can’t beat the view,” Vaughan said as a man approached. He was short—I’d say no taller than five feet, five inches—and compactly built. He wore an English-cut blue double-breasted suit, blue-and-white striped shirt with a solid white collar, and red tie. Although he’d gone bald on top, black hair on the side of his head was slicked back, a few strands falling fashionably over his shirt collar. Everything about him said money, power, and ego.

“Harry, meet Jessica Fletcher,” Matt said.

“Harry Schrumm,” he said, taking my hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Schrumm. And please call me Jessica.”

“All right. I’m Harry. We’re in this for the long run and might as well be comfortable with each other.”

A waiter carrying a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres passed, and I plucked a fried oyster to feed my noisy stomach.

“Adapting
Knock ’Em Dead
for the stage won’t be easy,” Schrumm said. “There are structural problems to overcome.”

“Really? I thought the book’s structure was part of its appeal as a play. Small setting, lots of dialogue.”

Schrumm’s smile was patronizing. “You just leave the adaptation to us, Jessica. Writing books is different from writing plays.”

“But good storytelling is good storytelling, no matter what the medium,” I said, somewhat defensive after his mini-lecture on writing.

Schrumm looked over the crowd that had gathered and waved to someone. We were joined by an older man with flowing gray hair, heavy tortoise shell glasses, and wearing a red-and-yellow checkered shirt with button-down collar, yellow knit tie, brown corduroy jacket with patches at the elbows, jeans, and work boots. A cold pipe was clenched in his teeth.

“Jessica, say hello to Aaron Manley.”

We shook hands.

“Aaron has signed on to adapt your book for the stage.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “You’re a playwright?”

“Yes.” His inflection said he was surprised I didn’t already know it.

“Aaron has a show playing Off-Broadway,” Schrumm said.
“Revenge of the Honeybadger.”

“Interesting title,” Vaughan said. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Very profound,” Schrumm said.

“A psychological drama,” Manley said. “You know, of course, the tendency of the honeybadger when cornered.”

Vaughan, Matt, and I looked at each other.

Manley said, “When a honeybadger is cornered, it instinctively attacks the genitals of its enemy.”

“Robert Ruark wrote a fine book called
The Honeybadger,”
Vaughan said.

“Did he?” Manley said, obviously annoyed that another writer had used the theme before. “I’m not aware of it.”

“I understand from Matt that I’ll be working with you,” I said.

“That’s to be discussed,” Schrumm said. “For now, enjoy the drinks and food. It’s costing a damn fortune.” He walked away, shoulders squared, stride arrogant, acknowledging comments made to him with a forced smile and wave of his hand. Aaron Manley excused himself and went over to an attractive young woman who had just entered the room. They pressed cheeks, first one, then the other.

Matt whispered to me, “Don’t let all this preliminary chitchat get to you, Jess. These theater people can be a little precious at times.”

“I have no problem,” I said. “I’m still on cloud nine that this is actually going to happen, a book of mine headed for Broadway. It
will
be Broadway, won’t it? Not Off-Broadway.”

“Absolutely. That’s being written into the contract”

“Where’s the actress who’s to play Samantha?” I asked.

Matt shrugged.

“Who is she?” Vaughan asked.

“No idea,” Matt said. “Schrumm told me she’d be here. Kept her name to himself. Schrumm can be very dramatic, very theatrical.”

“I’d like to know more about Mr. Manley’s background,” I said.

“I know a little about him,” Vaughan said. “He’s been around the New York theater scene for a long time. He had a moderately successful play on Broadway a number of years ago. I can’t remember its name. He teaches playwriting at some of the local colleges, made sort of a name for himself in regional theater. He submitted a proposal for a book to us a few years ago, something to do with using acting techniques to find your inner self. A self-help book. We turned it down.”

“He
looks
like a playwright,” I said.

“Out of central casting,” Matt said. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

As we stood at the bar, we were approached by an attractive middle-aged couple, dressed for a formal affair later that evening. He wore a tuxedo, she an ankle-length black sheath topped with overtly expensive gold roping, and impossibly high high heels.

“Jessica Fletcher,” he said, smiling broadly to reveal very white teeth, made more so by the coppery tan of his face. “I’m Arnold Factor. This is my wife, Jill.”

“A pleasure to meet both of you.”

“We’re very excited about seeing your book turned into a play,” she said.

“So am I,” I said. “Are you involved with theater in New York?”

“Very much so,” he said. “We’ve backed a number of Harry’s plays.”

“Really? They say backing Broadway shows is a risky investment. Worse than gambling in Las Vegas or Atlantic City.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing,” Jill said, meaning it. “It’s a matter of choosing the right material, the proper creative talent, and keeping close tabs on the way the money is spent.”

Arnold laughed. “Which is never easy with Harry,” he said, nodding in Schrumm’s direction. “Blink and suddenly he’s added three alleged cousins to the payroll.”

I, too, laughed. “That happens on Broadway, too? I’ve heard stories about padded payrolls in Hollywood but—”

“Hollywood has nothing on Broadway, especially when Harry Schrumm is involved. He’s a good producer, picks good material and pulls together effective creative talent. But—”

“But don’t blink,” Jill said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

“No, I will,” Matt said. “That’s what agents are supposed to do, not blink when money is involved.”

“We must get together, just the three of us,” Jill said, ignoring Matt, “providing the Broadway killer doesn’t get us first.” She laughed nervously. “I’m anxious to hear the direction you think
Knock ‘Em Dead
should take, Jessica.”

“I’d enjoy that very much. I understand from Harry I’ll be spending a lot of time in New York.”

“As you should,” Arnold said. “Give us a call next time you’re in town.” He handed me a card: Factor Enterprises.

“I certainly will,” I said.

When it got to be seven-fifteen, I suggested to Matt that I had to leave if I was to meet my friends for the eight o’clock curtain.

“The car’s downstairs,” he said. “I’ll ride uptown with you.” To Vaughan: “Need a ride?”

“That would be nice.”

I said my good-byes to people I’d met during the party, including the Factors.

“Nothing works on Broadway without big bucks being raised,” Matt told me as we watched the Factors make their way to the elevators. “That’s really all that Schrumm or any other producer does, raise money.”

“Do you think there’ll be a problem with that?”

“No. He wouldn’t have put up an advance for you if he didn’t know he had the money to mount the show. He’s too savvy to stick his neck out. Let’s go.”

We walked to the elevators and Vaughan pushed the “Down” button. The doors suddenly slid open. The only person in the elevator was a woman. We all recognized her.

“Good evening, Ms. Larsen,” Vaughan said.

She smiled sweetly, stepped from the elevator, looked at me, and said, “You are Jessica Fletcher, who created that delicious character, Samantha, in
Knock ’Em Dead.”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you—?”

“Playing Samantha in the stage production? I believe I am, if it’s acceptable to you.”

“It’s—of course it’s acceptable. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

I introduced Vaughan and Matt to April Larsen, an actress familiar to most of America. Not that she was a star. She’d been poised on the threshold of Hollywood stardom twenty years ago after making a succession of good films. But then she faded from the upper tier of mega-star actresses—something to do with rumors that her temperamental personality made her a bad risk for big-budget movies.

Although she had not achieved box-office status, she continued to work in lesser films, and with touring companies of Broadway and London shows. She did commercials and had a brief, unsuccessful fling as a TV talk show hostess. What impressed me was that she’d established, and sustained, a relatively positive image throughout her career despite her reputation as being temperamental. She was considered a solid, versatile actress, capable, workmanlike, lending her familiar name to whatever show in which she chose to appear and garnering for the most part solid reviews. It was my impression she hadn’t worked much recently.

I meant it when I said it was okay with me if she played my character, Samantha, a woman in her early sixties who, while attempting to keep a dysfunctional family together, finds herself deeply involved in murder within that family. As she attempts to solve the mystery, her own life begins to unravel, to the point where she almost becomes the next victim. Some reviewers of the book said Samantha had a “Tennessee Williams quality to her,” which pleased me. Others saw her as a symbol of strength while those around her succumbed to weakness. I’d worked hard to shape Samantha into a three-dimensional, sympathetic woman.