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Schrumm’s “stable”? It looked like the mounting of Knock ’Em Dead had the makings of a novel of its own.
    Manley and Walpole left right after lunch. I wasn’t privy to the conversation between them while I sat with Linda Amsted, but judging from the looks on their faces, it hadn’t been pleasant Even the perpetually jovial Cyrus Walpole scowled and didn’t say good-bye as he departed the theater.
     
     
    Two weeks later, I returned to Manhattan for the backers’ audition, which was held in the evening at Harry Schrumm’s spacious, somewhat dismal apartment on Manhattan’s West Side. There was a masculine casualness to it, and it was every bit the bachelor pad. Schrumm had been married four times.
    “Welcome, Jessica,” Schrumm said, greeting me at the door, wearing a blood-red silk smoking jacket. “You’re the final arrival.”
    “Am I late?”
    “No, but the others have been here for hours. At least it seems that way when you’re dealing with creative types. Come in, come in. Champagne ?”
    It was obvious the Factors were the guests of honor the moment I entered the apartment. They were formally dressed again (did they sleep in formal clothing?), and were seated in matching high-back wing chairs directly in front of what would be the stage. One end of the expansive living room had been cleared of furniture, except for red director’s chairs with white frames lined up facing the wing chairs. The apartment’s lights had been lowered; four spotlights mounted on flimsy stands were aimed at the makeshift stage.
    Casting director Linda Amsted was there along with the entire cast. A young blonde woman—I judged her to be in her early twenties—hung on Schrumm’s arm. She wore extremely tight black slacks and a teal blouse unbuttoned almost to her stomach, exposing a large amount of bosom. I would learn later her name was Pamela South and that she was an actress. Another member of Harry Schrumm’s stable?
    A party atmosphere prevailed. Drinks flowed freely, and conversations were spirited. Most of the cast members sought me out and we discussed how I saw their characters in the play—what their motivations were for doing and saying certain things. They were a pleasant group of people, perhaps with the exception of Aaron Manley and the actor playing Jerry, the older brother, who sustained the brooding disposition he’d displayed during auditions.
    I was in the midst of a conversation with April Larsen when Schrumm stepped to the center of the room, asked for quiet, and announced, “It’s time for the show to go on.” He nodded to Jill and Arnie Factor in the wing chairs, turned, and said, “For those of you who’ve never attended a backers’ audition, let me just say that the purpose is to convince wonderful patrons of the arts like Mr. and Mrs. Factor to choose this particular show in which to pour their money.” The Factors laughed. “As we all know, competition has recently heated up on Broadway. It’s in its renaissance, thanks in part to our crime-fighting mayor and the deep pockets of Disney. That means investors like our esteemed guests this evening have more shows from which to choose. But I know that in Knock ’Em Dead, written by one of the world’s preeminent writers of murder mysteries, Jessica Fletcher, we have something to give them that will not only render next season’s offerings anemic in comparison, it will run on the Great White Way for years to come.” He cast a sly glance at the Factors. “Which, of course, means generating a handsome return for these dear people for years to come, too.”
    “Another Mousetrap,” Cy Walpole said, exuberantly.
    “Here, here!” someone shouted.
    “Then let us raise the curtain on Broadway’s next major theatrical triumph, Knock ’Em Dead.”
    The next hour went smoothly. The actors and actresses performed selected scenes Aaron Manley had written. He’d chosen the most dramatic ones from the script we’d worked on together, but