Read Online 13 - Knock'em Dead by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain - Free Book Online

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