The Postman Always Purls Twice (16 page)

“Okay . . . anything else besides the falling lights?” She could tell Charles wasn't impressed.

“Jennifer Todd is being stalked by a fan. A very persistent and creepy one,” she added. “That might figure in somewhere.” From the tilt of his head she could tell that tidbit had caught his attention.

Charles tapped his pencil on the table and frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Jennifer and her assistant came to the shop Monday night. She wanted to ask me some questions and see a knitting group in action. She was just about to leave when someone knocked. We thought it was the security guard coming to pick them up, but when I looked out, there was just a basket of roses on the porch. Someone had left it and run off. Not very far, it turned out. They were watching from a hiding place and called out when the door opened.”

Charles recorded this information with interest. “What sort of roses were they, do you remember?”

“Yellow, long stemmed, in a wicker basket with a blue satin bow on the handle.”

Charles made a note. “What did the person say? Could you tell if the voice was male or female?”

“A male voice. I'm not sure I can remember exactly. ‘I love you, Jennifer. We can be together now.' . . . Oh wait. He said, ‘You came back to me. I knew you would.' Something like that. Maybe one of my friends will remember?”

“I'll ask them about it. How did Todd react?”

“She was quite calm. It seems this happens a lot. Her assistant told me that the next day. Alicia said it's been more frequent since they arrived here. There are scary notes on Jennifer's fan page, too. I'm not sure if they think it's the same person, or if she has a number of crazy fans.” Maggie paused. “I did think of reporting the incident myself, since it happened on my property, but Jennifer asked me not to. She said her husband hated bad publicity and their security guards would handle it. Again, she seemed afraid it would make Nick angry,” she added.

“I'll check and see if he made a report. Maybe he was handling it with a security firm, or a private investigator. To keep the story away from the media.”

Maggie hadn't thought of that. But it made sense.

“Alicia came to the shop the next day and said the stalker had left more flowers, right in front of Jennifer's hotel room door in the middle of the night. Pretty brazen, right? That must have been Tuesday night.”

Charles nodded, his expression serious. “There might be security cameras at the hotel. We can check on that.”

“Since Jennifer grew up around here, I thought it could be someone from her past. An old boyfriend, maybe. Or someone who had wanted to be her boyfriend . . . Wait—” Charles was about to say something but she continued. “I just remembered, yellow and blue. Newburyport High School colors. The Tigers, archrivals of the Plum Harbor Panthers. I know their colors well.”

“That's possible.” Charles didn't make a note about her brilliant revelation. “Anything else that could be related to Pullman?”

As much as he might have been concerned about Jennifer, his tone reminded Maggie that he'd been assigned to figure out who poisoned Nick Pullman. Though she had very fond feelings for Charles and respected him, she did know that police officers had a tendency to be left brained, comparing and contrasting and hardly ever looking or thinking outside their particular crime box.

Maybe that's because most people who broke the law were not very imaginative and performed their crimes in a linear, logical way. But sometimes, disparate, seemingly random events in these situations were connected. From what Maggie had seen.

“Yes, well . . . not exactly. But there was a fire on the set, on Wednesday. In Heath O'Hara's trailer.”

“I heard about that. But I don't think the fire department suspected it was intentionally set.”

“How did it start?” Maggie asked.

He shrugged. “I haven't read the report. But they don't have an arson investigator on it.”

“You told me to tell you everything. Suzanne and Lucy were at the set the morning of the fire. They saw Heath O'Hara and Trina Hardwick coming out of a trailer in what seemed to be a compromising situation,” Maggie said as unsensationally as she could. “Later, Jennifer's assistant said she was relieved that Trina had not come out of Nick's trailer and embarrassed Jennifer. Or something like that.”

Charles took a breath, looking a bit bogged down by the celebrity gossip and by Maggie wandering so far off track. “Did you ask what she meant by that? Are Hardwick and Pullman involved?”

“Alicia—Jennifer's assistant—seems to think they could be. She said Trina would do anything to have her role emphasized. Including seducing Nick. But of course, that could just be Alicia's impression. She doesn't like Trina much. I did see Nick and Trina looking very familiar with each other last night on the set, in between the takes.”

“Very familiar? How do you mean?”

“Well . . . let's see. He had his arm around her shoulder at one point and she whispered something to him. Their faces were very close, I thought. And he put his hand on her hip and sort of . . . pat her,” she added.

The litany of observations sounded silly when she said it aloud. She couldn't tell if Charles was annoyed at her for wasting his time. He tapped his pencil on the pad a moment and looked up.

“Maybe that's just par for the course in Hollywood. Everyone acts chummy?” she added.

“So I've heard.” He sighed. “Let's get back to your visit to the set, from the beginning, if we can.”

“All right. But when you put it together with a premeditated poisoning, I think these other events are worth considering. That's all I'm trying to say.”

“The incidents could be related. Or not. We don't know anything yet. Except that Pullman was poisoned.”

“Yes, I know.” She sat back in her chair and picked up some knitting. “Do you mind if I knit?”

“I like to watch you knit. It's relaxing.”

Maggie was pleased to hear that. “Let's see, where should I start? We came to the shop at seven. There was very tight security. They checked the email Alicia had sent and checked our purses and knitting bags. Alicia showed us to our seats and told us the rules of visiting the set . . .”

It took Maggie a few minutes to recall everything she observed on the movie set and answer Charles's questions. “I did see him drink something. Just before they started filming the scene the first time. I remember because Lucy and Phoebe had gone to the snack table and ran back to their seats just in time. The lights had gone down, but I saw someone hand Nick a drink. It looked like a plastic bottle. He unscrewed the lid and drank a few gulps. Then he put it down on the floor, next to his chair.”

“That's good. We can check the exact time he took that first drink against the film. The camera marks the date and time automatically. Then we can match it up with the presentation of his symptoms and stomach contents. To see if that bottle contained the tainted liquid.”

Maggie nodded. That all made sense. Then the police would need to find the crew member who'd handed Nick the drink. And try to find out where it had come from. That could be a good lead.

She loved the logic of detective work. Even though it was usually a very slow process, like putting together a puzzle with thousands of pieces. And many missing ones. Or knitting a sweater . . . or filming a movie, for that matter. A pattern and story eventually emerged if you stuck with it long enough.

“Why did he drink so much of the poisoned liquid? Didn't it taste bad with that chemical in it?” Maggie made a face, imagining such a thing.

“It would taste a little bitter. But the drink or food it was hidden in must have masked the flavor. Maybe it was something that doesn't taste particularly good, so he didn't notice,” Charles added.

“I think he's already had one heart attack. Maybe the person who poisoned him knew that.”

“That's very likely. It should have killed him,” Charles conceded. “I'd say someone fully expected it would.”

Maggie nodded but didn't reply. Who could have done such a thing?

Powerful people like Nick Pullman must have lots of enemies. Maggie could imagine the many actors who might hold a grudge against him, feeling passed over for a part, or resentful about a performance that ended up on the cutting-room floor. Not to mention business rivals.

She hated to think it was someone in the crew who lurked close by, undetected . . . and remained near, waiting to see if Nick survived.

When Charles was finally ready to leave, she walked him to the door. “If I have any more questions I'll let you know,” he told her. “But this is a very complete statement. You have a good eye for detail, and a good memory, Maggie.”

Was he amused that she'd woven in so much gossip? She thought so, but didn't mind. “Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment.”

“I didn't expect you to be a witness,” he admitted again.

“It was fun to surprise you.”

“You do keep me on my toes,” he teased her. “Looks like I'm working tomorrow night. They have us scheduled around the clock. I don't know about our date.”

They had plans to get together on Saturday night for dinner and a movie. Maggie had been looking forward to it, but she certainly understood.

“Don't worry. I understand,” she assured him. “Maybe you'll solve the case by then.”

He laughed. “You have a lot of confidence in me.”

“I do.”

He met her gaze and smiled. “I'll let you know how it's going.”

Maggie smiled back, feeling a lightness in her heart.

She closed the door and went back inside, noticing that Phoebe had come down from her apartment. She sat at the back table, looking sleepy, sipping from a giant mug of coffee.

“I wonder how Nick Pullman is. Did you check the news? I didn't get a chance to watch this morning.”

Maggie was pleased that Phoebe didn't linger upstairs, watching TV. But she would have found it understandable this morning.

“He's still in intensive care. Charles thinks they might move him to Mass General once his condition is stable.”

“Did you tell Detective Mossbacher about that fan who's stalking Jennifer? Maybe he was so jealous he thought if he knocked off her husband, she'd run into his wacko arms.”

“I did. He said someone will look into that, if it hasn't been reported already. He said it could be related, but not necessarily.”

Maggie found some skeins of yarn scattered on the table and returned them to their baskets. She had to straighten out all the stock in the cubbyholes too, all just jammed back inside by the police. She hated the way that looked. Had Phoebe downed enough caffeine yet to start helping? Not quite.

“What do you think will happen? How can they finish the movie without Nick Pullman?” Phoebe's gaze followed her.

“I don't know. Maybe they have to wait until he recovers before they can continue.”

“If he recovers. Maybe they'll get a different director. Like bringing in a long-term sub, at school, if the regular teacher breaks her leg or something.”

“I guess that's possible.” Huge sums of money had been invested in this film. The salaries of the three big stars and director alone probably surpassed the gross national product of some smaller nations.

Nick Pullman was so entangled in the project—his wife, best friend . . . and perhaps his girlfriend, in starring roles. His son a key writer, and his own production company taking the financial risk.

Tradition did insist the show must go on, but would the project really be turned over to a new director?

And who exactly stood to benefit by pushing Nick Pullman out of this picture?

M
aggie was back to business as usual by Saturday morning. She'd been closed on Saturday the week before for the movie crew, which was the only day some customers could visit. She expected a wave of traffic today. Not to mention a wave of busybodies who wanted to see where the famous director had been poisoned.

She unlocked the door around eight, though she didn't officially open until half past nine. She and Phoebe had put the stock and displays back in order, but she wanted to poke around the flower beds. Spring bulbs were sprouting—hyacinth, tulips, and daffodils. Along with eager weeds.

She was yanking a clump of green invaders when she heard the gate creak open and someone called out to her, “Good morning, Maggie.”

Lucy, she thought, who took her dogs for a walk into the village almost every day and always stopped for a chat. But when Maggie turned, she didn't face the familiar wet noses and panting tongues. Only a long black limo parked at the curb and the inimitable Victor, vigilantly scanning Main Street from behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses.

Jennifer Todd walked toward her, barely recognizable in even bigger sunglasses and a dressed-down look—worn jeans, sneakers, and a light canvas jacket with the hood pulled over her head. She might have been dressed for a walk on a breezy beach. Which would have done her good this morning if she'd had the time for it. The poor woman looked pale and tired, even under the camouflage.