The Postman Always Purls Twice (25 page)

“She couldn't get into the house yet. We waited awhile and took a walk on the beach. It was good for her. For both of us,” she added. “But when we went back they still weren't done. She didn't want to wait, but something interesting happened. Jennifer Todd was there, with Alicia. She wanted a few things from her trailer, but the police wouldn't let her go inside.”

“Oh . . . well, I guess all the vehicles have to be searched. All the equipment trucks and trailers. That makes sense.”

“I guess. She was surprised but didn't make a fuss. She said hello to us,” Lucy added.

“She's not the type to rant and make demands and she does have wonderful people skills.”

“She looked very sad. First her husband and now Heath.”

“It's a lot,” Maggie agreed, “and it's not over yet. Nick's recovery is still touch and go, I've heard on the news. And it appears the film will be scraped or put on a shelf . . . or whatever they say when a movie isn't finished.”

“I heard that, too. I guess she and Nick will lose a lot of money. On top of everything else.”

“I guess they will.” Maggie's gaze slipped back to the TV. An image had caught her eye. She quickly raised the volume so she could hear what the commentator was saying. “Hold on a second, all right?” '

“Sure,” she heard Lucy say as she put the phone aside.

A few moments later, she picked it up. “That was interesting. I've been watching a show about Heath's life and career, sort of a retrospective. They just showed an old photo of him and Jennifer. Did you know they were at the same acting school in Hollywood together?”

“No, I'd never heard that.”

“Yes, that's where they met, and this reporter said they even dated for a while. Until Jennifer met Nick. It seems Heath introduced them.”

“That's interesting. So she had to choose between the two?”

“The reporter didn't say that exactly. Nick was older than both of them, at least ten or twelve years. It seems he was married when he met Jennifer. Or on the verge of a divorce? That part wasn't clear.”

“What channel are you watching? I want to see the rest.” Lucy sounded intrigued.

Maggie told her the channel, then said, “What about the Red Sox?”

“We'll tape that. Matt can watch the ninth inning before he goes to work tomorrow morning. That's the most important one.”

“Not necessarily. But it's a good compromise.” Sometimes that's the best we can aim for in life, and in love, Maggie realized.

W
hen Lucy left the cottage with her dogs Wednesday morning, she decided to take the long way into town, a curving route down to the water, a path along the harbor and up Main Street, then toward Maggie's shop.

It was a beautiful morning, and they all needed the exercise. Whenever she was digging in, trying to finish a project on time, she sat like a slug stuck to a rock in front of her computer. When she finally got up, she felt the stiffness all over her body . . . and the snugness of her jeans.

“That's the way it goes, my friends. Lean and mean going into the project, tight jeans going out. What can I say? Maybe I should get a treadmill in the office and balance my computer on top? They say the number-one health hazard as you get older is sitting too much. You guys need to think about that,” she added.

She often talked to the dogs. Matt didn't seem to notice. Since he was a veterinarian, it was actually one of the things about her that had attracted him.

“When they start answering, I'll worry,” she told concerned friends.

They had reached the harbor and Lucy had to be mindful of staying to one side of the path; there were many joggers, bikers and groups of power-walking seniors out at this time of day. A light wind whipped up whitecaps on the water and the air smelled rich and salty. Lucy inhaled a deep, cool breath.

“I'm feeling more fit and toned already. How about you guys?” she asked her shaggy companions.

Tink turned her head at the sound of Lucy's voice and sort of smiled. Or maybe she was just panting. It would be good to get to Maggie's and give them a drink.

Wally didn't turn. He needed to keep up his momentum and balance. Lucy suddenly stopped and he nearly tipped over. “Wally . . . sorry!” she said aloud.

Poor old hound. She stooped to pet his head, her gaze fixed on the Lord Charles Inn, where a blue-and-white police cruiser and another car that looked like an unmarked police vehicle stood parked in the elegant curved drive. A uniformed officer stood by the cruiser and two men, plainclothes detectives probably, stood talking to him.

Lucy led the dogs up from the harbor and across the green to get a better look. She was not the only person standing and watching. But the police presence had not drawn a huge crowd yet.

She stood there for a few moments observing. Nothing seemed to be going on. Her dogs tugged on their leashes, one on each side of her body. They were bored, too.

She was about to give up, when the hotel doors opened and Jennifer Todd came out, flanked by a bodyguard Lucy had seen on the set, and Charles Mossbacher.

Several men and women carrying bulky cameras with long lenses ran forward and started photographing, dropping to their knees or darting around the fenders of parked cars. Lucy hadn't even noticed them. Where had they been hiding?

“Jennifer,” yelled one. “Where are they taking you?”

“Hey, Jen, what's up?” another called. “Are you going to the police station?”

Her face covered by huge sunglasses and a scarf tied around her hair à la Jackie Kennedy, the star walked at an even pace down to a long black car, driven by one of the film security staff. Lucy saw Regina Thurston climb into the car with her.

Charles Mossbacher spoke to her briefly through the window, then climbed into the passenger seat of an unmarked car with his colleagues. The caravan pulled out of the inn driveway, cameras snapping furiously. Lucy noticed some of the photographers dashing to their own cars, in order to meet the entourage at the police station, and get even more photos.

Photos of what? she wondered. Was Jennifer going back to the station to be interviewed again about Heath's death? Or talk with the police about the investigation into Nick's poisoning? Or about a connection between the two?

Lucy didn't stop to ask the dogs. She just steered them up Main Street toward Maggie's shop. This was a conversation for humans.

She found Maggie on the porch, planting pansies and vinca vines in the window boxes. She greeted Lucy happily. Gardening always improved Maggie's brain chemistry, almost as much as knitting.

“These were expensive, but I had to buy a flat,” Maggie said. “If there are any left over, I'm going to stick some in the beds with the tulips and daffs.” She finally glanced up. “You look winded; want some water?”

Lucy took a breath. She was winded; she'd run nearly all the way. “I was just at the harbor. I saw Jennifer leave the inn, escorted by Charles and the police. It looked like they were going to the police department.”

Maggie frowned and put her shovel down. “Oh? I guess they want to ask more questions. Maybe about Jerome Nesbit. Or maybe about some other leads they have on Nick's poisoning.”

“Maybe.” Lucy tied up the dogs and gave them water. She was thirsty, too, and opened her own water bottle for a quick swallow. “I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling. Why don't they just ask her questions over the phone, or at the inn? Why at the police station? Regina Thurston was with her and that guy I saw last week, with the fancy suit and big briefcase.”

“You said he looked like a lawyer.”

“That's the one.”

Maggie shrugged again. “I really don't think she's a suspect. She was close to both men. She was a business partner with both of them, too. She's definitely a good source of information. Maybe she knows something important that ties these events together, and she doesn't even realize it.”

“Maybe.” That was a good possibility, Lucy thought. Maggie usually had such a sensible point of view. She was so grounded—like a lightning rod at times for the rest of them.

“You know how discreet Charles is about his work? He did let it slip that the police have some physical evidence or something they feel significantly ties a suspect to at least one of the crimes.”

“Like fingerprints? Something like that?”

Maggie shook her head and laughed. “Please . . . I knew he wouldn't tell me what it was, so I didn't even ask. I have to be extra careful not to press him for details. I understand his situation and respect it. But of course I'm dying to know the details,” she added with a sigh.

Lucy could tell that Maggie really liked Charles, maybe more than any other man she'd dated since her husband passed away.

Their relationship was so new, and hadn't quite jelled yet. Lucy understood why Maggie was being so cautious.

“It's good not to ask too many questions, if that's the way he feels. But what did he say exactly, do you remember?”

Maggie pressed the last clump of pansies into the soil with her fingertips, then grabbed her watering can. “He said they had to rule out Jerome Nesbit because they couldn't place him anywhere near the set—in enough proximity to get poison into Nick's and Heath's food, I guess he meant. And because something else didn't match up.”

“Match up?” Lucy echoed. “Maybe it's a fingerprint or a strand of hair?”

“I was thinking the same. Something with a DNA marker.”

“Interesting . . . I did look up more online about Jennifer and Heath last night. After you told me that they had dated.”

“Really? What did you find?” Maggie glanced at her as she brushed some soil from her gloves.

“Not too much more. They met in a small acting school in LA. It didn't say much more than you heard on TV. Heath was friendly with Nick, who had started his career as an actor also, then got into directing later. He's older than Nick and Jennifer and had already had his first big success by the time he met her.”

“A lot of actors jump to the other side of the camera, as a director or producer, or even a writer,” Maggie said, turning to her. “Speaking of writers, I haven't seen Theo interviewed on TV about his father at all. Have you?”

Lucy thought for a moment. “No, I haven't. But maybe he didn't want to give any interviews. He's sort of shy. I tried to talk to him on the set the night Nick got sick. He would barely make eye contact with me.”

Maggie waved the can over the flowers, giving the pansies a drink. Lucy took one, too. Then noticed the time and stood up.

“Got to head back. Are we meeting tomorrow night? I wasn't sure whose house we're at. I hope it's not my turn,” she confessed, suddenly realizing it might be.

“I don't think so. Technically, I think it's
mine
. It was Suzanne's last week, but we met at the movie set instead. When we met last Monday at the shop, to help Jennifer with her role, that was all out of order.” Maggie shook her head and tugged her gloves off. “I think it's just easier if we meet here and start the rotation from scratch again.”

They weren't that good at keeping track of their turns. Luckily, no one was a big stickler. They often volunteered as needed.

“That's nice of you,” Lucy said. “I'll have you all over next week. I should have the house back in order by then,” she added, rolling her eyes. “You'd think the police searched
our
place.”

Maggie smiled. “Funny, but . . . don't say that too loud.”

She hefted the window boxes up to the wire holders on the porch rail and fit them in. She stood back admiring her handiwork. Lucy did, too.

“There . . . what do you think?”

“Very nice. A good job and it isn't even nine.”

“Thanks. On to the rest of my day. Talk to you later.”

The pansies did look pretty and brightened up the shop, Lucy thought as she headed down the path. I should get some, too.

Maggie had a way of improving everyplace she passed through. It was a gift, Lucy thought, one she admired. She waved briefly to her as she headed home down Main Street.