The Postman Always Purls Twice Page 12

  “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?

  Chapter Seven

  Maggie 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.

  Maggie came to her feet and tugged off her gloves. “Jennifer . . . what a surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

  “I was just weeding. These poor tulips and daffs managed to survive so far. I thought I’d give them a little encouragement.”

  Jennifer smiled. “I love daffodils the best, brave little flowers, pushing out of the cold, rocky soil at the first sign of spring.”

  “I love them, too. Isn’t there a famous poem about daffodils?” Maggie knew there was but couldn’t recall it.

  “ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd a host of golden daffodils.’ ”

  Maggie smiled with pleasure. “Very good . . . William Wordsworth.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I had to memorize it for school. One of my earliest dramatic efforts,” she added with a wistful smile. “I have a big garden at home, but I miss the flowers you see in New England, especially this time of year.”

  “The blooming season here is brief, but worth the wait,” Maggie agreed. “How’s Nick? Any improvement?”

  “He’s holding on. The doctors say he’s stable enough to move to Mass General. They’re going to medevac him by helicopter this morning. I’m on my way to Boston right now.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Maggie said sincerely.

  “I have my fingers crossed,” Jennifer replied, though she didn’t sound very encouraged.

  She had slipped off her hood to reveal a disheveled hairdo, her thick brown tresses pulled back in a ponytail, her face bare of makeup. She looked like one of those mean-spirited “stars without makeup” photos in the tabloids. Maggie hoped no enterprising, less-than-ethical photographer caught up with her.

  “We had to pass the shop on the way out of town and I saw you. In all the confusion Thursday night, I think I left my knitting here. In a tote that you gave me, with the shop name on the front?”

  Maggie thought a moment. “The place looked like a small tornado had passed through after the police search. I’m not sure if I saw anything like that . . . Wait. Yes, I did. I wasn’t sure who had left it. Maybe it is yours. Let’s go see.”

  Maggie turned and Jennifer followed her, up the porch steps and into the shop, where Maggie slipped behind the counter and pulled out the Black Sheep Knitting tote. She handed it to Jennifer and watched her peer inside.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Jennifer finally smiled a bit. “I knew it was here somewhere.” She took out the pattern and showed Maggie a small note Maggie had made for her. “See? You wrote that to help me remember the stitch.”

  “Oh right. I didn’t notice that before. I would have remembered it was yours,” Maggie agreed.

  “I’ve been sitting next to Nick’s bed since Thursday night. He’s barely said a word, of course. They have him on a lot of sedatives to keep him quiet. All I can do is read, or knit. And pray a bit,” she confessed quietly.

  Maggie’s heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry for you, Jennifer. And Nick, of course. Why would anyone do such a thing? It’s impossible for me to imagine it.”

  “I keep asking myself the same thing. Waiting to see if he’ll live or die. I couldn’t get the question out of my mind. Why? Why Nick?” Her eyes had filled with tears and she swallowed hard to keep from crying. “I . . . I blame myself, Maggie. It’s my fault this happened.”

  “Your fault? How could that be?” Maggie asked gently.

  “The fan who’s been stalking me. I should have told the police right away. Especially once we came here. It got much worse.” Her large blue eyes overflowed and she paused to dab them with a tissue. “Maybe if I’d ignored Nick and told the police, he’d be all right now. Not fighting for his life.”

  “Jennifer, you can’t blame yourself for this. Even if the same person who’s been harassing you did poison Nick.” Maggie gently touched the star’s shoulder. “It’s the work of a twisted personality. Someone in deep pain who needs serious help. No one can blame you.”

  “That’s good of you to say. But I don’t feel that way. I told a detective about it, when I gave a statement to the police last night. He said I put myself and everyone involved in the movie at risk by not reporting it.”

  Maggie didn’t reply. She wondered who had been so harsh with a woman who was going through so much, watching her husband fight for his life. She was certain it had not been Charles. He would never be that insensitive.

  “I told a detective about the flower delivery here, and the stalker, too,” Maggie replied. “At this point, I thought the police need to know and they told me to be completely forthcoming.”

  “You did the right thing,” Jennifer assured her.

  “The detective I spoke to—who is a very smart man—said it might be connected, but it very well may not be. There’s no way to know yet, and anyone who tells you otherwise . . . Well, they just shouldn’t have said that. You can’t hold yourself responsible for the insane act of some unhinged person. You’re not being fair to yourself.”

  Jennifer’s gaze was downcast. She sighed, but when she looked up again, she seemed a bit encouraged. “Thank you for saying that. I hope it’s true.”

  “I know it is,” Maggie said confidently. “What about the movie? Will you wait until Nick recovers to finish it?”

  “Oh no . . . that’s not an option. We’re required by contract to continue, with a new director. Our executive producer, Regina Thurston, has been working on that.”

  “Who will it be, do you know?” Maggie didn’t know the names of many directors, except for the very famous ones, but she was curious.

  “I’m not sure I can tell you. Regina is very uptight about information moving through proper channels, publicists, and press releases. That sort of thing. She doesn’t abide any leaks.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Not that I consider you a nosy member of the media.”

  Maggie laughed. “I’d hope not.”

  “It wasn’t easy to find someone good who was free and willing to take this on. But she jumped on a red-eye last night with a new director and they’ve probably landed at Logan by now. They might stop at Mass General before they come out here, to check on Nick,” Jen added, glancing at her watch.

  A grim meeting, Maggie thought. Of course, Nick Pullman could not communicate a word to his replacement. But it was respectful of his colleagues to visit.

  She wondered if Jen was hoping to get to Boston in time to see them. Or maybe wanted to avoid them? It would be hard to see someone take over such an important, powerful position from your ailing husband. Would this affect her acting? The entire landscape of the movie had shifted with Nick Pullman swept off the scene, Maggie realized.

  “It’s not a very attractive opportunity,” Jennifer said frankly. “To step in and direct a film that’s already over budget and manage a cast and crew who have gone through so much. I’ll be thankful to whoever shows up. I’ve been so distracted with Nick, I’ve hardly given that a thought.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I think the plan is to do some fast rewrites of the script, so we can finish up here quickly and shoot whatever’s left at the studio. Theo has been working around the clock and taking meetings with Regina on Skype.” Maggie wasn’t that up on technology, but knew Skype was a camera connection on the computer. She talked to her daughter, Julie
, at college that way from time to time.

  “Ironically, this will be a help to Theo in the long run,” Jen continued. “The more a writer contributes to a script, the larger his or her credit. Theo should get a very good credit out of this,” she added.

  She sighed again, the financial pressures bearing down heavily, as well as her worries about her husband’s recovery.

  Jennifer didn’t add that she and Nick had a great deal of their own money tied up in the production of the movie, but Maggie knew that from articles online and in the newspaper. “I hope the rest goes quickly and smoothly,” Maggie replied. That wouldn’t be too hard, considering the series of unfortunate events the group had faced so far. “And Nick recovers quickly.”

  “Thank you, Maggie. Thanks for listening to me. I feel embarrassed now, venting like that,” Jennifer admitted. “It is a bit lonely being on location. Away from all your friends and connections.”

  “I understand. At least you have Alicia. Where is she today?”

  Maggie didn’t want to be nosy. But she’d rarely seen Jennifer without her assistant at her side.

  “She’s going to sit in on some meetings for me when the new director gets here. We’ll probably read through the revised scenes tonight. She’s going to work on the script, transpose all my notes and highlights, that sort of thing.”

  Maggie basically got the gist. And maybe Jennifer wanted to be alone with her husband at this serious time.

  Maggie did wonder about Nick’s son, Theo. She hadn’t seen him leave for the hospital last night, unless he followed in another car. From what Jennifer had just said, Theo had been hard at work rewriting the script since his father fell ill.

  But it was none of her business, for one thing. Nick’s son would figure out how to visit his father when he could. And surely Nick would be thankful to his son for helping to hold the project together during this crisis.

  Jennifer pulled up her hood and slipped her sunglasses back on, then said good-bye. Out on the porch, she clutched the bag of yarn to her chest and ran down to the car with Victor hovering alongside.

  She had barely jumped inside and slammed the door closed when the car swooped away from the curb and disappeared down Main Street.