The Postman Always Purls Twice Read online

  Charles had gone straight upstairs with one of the other detectives. Meanwhile, a woman at the door in a white contamination suit showed the police officer her badge, then carried in a large black case. She had an assistant, a younger man who also showed his badge and carried in more equipment.

  “The medical examiner,” Dana told them. “She’ll try to determine the cause of death. If it’s natural causes, this won’t turn into another investigation.”

  “Or dovetail into the search for the person who poisoned Nick Pullman,” Lucy said. “They haven’t made much progress with that.”

  “True . . . but they’ve got some leads,” Dana whispered back.

  Maggie wondered if Dana knew anything more than she did, about the uncommon purity of the digitalis found in Nick’s body. Jack was certainly more chatty at home than Charles was. Then again, he and Dana were married. She and Charles might not even be dating after tonight.

  An officer who had been working his way around the room with a pad and pen reached their corner and they each spoke to him in turn, giving their name and address and contact information. And explaining how and why they were at the party.

  Maggie had just finished when she spotted Charles coming down the stairs. He spotted her, too, and she stood. Their eyes met and his widened. Not a good sign, she thought as he walked straight toward her.

  “Maggie . . . What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

  “Don’t you mean, again?”

  His head tilted to one side as he waited for a serious reply.

  Maggie sighed and explained how Suzanne had been invited by the location manager and she’d persuaded him to include her friends.

  Charles looked down at the couch, noticing the group, sitting like birds on a wire, huddled together as they waited for the rain to stop.

  “What a terrible night. What a tragedy,” she said to Charles.

  “Yes . . . it is. No question.”

  “How did he die, do you know yet?” she asked quietly. Wondering if he’d tell her.

  “The ME isn’t sure. Even if we had any information, I couldn’t say,” he reminded her.

  “Yes . . . I know. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she said quickly. “We’ll probably hear something on the news later.”

  “You might,” he agreed. Charles rubbed his forehead. “Considering Nick Pullman’s situation, we can’t rule anything out right now.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s awful. No matter how it happened. Heath was really very sweet. Despite all his fame and movie idol image.” Maggie covered her mouth with her hand. “He was so nice to us at the set last week. He didn’t have to be,” she reflected sadly.

  Maggie had the impression that Heath’s good points far outweighed any flaws. His untimely death, no matter what the cause, seemed so unfair.

  Charles touched her shoulder a moment. She got hold of herself quickly. He was about to say something more when he turned to look at the stairs. Regina, Sam, and Trina were coming down, followed by a police officer. Jennifer, Alicia, Theo, and Lyle followed with another officer walking behind them.

  “I have to go. That group is going to the station to give statements.”

  “Of course. Another long night,” she said sympathetically.

  “It will be,” he sighed. They had plans to get together at nine, when he got off work. But it wasn’t even a question anymore.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He briefly touched her hand.

  Maggie met his glance. “Whenever you get a chance. I’ll be around.”

  “You’d better get out of here as soon as you can. I think we’re going to be pounded by a horde of reporters any minute.”

  “Okay, we will,” she promised.

  Charles said good-bye and left to consult with another detective in the foyer. Maggie joined her friends.

  “A police officer said once we give our information, we can go,” Phoebe told her.

  “Charles said we’d better go, too,” Maggie told her friends.

  Suzanne was crying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I guess there’s nothing left to do here. I still can’t believe it . . . Poor Heath.”

  No one answered. Maggie knew they all felt the same.

  As Maggie and her friends headed to Suzanne’s SUV, they encountered a flow of reporters coming toward the house. The media had already gotten hold of the story.

  Guests at the house must have gone online using their phones and posted news of the tragedy on Facebook, Twitter, and other social media. It didn’t take long in this information age for news like this to spread.

  When the group reached Suzanne’s vehicle, a man with press tags hanging around his neck stopped Dana. Another with a video camera on his shoulder trotted close behind. “Were you just inside, ma’am? Did you see anything? Did you see Heath?” he asked bluntly.

  “Not a thing,” she said shortly.

  “Go away. We don’t want to talk to you,” Suzanne shouted at them.

  The question had started her crying again.

  The reporter showed no reaction to her harsh tone. Just waved his hand at his burdened companion and continued toward the house.

  They climbed into the SUV and shut the doors.

  “I can drive if you want me to,” Lucy offered.

  “I’m okay; just give me a minute.” Suzanne took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “Poor Heath . . . Who in the world did this to him? It’s so senseless. Such a waste.”

  “He was so young and strong. And beautiful,” Lucy added.

  “This is so wrong,” Dana sighed.

  Maggie felt the same. Heath O’Hara was a beautiful bloom, in the height of his glory.

  Had he died a natural death? Or had someone cut him down much too soon?

  Chapter Ten

  Maggie watched the late-night news before she went to sleep Tuesday night, and flicked through the stations showing early news the next morning. The airwaves were full of stories about Heath O’Hara’s surprising, tragic death and reactions from his fans, fellow actors, and movie business colleagues.

  The video footage showed the big house at the beach. Piles of flowers, signs, and candles had already appeared on the side of the road, all along the yellow police tape.

  But there was scant information about the precise cause. Some reporters made a glancing connection to Nick Pullman falling ill from poison just a few days before. With no hard evidence or facts, they could only raise a big question mark as to whether these events were connected. Or whether it was just a case of the most unlucky movie project in the history of Hollywood.

  “Three Penny Productions could not be reached for comment, but it is widely speculated that the filming of Love Knots, the project O’Hara was working on when he died, will be suspended indefinitely.”

  The movie . . . that seemed the last thing on anyone’s mind right now. But that was true—how could they finish the film without a key star? It was Maggie’s understanding that many scenes were left to finish in the Hollywood studio. Even drastic rewriting and computer magic could not fix this situation. News had leaked to the press that Heath O’Hara had been on a liquid detox diet—the homemade lemonade “cleansing” drink Suzanne had mentioned. Some news outlets were speculating that the diet brew had inflicted fatal consequences. Hence, a parade of medical talking heads were interviewed, cautioning the public on the dangers of fad diets.

  Maggie clicked off the TV and headed to town. The diet sounded like self-inflicted torture. But deadly? She doubted it.

  If Heath had died from this liquid regime, he’d be the first confirmed case, after hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, had tried it.

  That didn’t seem plausible. More plausible, the frightening thought that along with the lemonade diet drink, Heath had swigged down some poison. Just like Nick Pullman. Maybe even the same type?

  Even if the news outlets were not free to connect the dots here, she hoped the Essex County detectives did.

  The weather had cleared and a brig
ht, breezy, classic spring day greeted her. As she parked by the shop, she didn’t find Phoebe’s yellow Bug in its usual spot on the drive next to the shop, then remembered Phoebe had an early class on Wednesdays. But her assistant would be in the shop later, which was good. Maggie didn’t feel her usual energy today.

  She headed up the path to the porch, the scent of blooming hyacinth nearly overwhelming, their dark purple heads bobbing alongside the bright daffodils.

  Pansies. Definitely needed now to brighten up the beds—blue, purple, yellow, peach, and white, to complement the flowering bulbs. Maybe some in the window boxes, too, though they didn’t last long when the weather turned warmer.

  Maggie felt cheered, despite dark thoughts about Heath that lingered like smoky clouds in the corners of her mind. Life goes on, as they say. But this poor boy’s life was cut short so quickly.

  Just as she expected, Lucy appeared a short distance down Main Street, pulled along by her dogs. Suzanne had just pulled up in her SUV and both arrived at the gate together.

  Lucy looked as if she’d processed the loss of her movie star crush. But Suzanne still seemed deflated and blue. She was dressed in a dark blue sweater and gray slacks, with her hair pulled back and hardly any makeup or jewelry. A very un-Suzanne look.

  Maggie waited for them on the porch and they walked into the shop together, then headed straight to the back. Suzanne and Lucy settled in at the table while she made coffee.

  “What a nightmare this deal turned out to be,” Maggie heard Suzanne moan. “The owners of the house are calling every minute. They wanted the property to get some publicity. But they weren’t thinking of a movie star dying there.” Her tone was dry and sarcastic . . . and annoyed.

  “Who would?” Lucy said. “I thought you might be here. I brought you something from the bakery.” Maggie came in just in time to see Lucy push a small white bag across the table.

  “A chocolate croissant? Lucy, how sweet. My favorite breakfast.” Suzanne looked inside and sighed. But surprisingly, closed it again. “I’ll have it later. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Maggie was worried now. Lucy seemed so, too. “Are the police still at the house? Are they saying it’s a crime scene?” Lucy asked.

  Suzanne sighed. “They called me in the middle of the night. But they didn’t release the news yet. I guess because he’s so famous, they’re trying to keep a tight hold on the case. They said Heath definitely did not die of natural causes.”

  “Wow . . . you’re like the first person in town to know. That’s a big secret to keep,” Lucy said in awe.

  “Yeah . . . I know. I didn’t even tell Kevin yet. But I had to tell you guys, right?”

  “What about the movie people? Where are they? What about all their equipment and trailers, and all that?”

  “The trucks and trailers are still parked right in front of the house. Where they left them. The neighbors are loving that.” Suzanne rolled her eyes. “But the police won’t let them move anything yet. They have to search every inch of everything. And the movie people have to stay in town. I bet they’re all out at the inn, hiding out from the press.”

  “What did the police find . . . did they say? Maybe we should turn the TV on?” Lucy asked.

  Dana had come in so quietly no one had noticed her. “Hi, guys,” she greeted them.

  “We were just talking about Heath. Suzanne says it was foul play. But the police haven’t told the press yet.”

  “Yes, I know.” Dana sat down with a large coffee cup and took out her knitting. She seemed the only one interested in stitching this morning. Including me, Maggie realized. Though she did need to get supplies ready for a class.

  “Chief Nolan, is giving a news conference at eleven,” Dana told them. “But Jack just sent me a text. It wasn’t the diet drink. It was—”

  “Poison,” Maggie finished for her. “Sorry. I stole your thunder, right?” she said in a quieter voice.

  Dana smiled, not caring a bit. “It was poison. But nothing ordinary, like arsenic, or chlorine. His body reacted to a concentrated dose of something called . . .” She had to pull out her phone to get the chemical name straight. “Lycorine. Jack says it’s an ‘alkaloid that affects the digestive and nervous system.’ ”

  Dana looked up again. “I had to call him to get the whole story. Apparently, it’s not a fast-acting poison. But Heath must have mistaken the early symptoms of the toxin for effects of his juice fast—dizziness, nausea, stomach upset . . .”

  Suzanne sat up and waved her hands with excitement. “Heath was sick, just like that, when I was at the set yesterday. Sam was really angry because Heath kept running back to his trailer. He must have been sick all day and thought it was from the diet drink. ‘Where the hell is Heath? He’s making us fall behind schedule,’ Sam kept yelling.” Suzanne did a very good imitation of the substitute director. “But at one point, both Heath and Trina were missing in action. Neither of them came back from a break. I wondered if something was going on again.” Suzanne paused to give her friends a meaningful look. “But maybe she was just resting. Alone. Sam Drummond was putting those actors through their paces the last day of filming. They could have read the phone book. He would have shouted, ‘Cut! Great job! Brilliant!’ ”

  “He was obviously hired to finish the picture quickly and stay on budget. No matter how it turns out.” Lucy sipped her coffee and glanced out at her dogs. Maggie could see their furry heads by the window. At least they weren’t making marks with their noses. Not yet.

  “I’m going to search it. Lycorine . . . Let’s see what we find.” Lucy happily took hold of Maggie’s laptop, which was sitting on the table alongside the coffeepot. She typed for a moment, then peered at the screen.

  “Wikipedia says it’s ‘a toxic crystalline alkaloid.’ ” She looked up at her friends. “Whatever that means. I avoided chemistry in high school at any cost.”

  “And hid out in the art room?” Maggie guessed. She’d always had a circle of art room groupies hiding out there.

  “How did you guess?” Lucy answered without looking up.

  “What else does it say? Anything in plain English?” Suzanne peered over her shoulder. She was eager to know what had killed her true love.

  “Yes, it does. Listen. ‘ . . . found in various’—three-inch Latin term here I can’t even pronounce, sorry—‘species, such as cultivated bush lilies, surprise lilies, and daffodils, also called narcissus . . . highly poisonous or lethal when ingested in certain quantities. Symptoms include diarrhea, vomiting, convulsions, and paralysis . . .’ ” Lucy’s voice trailed off. She seemed suddenly sad, not nearly as eager to read the rest of the entry.

  “I think we have the idea,” Maggie said softly.

  Lucy shook her head, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all right. There’s more. ‘Daffodil bulbs are sometimes confused with onions. Leading to accidental poisoning.’ ”

  She looked up at her friends again, her expression bleak and drained. “What do you think? Did the same person who slipped digitalis in Nick’s drink somehow feed Heath daffodil bulbs?”

  “It would have been harder than drugging a drink,” Dana pointed out. “But possible.”

  “The diet drink is made of fresh lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper,” Suzanne recalled. “I think a flavor combo like that could cover up nail polish remover.”

  “I suppose. But even if someone managed to sneak into Heath’s trailer and tamper with his spicy lemonade brew, wouldn’t he have noticed chunks of daffodil bulbs floating around his glass? It’s clear liquid. Not a hide-all-sins, smoothie sort of drink,” Dana argued.

  “Did you ever try one of those do-or-die diets?” Suzanne paused. “You’re looking at the champ. I can’t even read the guidelines before I’m craving a big, fat cheeseburger, smothered with mushrooms and onions. What if he fell off the detox wagon and secretly called Burger Heaven, for a cheat meal delivery?”

  “Or ordered onion rings. Perfect diet cheat food,
” Lucy chimed in.

  “The poisonous bulbs could have been slipped into his food that way,” Maggie agreed. “But that sounds too complicated. Was this killer standing around with a secret container of sliced and sautéed daffodil bulbs . . . and slipped a few spoonfuls on this secret hamburger?”

  “I think Jack said his stomach was pumped and it appears Heath was no diet cheater. Nothing else was found but the ingredients of the lemonade . . . and the poison.”

  “So somehow the poison was extracted from the bulbs?” Maggie pondered aloud.

  “I only read aloud one article about it. Maybe there were never any actual daffodil bulbs involved. Maybe this diabolic person got the poison someplace else. In a bottle or something.” Lucy looked around at her friends to see what they thought.

  “In a poison store, you mean?” Suzanne asked with a small smile.

  “Lucy’s right. The actual flowers didn’t have to be involved. Nick was poisoned with digitalis, which is also found in certain flowers,” Maggie reminded them. “But it’s extracted for heart medication by pharmaceutical labs.”

  “So are we looking for someone who’s a chemist or knows about that stuff?” Suzanne asked.

  “I don’t know . . . I think a knowledge of chemistry would be helpful. But people who like gardeners know a lot about flowers,” Maggie replied. “And flowers are used so much in paintings and literature as symbols.”

  “The Victorians even communicated with one another following something called The Language of Flowers. Gifts of bouquets and cards with flower illustrations carried a special message from the sender to the person who received it,” Lucy recalled. “Violets, for instance, meant faithfulness and purity. Roses meant love, of course.”

  “What do daffodils mean?” Suzanne asked.

  “I’m not sure . . . but I can look it up,” Lucy offered quickly.

  “I have a thought,” Maggie said while Lucy typed quickly. “Daffodils are also called narcissus, from the Greek myth. Let’s see . . . Narcissus was a beautiful but very vain young man, who rejected a wood nymph, Echo. She was in love with him, but he had no sympathy for her. So he was condemned by the gods to fall in love but never have his loved returned. He looked into a pool of water and fell in love with his own reflection, and lived the rest of his life in torment, trying to grasp the false image, while it melted in his hands.”