by Anne Canadeo
“He looks like the kind of guy who would get all lovelorn over a movie star and sneak around at night, leaving love tokens.” She had brought down her lunch from her apartment and heated it in the microwave—half of a leftover burrito that originally must have been as large as her head. She bit into it with gusto. She had a passion for Mexican food, though Maggie wasn’t sure where she put it. No matter how much the dear girl ate, she remained rail thin.
Maggie looked back at the photos. “It’s not fair to judge anyone from a photo. But he doesn’t look to me like the type of person who could poison two people within a week, and even kill one of them. I’d never pick him out of a lineup.”
“That’s the genius of it. From his point of view, I mean,” she added. “Mild-mannered bio teacher by day. Killer by night. Or whenever he slipped the poison into their foods. No one would suspect him, skulking around.”
Maggie sighed. “I guess we have to see what the police say.”
“I bet the next thing they say is this guy is the one.” Phoebe spoke around a mouthful of burrito, hardly noticing, she was so excited about her discovery.
Maggie could have played devil’s advocate. But for one thing, she didn’t want the poor child to choke. For another, what did she know? She was well aware that many innocent-looking people were capable of truly awful deeds.
Much later that day, she was alone in the shop, about to close, when Charles walked in. He had called her late the night before, but they’d both been very tired and didn’t talk long. She was happy to see him and hoped the case was wrapping up after the interview with Jerome Nesbit.
“Good, you’re still here. I was hoping to catch you.”
“Here I am, you’ve got me.” She raised her hands in surrender.
He smiled and leaned across the counter to kiss her quickly. He seemed happy to see her, but also looked very tired.
Maggie put away a pile of Black Sheep Knitting Shop totes and came out from behind the counter. “Working hard?”
“Very.”
“I saw the chief on TV. It sounds like you’ll be back to regular hours soon.” When Charles gave her a puzzled look, she added, “Jerome Nesbit? I heard his name mentioned on TV. He’s the one, isn’t he?”
His gaze slipped away from hers. She realized he wasn’t able to tell her yet.
“Oh . . . sorry. I can wait for the official announcement. You don’t have to give away any secrets,” she said quickly, not wanting to be a pest.
He cocked his head to one side and smiled. “I can tell you. It’s okay. Jerome Nesbit is not our guy. He was stalking Jennifer Todd and had delivered at least two flower arrangements. One here to your shop,” he clarified. “But all the rest of it didn’t pan out. We couldn’t place him anywhere near the movie set for the time frame of the poisonings.” He hesitated, then added, “And there’s some physical evidence that didn’t match up, either.”
Maggie’s heart sank. She’d thought this was it, victory. And a solution to the puzzle that made sense to her and her friends.
“So you let him go?”
Charles shrugged. “We know where to find him if anything else comes up. Frankly, he didn’t seem to have the stomach for an attempted murder and a successful homicide. All we could get him on is harassment, and Ms. Todd didn’t want to press charges. She remembered him from high school and felt bad. She said she didn’t want to embarrass him.”
“I could see her saying that. She has a soft heart.”
Charles didn’t reply. Though she didn’t notice a change in his expression. As if he wanted to say something but held back.
“Now what?” she asked. “Back to square one?”
“Not quite. We’re working on some other leads.” He didn’t seem discouraged. Just tired. “What do you think of going out for a bite on Saturday night? Got my schedule today. I’m off for the weekend. If we close this case,” he added.
She smiled. “Saturday sounds perfect.”
Maggie was ready to go and Charles walked her out, waiting while she locked up. “I’ll bet those movie people are getting restless. Are they all still in town?”
Charles nodded. “Barely. We can’t keep them here much longer.”
“Do you think it was one of the cast or crew? Oops, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that. Just forget it. Besides, I know what you’re going to say,” she added in a teasing tone as she unlocked her car door.
“What am I going to say?” he asked with a smile.
“ ‘We don’t know yet, but we’re looking into all possibilities.’ Or something like that.”
Charles laughed. “You’re right. That was my answer and it’s true.”
Maggie kissed his cheek. “Keep calm and search on. The sooner you crack this case, Mossbacher, the better for me.”
She slipped into the car and shut the door, leaving Charles laughing as he waved from the sidewalk.
That night after dinner, when Maggie finally settled in front of the TV with her knitting, she found even more coverage of Heath O’Hara’s death. An older brother, Daniel, had come from the West Coast to take Heath’s remains back to California. He looked a lot like Heath, though not quite as dashing. His eyes lacked the movie star’s sparkle, she noticed.
Or maybe Daniel’s grief had robbed them of that light. Maggie felt sad for the young man, who spoke to a reporter only briefly. Heath’s family was shocked and devastated, as one might expect. Daniel was waiting in Boston, at an undisclosed location, to avoid unwanted attention from Heath’s fans.
A cremation and private memorial service had been planned. The service would take place at Heath’s estate and Maggie expected throngs would line the road outside the gates, waiting and watching. The police had not released the body yet but were expected to shortly.
There wasn’t much more that could be said about the star’s cause of death, or even the investigation. But there was an endless stream of photos, film clips, and biographical information, and a vast number of people claiming to have known Heath at different stages in his life, and happy now to be in the spotlight, reminiscing about him.
Maggie did not give the broadcast her complete attention, but was still curious enough not to change the channel. She dialed Lucy’s number and put the phone on speaker so she could knit and talk at the same time.
“I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. Are you watching any of the coverage about Heath O’Hara?”
“We’re switching . . . between that and the Red Sox.” Lucy sounded a little annoyed, but not seriously. Maggie recalled being peeved at sharing the TV with her late husband, but had often realized since then that she would have given anything to have the problem again.
“I’m not really watching watching . . . just have it on in the background. How did it go with Suzanne? You were so sweet to keep her company.”
“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.
Chapter Eleven
When 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.