The Postman Always Purls Twice (24 page)

Rusty didn't seem that happy to be making the offer, but Maggie suspected he'd been advised to put himself on the hot seat. She could hear his pants sizzle.

“So, you're changing the cause of death and stating now that Heath O'Hara did not die from a diet drink. Is that so?”

“We never said O'Hara died from the diet drink. Some of you folks in the press said that.” Rusty could be tough when he needed to be, Maggie had to grant him that. “The investigators said they didn't know. We know now and I just told you.”

His Boston accent grew more pronounced when he got agitated, that was for sure.

A hundred hands or more immediately shot up in front of the weathered police chief.

“Has the investigation connected the poisoning of Nick Pullman with O'Hara's death?”

“We have no evidence to connect the incidents. Of course, we're looking into every possibility . . . Next?”

“Can you tell us something about Jerome Nesbit?” the reporter shouted out. “Is he the prime suspect now?”

Rusty's face turned fire engine red. He cast a sidelong glance at someone standing next to the podium, just beyond the frame of the camera. A press secretary for the department? His flustered expression said, “Who the heck leaked that?”

Then he coughed with his hand over his mouth, his expression blank.

“Mr. Nesbit is considered a person of interest,” he replied, leaning into the microphone. “He's being interviewed this morning at the Essex County Police Station . . . Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. No more questions,” he added gruffly. He ducked his head and hurried off.

Phoebe and Maggie stared at each other. Phoebe clicked off the TV. “Wow! I bet that Jerome guy is Crazy Fan! Who else could he be?”

Maggie had the same thought. She hoped he was. That would make it all simple and easy. Heath's family, friends, and fans could continue their grieving and have a sense of closure.

“I guess we'll know soon. It doesn't take long for the police to find enough evidence to make an arrest, once they focus in on the guilty party. Maybe he'll confess.”

“He might. I'm picturing a really nerdy guy with pale skin. Probably lost most of his hair already, though he's not really old. Oh, and a weak chin,” Phoebe added.

Maggie had to smile. “I guess we'll see . . . I'd better go back down. The shop can't stay empty all day.”

“I'll be right there. I just want to Google this guy's name . . . see if I can find a picture.”

Maggie wished that Phoebe would come down and help now . . . and pay a little more attention to her official schedule. But Phoebe often worked overtime and put in lots of extra effort in different ways, so Maggie was rarely a clock-watching manager.

Luckily, no one had wandered into the shop while she was upstairs. Two young women with toddlers in strollers did roll in moments after she returned. Close call, she thought.

They both wanted to learn how to knit, but weren't sure where to start. Maggie showed them some projects from her beginner classes, including the summer tank top that her knitting group and Jennifer Todd were making, and the felted flower totes. She left the women in the little alcove to chat and decide.

Phoebe had come down with her laptop and set it on the counter. “Look at this . . . I searched ‘Jerome Nesbit Newburyport High School.' ”

Maggie glanced at the screen. It was a website for alumni who graduated in 1995.

“You can't get into the site if you're not a member,” Phoebe explained. “But I bet this is his graduating class. The same year as Jennifer Todd's. She's thirty-eight years old, right?”

“Yes, that's right. It's just what I expected. A spurned boyfriend. Or maybe someone with a secret crush who's been pining for her all these years?” Maggie looked up at Phoebe. “I'll bet Captain Rusty is up at his podium with an announcement very soon.”

“I bet I can find a lot more about
Jerrr-ooome
,” Phoebe said, drawing out his name. She typed away as quickly as an airline attendant changing a reservation.

“Please save that for later?” Maggie said. “Or for the police and the reporters, who get paid for it? I think you already have a job.”

Phoebe looked up with a Cheshire cat smile. “Right . . . nearly forgot.” She turned away from the screen. “Okay, gonna hop to it now, Mag.”

“Great. Could you hop back to the storeroom and start unpacking the deliveries?”

Phoebe complied with a short salute as she passed. Maggie returned to the young mothers and found they had chosen Knitting 101 and were eager to buy the supplies in advance. It was nice to have a decent sale before lunch.

When Maggie went back to the storeroom, she was pleased to see Phoebe had made good progress with the new inventory, but had also found a few minutes to sneak peeks at her laptop, eager to unearth more information about Jerome Nesbit.

“You won't believe this . . . it's soooo perfect. Guess what he does for a living?”

“Owns a flower shop?” Maggie was half joking.

“Almost. He's teaches
biology
at a high school in Beverly. So he'd know all about poisonous plants and all that.”

“I guess he would.” Maggie glanced at the man's picture again.

“He's like a
Breaking Bad
bio teacher,” Phoebe said, excited by her discovery. “That show with the high school chemistry teacher who's really a drug dealer?”

Maggie shuddered at the plot line. She'd heard of the show but it wasn't anything she'd ever watch. “Not a fan. But I get your point.”

“He's even in one of those old high school photos of Jennifer that was in the newspaper last week. I fished this out of the recycle bin . . . look.”

She showed Maggie the two-page article, folded to the place where the photos were inserted. “This one, where she's posing with the Science Club. Doesn't that kid on the end look like . . . this guy?” She quickly brought up Jerome Nesbit's photo on the computer.

Maggie slipped on her glasses. “That does look like an older version of the boy in the photo. Though it's very blurry.”

“It's got to be him. He hasn't changed at all. Just gained a little weight and lost a little hair. He's even wearing the same glasses.”

“Yes . . . he is.”

Jerome Nesbit was much as Phoebe had imagined him—a lank man with stooped shoulders, a droopy mustache, and a thin neck. A pair of aviator glasses were balanced on an angular nose, the same style eyeglass frames in both pictures. His reddish-brown hair had thinned on top and a few lines had formed around his small eyes and mouth. But otherwise, he looked the same.

And very much like a high school science teacher. One who was possibly afraid of the students, their vitality and energy, who hid behind lesson plans, long tests, and a grading rubric. Or maybe he was the most popular teacher at Beverly High.

Maggie scolded herself for jumping to conclusions; it was impossible to tell from a picture. Or to tell if he was Heath O'Hara's killer.

Phoebe had no such scruples about jumping to conclusions.

“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.”