The Postman Always Purls Twice

by Anne Canadeo

  “Hence the psychological term narcissistic personality disorder,” Dana added in a far less poetic tone. “It’s hard to explain the term in a few words, but basically, people who are narcissists are grandiose, attention seeking, lack empathy, and are focused only on satisfying their own needs.”

  “The way you might expect a movie star to be?” Lucy asked quietly. “Acting like the world revolves around them?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Dana answered.

  “But Heath wasn’t that way at all,” Suzanne insisted.

  “No, he wasn’t. Not with us,” Maggie recalled. “Though I did expect him to be much the way you just described, Dana,” she admitted.

  “I bet a lot of people did,” Dana agreed. “It’s impossible to say from briefly meeting him, but I didn’t get the feeling he was extremely self-centered.”

  “What happened to Narcissus? Did he just hang out at the edge of the pond, staring at himself? Or did he jump in and go for it?” Suzanne asked.

  “I don’t remember.” Maggie turned to Lucy, who had found an entry for the term.

  “This entry says, ‘He didn’t move. He didn’t eat or drink. He only suffered. As he pined, he became gaunt and lost his beauty and died. His body disappeared and in its place, flowers grew. The wood nymphs mourned his death.’ ”

  Suzanne was glassy eyed again and sniffed into a tissue. “I’m sorry now that I asked.”

  “I’m sorry I read it aloud,” Lucy admitted. “But it does tell us something. I’m going to look up the poison that was in Nick’s drink.”

  “Digitalis,” Maggie reminded her.

  “Right . . . got it.” Lucy looked up at them. “It not only comes from foxglove, it’s also found in lily of the valley. Highly toxic. Every part of the flower, especially the red berries. But just like foxglove, they aren’t in season around here now. Not until May.”

  “And it’s very expensive if you try to order it at a florist. Brides sometimes choose it for wedding bouquets. It’s very traditional. It was in Princess Kate’s bouquet, I think,” Dana recalled.

  “You can find it, I suppose. If you’re willing to pay . . .” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Was she the only one who remembered the big bouquet of lily of the valley in Jennifer’s trailer?

  Why wasn’t she reminding her friends of that? And Jennifer’s knowledge of gardening . . . and the way she’d recited the poem about the daffodils?

  But before she could speak, Dana said, “Jennifer Todd had a bouquet of lily of the valley in her trailer, remember? She said it was her favorite flower and people sent her bunches of them.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Maggie said firmly. “She said Regina Thurston had sent her that one, to wish her luck with the movie. She knows a lot about flowers, too,” she added. “She was talking to me about gardening the other day.”

  Maggie hated to cast aspersions on Jennifer. She wasn’t sure why; there was just something about her that she liked, a genuine connection. Still, these connections were undeniable, too.

  “Everyone in the world knows she likes flowers. You just have to read one interview. The stalker sent her bouquets all the time,” Suzanne reminded them. “Maybe he’s behind all this, trying in some twisted way to send Jennifer a message. Maybe he thinks he’s a Victorian gentleman?” She offered the joke in a halfhearted tone.

  Dana put her knitting down. “You might be on to something. Nick and Heath were the two most important men in Jennifer’s life. The stalker must have seen them as rivals for Jennifer’s affection. Anyone who leaves anonymous notes and gifts is certainly a passive-aggressive type.”

  “It makes sense that he would try to get all his competition out of the way, in order to have Jennifer all to himself.” Suzanne’s voice rose, excited by the theory. She looked around at the others. “Do you think the police see this? That could be it.”

  “I think it’s someone from Jen’s past. Someone she knew while growing up around here. The flowers he left on the porch that night were yellow and blue, the colors of Newburyport High School. I told Charles,” Maggie added. “I hope he took me seriously.”

  “I know they’re looking for the stalker,” Dana assured her. “It’s definitely an important line of investigation.”

  Suzanne sat back but didn’t seem entirely satisfied. If she could go out and find Heath O’Hara’s killer herself, Maggie knew she would. A lot of his fans probably felt the same.

  “I’ve got some information on digitalis . . . want to hear it?” Lucy’s head popped up again. She was eager to share her findings.

  “Go on. But you’d better hurry. It’s getting late.” Maggie glanced at the shop door. The sign still said “Resting our needles now . . . Please come see us again,” though it was almost nine. They’d been so engrossed in their conversation customers might have knocked already and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “We already know about the physical effects of the drug,” Lucy said, skimming down the page. “But there are two legends, both interesting. A Christian legend says that the flower sprung up from the tears of Eve when she was driven from the Garden of Eden. And another, that it grew from the tears of the Blessed Virgin Mother when Jesus Christ died.” Lucy looked up at her friends. “Two very dark tales for such a light, fragrant flower.”

  “I’ll say,” Suzanne agreed.

  “I just thought of something else,” Dana said. “Remember when I said I saw Jennifer play Ophelia in Hamlet? During Ophelia’s famous soliloquy, she hands out flowers to her family and says what each symbolizes—‘rosemary for remembrance, pansies for thoughts.’ That’s all I can remember,” Dana admitted. “When she’s done speaking, she drowns herself.”

  “Ugh . . . no wonder I can’t stand great theater . . . or opera,” Suzanne added.

  “A lot to ponder,” Maggie said quietly. “I will say that I’ll look at my Spring Fling: Felted Flowers Class much differently now. I didn’t realize my students were sending secret messages with the finishing touches on their projects.”

  Dana had gathered up her knitting and coffee cup and was getting ready to go. “It is a lot to consider, and we don’t even know if the person doing this has any knowledge of all these symbols and legends. Maybe they picked toxic ingredients they knew about and found handy.”

  Lucy stood up and looked outside, to make sure her dogs were all right. Still there. Maggie hoped they hadn’t preferred the wicker chairs to their chew toys.

  “Maybe. But I think these toxic ingredients are too obscure . . . and eccentric,” Lucy said. “The digitalis would be ordinary, if it had been smashed-up pills. But it wasn’t in that form, right, Maggie?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Charles told me it wasn’t from a pharmaceutical lab. It was in a pure state.”

  “And the other poison is just bizarre,” Lucy concluded. “Daffodil bulbs? I think there’s some meaning here. Some special message.”

  Maggie felt the same. “A repeating theme of love and loss, if you think about the subtext of all these myths.”

  “Oh boy . . . you guys are just too literary and highbrow for me. I feel like I’m in a college lit class again. But I can’t stay for extra help,” Suzanne said with sigh. “I have to call the house owners and report in. And hope the police don’t tear the house apart. Who knows when they’ll be done? The movie company did such a good job of keeping everything nice and clean . . . and unscratched. I thought I was home free.”

  Maggie felt sorry for Suzanne. Not just because of her work pressures. Anyone who had been to the gathering last night would find it very hard to return to the grand house on the beach, which she was bound to do, eventually. She was fairly certain that’s what Suzanne was really upset about.

  Lucy seemed to sense that, too. “Hey, want me to take a ride out there with you?”

  Suzanne was surprised at the offer. “Would you? . . . You’re probably too busy . . .”

  “I can come. Honest. I just turned in a project and I’m looking for excuses to get out of my office. I’d ju
st be cleaning the house or at the gym . . . Maybe we can take a walk on the beach or something, if you don’t have to rush back to town.”

  “That might be a good thing for me,” Suzanne admitted.

  “Oh . . . if you don’t mind the dogs in your car?” Lucy added.

  “Are you kidding? The dogs would be an improvement over the groups I’m usually carting around. Did you ever chauffeur an entire soccer team of eleven-year-old boys? Maybe the dogs can clean up all the stale fries on the floor back there.”

  “I’ll ask them to work on it,” Lucy promised.

  Maggie was glad Suzanne would have company. It had been sweet of Lucy to offer. She was a sympathetic soul. Maggie would have offered herself if Phoebe had been around to cover. As it was, just as her friends left, knitters in the morning class drifted in: Booties, Bibs, and Beyond. A perfect class to teach in the spring, she always found, when new life seemed to be bursting all around.

  Phoebe returned from school just as the group left. She came straight into the shop and dumped her knapsack onto the counter.

  “Did you hear? The police chief is going to hold a press conference in like . . . two minutes. Want to watch upstairs? Or I could DVR it for you.”

  Maggie hated to lose even one customer, but this situation was too tempting. The shop was empty; maybe it would stay that way for a few minutes more.

  “Okay, you turn on the TV, I’ll be right up.”

  She locked up the register but decided to leave the shop door open when she ran upstairs.

  “It’s starting!” Phoebe called to her.

  Maggie hustled up the back stairway just in time to see the Essex County chief of police, Rusty Nolan, behind a podium and microphone. Maggie wondered if she would catch a glimpse of Charles. Was he there with the other detectives? Maybe not; maybe they were working steadily while Rusty got all the glamour.

  Chief Nolan quickly reviewed the specifics of Heath O’Hara’s death. No news there, since they were both on the scene. “Toxicology tests have confirmed a high level of a chemical compound, lycorine, was present in Mr. O’Hara’s body at the time of his death. Lycorine is a highly toxic substance that affects the digestive and nervous system. Early reports of the medical examiner state that Mr. O’Hara suffered convulsions and paralysis, brought on by lycorine poisoning, resulting in his death.”

  He added a short coda about the investigation, how they were working around the clock with a team of detectives on several leads and expected to have more news to release soon. “That’s all I can report at this time, due to the delicate nature of this case. We will report any significant progress as soon as we’re able, believe me.” He paused and looked to the side, as if waiting for a sign. “All right . . . I can take a few questions.”

  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 m
an’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.