Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“I can’t believe she said yes so fast,” Alden said as he guided his Miata toward the beach. He relished the drive down palm-tree-lined streets, even if he didn’t put the top down. He wanted Roz to be happy, and Roz said she didn’t want to show up at Enolia’s house with convertible hair.
“I can’t believe I’m spending my Saturday afternoon off working,” Roz replied.
“You know you couldn’t resist this story. And at least we got to have a nice lunch at the E-Tea Room.”
“Weird lunch,” said Roz. “Everyone was so freaked out.”
“Violent death does that to people. I hoped we might get some good gossip in there, given it filled up with Enolia Honeywood fans right after the signing. But mostly they just chattered about what we already know.”
“Which isn’t much,” Roz pointed out. “You got good quotes, though.” She shot him a warm look that made him want to skip the interview and take her somewhere with a bed. A big, bouncy bed.
But they were already neck-deep in this story.
They’d spent an hour and a half at the Beacon office—er, The Courier-Beacon, he reminded himself—putting together a quick article for the website, including a couple of Hai’s photos.
Everyone else was off today—one of the joys of working for a small-town, weekly newspaper.
When news broke on the weekend, Roz almost always stepped up.
Given this story was right up Alden’s alley, he had to join her.
Besides, he wanted to. Working with her was pure fun.
They’d tried to dig up background information on Wayne Vandershell, but there wasn’t a lot.
Google led them to one of those sites full of entertainment profiles and credits, where he was listed as producer on a few films Alden had never heard of.
He had a couple of social media accounts that mostly showed him hobnobbing at film festivals.
And his name didn’t come up on any county property or criminal records.
Sheryl had told Roz that Wayne was “putting down roots here,” but if that was the case, they couldn’t see the trees or the forest.
“Why do you think Enolia was so amenable to talking to you today?” Roz asked.
“Convenience, I suppose. Maybe she wants to get her press out of the way. She has a book to push.”
“I suppose she needs to do publicity like everyone else, but it’s already on the bestseller lists.”
“Fear not. Soon, all your questions will be answered,” he intoned with mock gravity.
“If only. Speaking of … that was a murder scene back there, wasn’t it? I thought maybe he’d been shot,” Roz said. “Did you see that debris on the ground? Was there a shell casing?”
Alden winced at the thought of Wayne lying there. “I’ll have to look at the phone photos. I confess, I didn’t dwell on the scene. I didn’t want to look at it any longer than necessary. It was ugly. I guess we have to ask why someone would shoot him. A robbery?”
“Maybe not. I texted Duke earlier to ask if Wayne had been robbed, and he told me he still had a wallet full of cash in his pocket.”
“You texted Duke?” Alden tried not to sound jealous. “And why wasn’t that in our story?”
“He asked me to hold that information back for now, in case it’s relevant to the death. I agreed because I expect more from him later. I don’t want to burn him.”
“Seems to me Deputy Duke gets a lot of latitude.”
“He’s helpful. You know that.” Roz wore a mischievous little smile. “And I think he secretly likes being a source.”
“Mm-hmm.” Alden turned north on the road closest to the beach, lined with beach emporiums and hotels—a mix of kitschy mid-century properties and more recent high-rises, resorts and swank boutique establishments.
Comet Cove was named for the two famous comets that buzzed Earth in 1910.
The community was sleepy for a long time, as the old-timers tell it, though the inlet made it attractive to fishing and pleasure boats.
During the moon-shot days of the 1960s, whose epicenter was a few towns north in Cape Canaveral, there was a population boom.
The town leaned in to its spacey identity. More hotels sprouted, too.
Just in the past decade, celebrities began to discover the scenic town, carving out a haven for themselves. Their wealthy publisher joined the invasion and started The Beacon to compete with the Comet Cove Courier, luring Alden from his tabloid job earlier this year to pursue the glitterati.
The biggest testament to the influx of stars was in the houses along the beach.
The character of the road changed as they drove north into more exclusive residential neighborhoods.
The few remaining bungalows and groovy wooden surf shacks were being leveled in favor of ritzy stucco palaces with gated driveways.
Enolia Honeywood’s house was one of these. A tall hedge flanked the gate. Beyond the black vertical bars, a wall covered with a vine dripping with hot-pink bougainvillea flowers hid the house.
Alden pulled up to the gate and pressed a button on the intercom mounted on a post next to the driveway.
A minute later, a man’s voice replied. “Yes?”
“Alden Knox and Roz Melander from The Courier-Beacon to see Ms. Honeywood,” Alden said.
“She’s expecting you.” A buzz sounded, and the gate slowly slid aside.
“Kai didn’t seem all that upset that Enolia didn’t want us to bring a photographer,” Roz noted as Alden drove them in.
“Can you blame him? She seemed to enjoy putting him on the spot.” Alden navigated around the wall, which turned out to be part of a detached three-car garage.
He pulled up in front of a huge, modern two-story house the soft pink of strawberry ice cream.
“Besides, I can always take a few photos with my phone.”
“If she’ll let you.”
“She’ll let me.” Alden grinned and turned off the car, and they got out.
“Planning on trading up, are you?” Roz teased him as they headed to the grand front door. It faced a generous lawn with islands of lush tropical landscaping, enclosed by the hedge along the road.
“Never.” He leaned in and kissed her neck, reveled in her sigh, and pressed the doorbell.
It rang with a profound ding-dong. The door opened to reveal Craig, Enolia’s nerdy assistant from the signing. Why was he here?
To wrangle us, Alden thought.
“Have you sufficiently recovered?” Alden asked Craig, still in his bow tie, the brown fringe around his bald pate neatly trimmed.
A wrinkle briefly formed in Craig’s brow. “Recovered from the signing? That was a perfect crowd.”
“But a not so perfect situation.”
Craig adjusted his spectacles. “The important thing is to move forward and present a happy front. Enolia is the happy front. She is the reader experience.”
I thought books were the reader experience, Alden thought as he and Roz followed Craig through an airy foyer that opened into a two-story living area.
Two columns painted with large green leaves and flowering vines supported the high ceiling.
A wall of windows and sliding glass doors looked out on a swimming pool and, beyond it, palm trees and the sparkling blue ocean.
Fat, cushy white furniture lay about on a sand-colored travertine floor, interspersed with three modern floor lamps—white shades mounted atop wooden tripods of different sizes. A round wooden coffee table sat on a kaleidoscopic rug in front of the couch.
A white custom shelf unit took up most of one wall.
At its center was a closed cabinet painted with colorful flowers—hiding a TV, maybe?
Below it, an electric fireplace blazed with imposter flames, throwing no heat.
The staggered shelves’ contents alternated between showy pieces of strategically lit glass art, a few personal photos, and books, most of them Enolia’s.
Her art tastes ran to bold paintings of flowers, much like the TV cabinet. Colorful but surprisingly boring.
“Have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.” Craig moved off toward a showroom kitchen that was partially visible through a wide doorway.
“If I sit on that couch, I’ll fall asleep.” Roz eyed it hungrily just the same.
“It does look cozy.” Alden raised a flirty eyebrow, and Roz shot him one of her Can’t you be responsible for five minutes? looks. He laughed.
She plopped down at one end of it anyway and beckoned him over. “I want to sit next to you, not Craig,” she whispered as he settled in beside her and pulled out his phone, revving up the recording app.
Craig returned with a tray holding a pitcher filled with pale yellow liquid and lemon slices, tall glasses, an ice bucket and a plate of Enolia book cookies. He set the tray on the coffee table and sat next to Alden.
“Is that real lemonade?” Roz asked with interest as Craig used a silver scoop to fill the glasses with ice.
“Yes, I made it myself.” Craig smiled. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and Alden also took a glass.
“I hope you don’t mind the cookies,” Craig said. “We had a few left over.”
“Did you make those, too?” Alden asked.
“No,” he said. “They’re from Cosmic Confections.”
“Craig has many skills,” came Enolia’s strong alto voice, “but baking isn’t one of them.
” The writer strode into the room, now wearing relaxed tan linen pants, matching sandals and a loose white blouse.
Her white-blond hair hung straight. If she stood still, she would’ve been camouflaged by her own furniture, given away only by her pink lipstick. “Welcome to my home.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Roz, rising with Alden to greet their hostess. “You have a wonderful view.”
“Thank you. I find beachside living agrees with me.”
“You were in Upstate New York before?” Alden confirmed.
Enolia smiled, acknowledging that he did his homework. “Yes. I still have a home there for when the summer heat here gets too unbearable.”
Of course she does. “It’s a pretty part of the country.”
“You know it?” she asked.