Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Duke’s face said it all as he gave them their ride to shore. Specifically: You two are a wreck, you smell like a bait bucket, and how do you keep ending up like this?
Or maybe that was the voice in Alden’s head. He was fine, though they were checked out by an ambulance crew, wrapped in blankets and given bad coffee—after he and Roz shared a very long hug. Deputy Byrd briefly interviewed them as Duke dealt with Sebastian and arrangements for the plane.
It had been an insanely long day, and Alden needed a shower and a meal and to hold Roz. He’d almost lost her. They’d almost lost each other.
Alden called Toby, who usually drove for Rideeo, for a lift to the airport so they could pick up his car. Then Roz called John and filled him in while Alden drove them back to her house—the house she grew up in. It had a mid-century vibe Roz was accenting with retro furnishings and lamps.
He liked the house. Mostly he liked being in her space. He kept a few things there—basics, some clothes. He’d love to move in, but he didn’t think Roz was ready for that. Small steps.
He laid out the contents of his wallet on a towel on her dining table to dry out.
They each took a shower, then ate a pizza from Pluto’s and talked about what happened.
He poured them a couple of glasses of nice California cabernet—he’d stocked Roz’s kitchen with some good bottles.
By the time they curled up on the couch in soft white robes he’d bought from Lunaria Lodge in a sentimental moment, he felt almost human.
“I feel like we should be working on a story,” he told her, one arm around her as she snuggled into him and flipped through channels on the modest TV, settling on classic movies. She knew they were his comfort watch, and she seemed to like them, too.
“You mean a story about the crash?” Roz put down the remote and picked up her glass of wine. “We should be good for now. John posted something short and sweet, based on what we told him, and I sent him a few more photos when you were in the shower. But he knows we’ll have more later.”
Alden eyed Humphrey Bogart negotiating with Sydney Greenstreet and harrumphed. “We’d better have more. We need to find out what caused that crash.”
“I think you mean who caused that crash.” She sipped her wine.
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but that’s exactly what I mean,” Alden said. “I can’t believe that engine failure was a coincidence. Sebastian was Wayne’s partner. Wayne is dead. So how would killing Sebastian benefit anyone?”
“Again, who would it benefit? With Wayne, it seems like somebody didn’t like him, at the very least. Maybe somebody gained satisfaction by seeing him dead. But Sebastian?”
“His wife? It’s always the wife.”
“Or the husband,” Roz said dryly. “I don’t know.
That’s a grim thought. But it makes a weird kind of sense.
” Roz set her wine on the rectangular wooden coffee table and shifted so she could look up at him.
She was so deliciously warm. He told his body to behave itself as she went on.
“Nicole seemed so nice. Though she was annoyed with Sebastian Saturday when he didn’t show up on time to take the kids. ”
“Do you think she had a grudge against Wayne, too?”
“She had the opportunity to confront him Saturday if she wanted to, when she left the kids in the bathroom. But if you’re talking motive for murder, I don’t know.”
“We just don’t know enough,” Alden said. “I think you need to talk to her. And we need to get more out of Enolia about Wayne.”
“Maybe through Craig, her assistant.”
“Right. Good idea. I could reach out to him directly, tell him I need some basic facts about her book catalog and I don’t want to bug her about it.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Roz told him.
“You’re right. I’ll just tell him I need to ask him a few questions, OK?”
“OK.” She smiled, lifted her face, and accepted his quick kiss.
Before he could get any ideas, she continued, “I also want to get a look at that agreement between Wayne Vandershell and Sebastian Esquivel that Sebastian seemed so vague about. He said he didn’t know what the terms were if one of them died. I want to know.”
“Excellent idea. You’ll have to ask him. Do you think he’ll let you see it?”
“I suppose it depends on if he’s hiding something,” she said.
“If he says no, that’s one way we’ll know that he is.
I mean, I’d expect most people to be circumspect about their business dealings, but he already told us a lot, and he didn’t seem like a detail guy when it came to the legal stuff.
I’m betting he’ll let me see the contract. ”
Alden put down his wine and kissed her again, more slowly this time. He fingered the lapel of her robe as her eyes grew dreamy. “He’ll say yes to you.”
And then she yawned.
And he yawned. “Argh. Does this mean we should sleep?”
“We should,” she said impishly. “But we don’t have to.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow hopefully and pitched his voice low. “What would you like to do?”
“I think we should comb the Internet and streaming services and find those movies Wayne made. They might tell us more about him.”
Alden groaned. As she giggled, he pushed her gently off him and stood. “I’ll get my laptop.”
Alden had told Roz he’d looked for Wayne Vandershell’s movies online, and she believed him. But she also believed that working together, they could find those titles.
She was wrong.
They searched all the streaming services they could think of, including obscure artsy ones. No movies.
They searched the Web for him again. Besides the school-days tidbits they’d unearthed earlier, they found a six-year-old speeding ticket in California and no outstanding charges. There were a couple of old addresses—apartments, it looked like.
The more recent stuff was scant but all film-related.
They had his profile on the most popular movie database site and a few similar profiles elsewhere.
There was a press release focused on Wayne that had gone around for one of his movies, noting it had been selected for three major film festivals—but didn’t mention which ones.
“So it’s a press release. Anyone can write a press release,” Roz said, enjoying her cozy spot next to Alden on the couch as he drove the laptop. “Who sent it out?”
Alden looked for the fine print on a few of the places where it appeared until he found the common thread. “It’s one of those online-only publicity outfits.”
“Is it a scam?”
“I’ve seen it before. It’s not a scam in the sense that they do the work they’re hired to do.
But I don’t think they verify what they send out.
You hire them, and they send the release everywhere.
And some ‘news’ sites just publish whatever releases come down the pipe for clicks and SEO, sometimes automatically.
It’s rinse and repeat, and if you’re lucky, somebody quotes it and the news spreads further. ”
“And whoever picks it up gives it legitimacy whether it’s valid or not,” Roz said. “It’s like online rumors that get so much air through repetition that everyone starts to think they’re true. What about the other people listed as filmmakers with him?”
Alden clicked through the slim list of credits on Wayne’s producer projects.
Every one of the names was linked to another of Wayne’s movies.
The movies they couldn’t find. From name to name, it was like a recursive loop—they all worked on one another’s projects, but quick Web searches didn’t pull up any of the others’ films either.
“Were these guys even real?” Alden navigated back to Wayne’s profile. “I’m going to try to contact one of them. This Reynold Casper guy. See what I can get.” He searched around until he found an email address, then hammered out a message. “Sent.”
“Good luck,” Roz said fondly. She enjoyed it when Alden got going.
A few minutes later, his laptop dinged. “Reynold Casper wrote me back.”
“Already? What does he say?”
“He says that the short films aren’t available right now due to sensitive negotiations, but he’s available for production work anytime.”
“What negotiations?” Roz didn’t like how vague that sounded.
“I’ll ask him, and I’ll also see if one of these other guys responds.
” He sent more emails to Reynold Casper and two of his friends.
A few minutes passed as they watched Humphrey Bogart handle the Fat Man and the femme fatale.
Alden also googled Reynold Casper, who, if his social media reflected reality, worked as a guide on Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise.
Alden’s email program dinged again. “Ha. One of Reynold’s friends says the short films aren’t available right now because they’re tied up in negotiations. And Reynold wrote back to say he can’t give more details. I call BS. All of these supposed films can’t be tied up in ‘negotiations.’”
“That’s certainly vague.”
“Wayne’s credit for Fastest Spin Wins is legit,” Alden said. “That’s the one my friend Porter worked on.”
“One legit project,” Roz observed. “A bunch not so legit, I’m guessing. I’m confident we would’ve found at least one of these somewhere if they were real. Or Wayne would’ve embedded a short film on his website or something. But his site is pretty sketchy, too.”
“Right. He just links to the credits on the movie database and talks vaguely about all the great work he has in development.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised at this point, but I think Wayne has been a very bad boy,” Roz said, “and not in a good way.”
“But to what end? He’d dangled deals in front of writers, in front of Sebastian Esquivel, in front of Blake Burbage even. Did he come through for anyone? What was his end game?”
“What does anyone want in the end?” she mused. “Fame? Credit?”
“Money,” they said at the same time.
Roz was skeptical. “Was he trying to get money out of the writers?”
Alden snorted. “Talk about barking up the wrong tree.”
“At least where most writers are concerned.” She thought for a second. “But if Wayne targeted them for their money, not their talent … We need to talk to Sheryl again, too.”
“Enolia has the talent.”
“And gobs of money,” Roz added.
“Could Sebastian have been in on whatever the scheme was?”
“I doubt it. He didn’t seem very taken with Wayne.”
“Wayne was courting Blake, too, who’s rich enough,” Alden said. “Though Blake didn’t mention any money changing hands. I need to ask him about that.”
Roz sat up. “Now that you mention Blake …”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a total airplane geek. He has all that flying memorabilia. He has a plane at Comet Cove airport. Do you think he knows something about Sebastian’s plane?”
Alden set his laptop on the coffee table and looked at her. “Or worse? Do you think Blake would try to kill Sebastian? Why? Something to do with the movie studio?”
Roz shrugged. “That I don’t know. But he might know something about what went on at the airport. It’s a small place. He might even know Sebastian. We should see what Blake knows.”
“First let me see if I can get any technical information about the crash before it’s official. I have an idea of how to go about that. You can ping Sebastian about the contract.”
“Ugh. We have a long day tomorrow.” Roz fell back and leaned against him, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“That’s OK. I’m just glad we have a tomorrow. There was a minute today—”
“I know. I’m glad too.” Roz paused. “And I’m mad. Mad at whoever sabotaged that plane, assuming it wasn’t an accident. Which it might be.”
“Where would the fun be in that?” he joked.
She quirked her mouth at him. “I would’ve had plenty of fun not crashing in the river, thanks. Now we’re both going to be nervous before we fly.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Alden kissed her head. “I’ll make sure I have chocolate and good whiskey on hand.”
And he pulled her closer and pressed his mouth to hers, sweet and hot.
Better than chocolate or whiskey.