Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Enolia was screaming at Wayne in the alley before her book signing?” Alden asked. Roz had briefed him as she drove them away from the Esquivel house. And just in time, too. He rubbed his head where Mateo had battered him with a plastic sword. “What did she say when she was yelling at him?”
“Nicole didn’t know or didn’t remember. She says she bowed out before she was seen, and she never saw Wayne again.”
“Holy cannoli. If she’s telling the truth, she didn’t kill Wayne Vandershell.”
“But Enolia might’ve,” Roz said. “She might have hit him, at least. And Enolia hung out with Wayne—had access to him. She could’ve sabotaged the vape pen. Maybe she planted the bomb.”
“That’s a lot,” Alden said.
“I know.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “I don’t really believe it either. But I’d like to know why she was ticked off at Wayne.”
“Even Sebastian might’ve attacked Wayne. He could have driven through that alley on the way to pick up Nicole and the kids and seen an opportunity. He certainly had reasons.”
“Twenty-five million reasons. But would he have also messed with the vape pen and planted a bomb?” she asked.
“He’s pretty technical. He’s a pilot. He had access.”
Roz shook her head. “It’s all so wacky.”
“So many people hated Wayne,” Alden said. “Maybe a bunch of them tried to kill him at the same time.”
“Maybe it was a race to see who could kill him first.”
“Hmph.” Alden massaged his temple again.
“Did those mean widdle kids hurt you?” Roz teased.
“Yes, they hurt me! The girl put a jump rope around my neck for ‘reins’ that almost choked me, and Mateo decided he needed to beat me because I was a bad horse. Future serial killer right there.”
Roz laughed out loud. “Nicole did say they’d had a lot of sugar. Maybe it’s too soon to judge.”
“Maybe,” Alden acknowledged. “I think he’s at the age when attacking everything is de rigueur.”
“Especially reporters.”
He snorted. “Especially. Where are we going?”
“We’re going to talk to Mae. Nicole said other women in the book club were wannabe screenwriters and under Wayne’s spell and probably gave him money. We might get a few more names.”
Alden sighed in frustration. “Don’t we have enough names already?”
“You mean, are we ever going to finish this story? I have no idea.” Roz sounded grim.
“We need to narrow down, not expand. And also figure out why Sebastian seems to have been a target, too. He might still be a target. You’re sure Nicole didn’t sabotage the plane?”
“I believed her when she described her script, the one Wayne was supposedly interested in,” Roz said. “It didn’t include an aviation element. And her context has me convinced. She hated Wayne, and I think she still likes her husband.”
“Likes.” Alden couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Loves, probably. That’s not what I’m writing about. The Real Housewives of Comet Cove.”
“Ha,” Alden said.
“I kind of feel for her, honestly. That scumbag Wayne came on to her and asked her to keep it a secret from Sebastian. Her husband. His business partner!”
“Sounds like you’d kill him yourself if you had the chance.”
“Only if I couldn’t get caught.” Roz shot him a saucy glance.
He laughed. “That’s probably what his killer thought.”
“Probably,” Roz said. “I’m hung up on what Blake said—about Wayne wanting info for one of the scriptwriters, who was writing about how to sabotage a plane. Maybe one of the writers Mae knows is working on something like that.”
“We can try to find out. But we’re going to have to talk to Enolia again. You know that.”
“I know,” Roz said. “I’m dreading it. She’s kind of forbidding.”
“But she likes publicity. And she doesn’t want to come out looking like a shrew. She’ll talk to us again.” He hoped. “We’ll just have to be delicate.”
“I don’t know if we’re that good.”
“Not that good!” Alden put a hand over his heart. “You wound me to the quick.”
Roz grinned, and he leaned across and kissed her cheek.
A few minutes later, she again parked on Main Street, pulling into one of the diagonal spaces across the street from Big Bang Books.
“Rock star parking,” she said with satisfaction.
“Rock star is right in front,” Alden said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I think this is roadie parking.”
“Close enough. Let’s hope our luck holds when we get inside.”
The bookstore’s Hunger Games door alert whistled as they entered.
There were a few browsers, along with the young bookseller wearing eyeglasses with red frames at the front counter.
Alden gave her a nod when she looked up, and she quirked her red lips at him and picked up an old-fashioned phone and said a few words.
He could guess: Look out. The press is here.
Mae emerged a moment later from the back hallway, wearing jeans and a purple Big Bang Books T-shirt spangled in stars and galaxies that showed off her tattoos. “You’re back,” she said with a smile, but it seemed forced.
“Next time, I swear I’ll just be here to buy books,” Alden said.
Mae turned to Roz. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, fine. You know.”
“You survived a plane crash yesterday.” Mae’s eyes were keen with morbid curiosity. “That has to feel good.”
“The survival part felt good,” Roz said. “Before that, not so much.”
That made Mae chuckle. “Since you’re not here to buy books, I assume you’re here for a story. The question is, which one?”
“Probably all of them,” Alden said.
“Let’s go to the back reading nook.” Mae gestured for them to follow. “I don’t think anyone’s there.”
She led them to a corner of the store where two dark blue love seats sat perpendicular to each other, facing a wide, square, low table with a display of books at its center—mostly Florida mysteries, Alden noted.
He might have to buy one of those next time.
He and Roz took one love seat, Mae the other.
“You have a book club that meets here, right?” Roz asked her, digging her notebook out of her bag.
“We have a few, actually.” Mae didn’t volunteer more.
“I didn’t realize that.” Roz made a note. “I understand one of them has a subset of writers who get together. Screenwriters?”
“Oh, yeah. They call themselves the Secret Screenwriter Society.”
“And now you’ve outed them. You’re in trouble,” Alden joked, earning a real smile from Mae. “What’s the big secret?”
“Oh, it’s not really a secret,” she said. “It’s just that they all have other jobs or whatever. They’re aspiring, I guess is the word.”
“How many writers?” Roz asked.
“Why do you want to know again?” Mae asked. Maybe she didn’t want to give away all their secrets.
“We’re still investigating the death of Wayne Vandershell,” Alden said. “We hear he had an eye for writing talent.”
A look of distaste crossed Mae’s face. “He had an eye for women, anyway. There are five women in the screenwriting group who get together every other week.”
Five? Alden inwardly cursed the additional suspects. But he also wanted to know more about Mae’s reaction. “Was he a little too friendly?”
Mae looked uncomfortable. Then she sighed. Here it comes, Alden thought.
“He was a lech,” Mae said. “He was not a good person. But I didn’t know that when he asked to sit in one week.
They didn’t mind after he said he was a producer.
And they all seemed to like him a lot. I mean, he had a lot of funny stories about Hollywood, full of people he’d worked with and secret deals.
He told them he could make all of their scripts into movies. I guess that’s pretty intoxicating.”
“Did he ask them for money?” Alden asked.
Mae quirked her mouth. “I don’t know. But he asked my aunt for money. Real money. He asked me to put in a good word with her. Imagine that! I didn’t trust him. And I didn’t want him draining her dry.”
Alden kept his voice even. “Because she’d promised you money to fix up the bookstore?”
Mae hesitated. “I admit, I was a little worried about that. But I knew she’d come through.
She’s family, and we care about each other.
Even if she didn’t, I could get a loan or something.
I was more worried about him not delivering on what he’d promised her.
He never showed her a script. It was all talk. ”
“And we can quote you?” he asked smoothly.
Mae nodded. “Go ahead. He’s gone. And I’ve talked with my aunt. She’s OK with me talking about her investment in the store. She thinks it’s kind of cool to be associated with a brick-and-mortar bookstore. And it might help my traffic.”
Enolia was sharp and knew a marketing opportunity when she saw one, Alden thought. Even if she didn’t recognize Wayne for what he was. And Mae didn’t sound like someone who’d killed Wayne for money.
Alden took a breath and glanced at Roz.
Roz looked up from scribbling. “Do you ever hear what the screenwriters are working on?”
“Sometimes,” Mae said. “If it’s a slow night, I’ll hang out and listen in. They don’t mind. I give them cookies.”
“Heck, I might start writing screenplays if cookies are involved,” Roz joked. “Was anyone working on a script that involved an airplane? Maybe sabotaging one?”
Alden could see the gears turning, Mae making the connection, realizing the question might have something to do with their plane going down.
But all she said was, “One of them is writing a thriller. Kind of an everyman getting caught up in a spy game. There’s a big scene where a small plane crashes. ”
Alden sat up straighter. “Who’s writing that?”
Mae looked very interested now. “She writes for the paper. Sheryl Pugh.”