“Only that Wayne Vandershell started out as a sad unwanted screenwriter and tech-crew guy who somehow became a movie producer.”
She cocked her head. “Well, that’s good color, anyway. Good human interest.”
“Maybe, but what puzzles me is how he turned his life around. I talked to a friend in the biz. Said he’d never heard of Vandershell’s movies either.”
“Is that weird?”
“Maybe not if they were small and they were retitled or something when they got picked up.”
They both looked up as their server, a young woman in stretchy black pants and a pink blouse and fifties-style scarf, dropped off plates full of mains and fries. “Anything else?” she asked.
“This looks fabulous,” Roz declared, and the server headed off.
Alden didn’t hesitate. He took a giant bite of his burger, and a bit of juice dribbled onto his chin. He wiped it away with a napkin before she thought too much about licking it off.
She picked up half of her sandwich and had a bite. Sooo good — savory warm corned beef and Swiss all melty together on rye, tangy with sauerkraut and Russian dressing. “So where does this leave us? We need to produce some kind of story today.”
“I think we need a comment from the police, even if it’s no comment, so we can get a story up,” Alden said. “But looking toward print, maybe we can get more from Enolia Honeywood about her connection to the man.”
“I just want to know more about her in general. She’s mastered the skill of appearing to be open and forthright while being completely cagey.”
“I had the same thought,” he said. “I wanted to see her office so badly.”
“Do you think she’s hiding secrets in there?”
“I doubt it, but maybe it reflects more of her interior life. No way it’s as boring as her living room is.”
Roz chuckled and finished off a fry. “I thought it was very tasteful.”
Alden made a theatrical snoring sound and dipped a fry in ketchup before scarfing it down. “Mmm. What do they fry these in?”
“Crack?” Roz ate another one. “I think you should call Enolia back. She has to know something about Wayne’s business dealings if he was going to make her book into a film.”
“Are the photos you took of her on your laptop? I never got to see them.”
“Sure. Hang on a sec.” She took another bite of the delicious Reuben. Then she set it down, wiped her hands on a napkin and dug into her bag again. This time she pulled out the computer.
“How much stuff is in that bag?” Alden sipped his coffee.
“Laptop, camera, personal items, a puppy, a small bicycle,” she said, cranking up the laptop on the table. In a moment, she’d pulled up the gallery of photos from their interview Saturday afternoon and angled the screen so he could take a look.
“When did you have time to work on these?”
“After I left your place yesterday.”
He smiled. “You could’ve stayed over again.”
“I have to sleep sometime.”
He chuckled and focused on her screen and the rows of thumbnails. “These are great. Oh, look at that one. Love her expression. Hey—can you zoom in on this one?”
She double-clicked to open the photo. “Not one of my better efforts. She’s not even in focus. My camera kept trying to focus on the shelves.”
“Hush. Your photos are perfect. I love the soft focus behind her in the other pictures. But I’m not interested in Enolia right now. Look at the shelves behind her.”
She stopped fretting about Enolia being blurry and scanned the shelves, crisply in focus with their books, knickknacks and framed pictures. Then realization dawned. “The photos?”
“They may not tell us anything about Wayne Vandershell, but they might tell us something about her. Can you zoom in?” Alden asked.
