“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.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I don’t think Mae killed anyone,” Roz said as they buckled up again in her car. She backed out in a hurry and zoomed down Main Street, eyeing the destination she’d already put into her phone. She couldn’t believe one of their own correspondents was now their chief suspect.
“I agree,” said Alden. “I think Mae’s in the clear. But her aunt Enolia had plenty of reasons to be ticked at Wayne.”
“Only if she realized Wayne was a huckster. We’re going to see Sheryl first. I hate to think it, but …”
“She sabotaged the airplane.” Alden’s tone had no trace of his usual humor.
“Maybe she did. I want to find out. I’m hoping she’ll be home.” Sort of. What if she was a killer?
“The thing is, why would she kill Sebastian?”
Roz couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice. “To help Wayne. So Wayne would inherit the movie studio project and all the money.”
