Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery © 2011 by Deborah Sharp.
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First e-book edition © 2011
E-book ISBN: 9780738730837
Book design and format by Donna Burch
Cover design by Lisa Novak
Cover illustration © Doron Ben-Ami
Editing by Connie Hill
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Dedication
To my mother-in-law, Jeanné Sanders, who not only
embraces my books, but also gave me a wonderful gift—
a kind and caring man whose mama raised him right.
Acknowledgments
At a signing once, a reader surprised me with a blunt question: “Why do you acknowledge all those people in your book? You’re the one who wrote it.’’ Aside from the fact my mama taught me to always say thank you, it’s wrong to think an author does it all alone.
As always, I had help. The title, Mama Sees Stars, came from my brilliant cousin-in-law, Mark Prator. My friend and former newspaper editor, Karen Feldman McCracken, improved the manuscript, as she’s done in the past. My fabulous agent, Whitney Lee, also gave it a polish, along with everything else she does. I’m grateful to all of them.
Even before I wrote the book, several people assisted in researching the movie setting. Director Brian Carroll, shooting a small independent movie in Stuart, Florida, invited me to watch. Ashlee Webster clued me in on jargon and who does what. Bet she becomes more than an intern someday! I owe a special debt to movie-set Teamster Red Bedell for behind-the-scenes schooling about large-scale Hollywood productions. As a member of Local 769 in Miami, he’s worked most of the big location shoots in Florida. Jeff Rollason also helped me. Any errors, or exaggerations about murderous movie folk, are mine, not theirs. Kim Loggins invited me to the Bergeron Rodeo Grounds for a closeup with cattle.
I’m grateful to Terri Bischoff and the talented staff at Midnight Ink. Lisa Novak designs great covers; Connie Hill’s editing skills save me; and Courtney Colton spreads the word about my books.
Okeechobee, Florida, the real-life prototype for fictional Himmarshee, is always in my heart. So is the world’s greatest husband, Kerry Sanders, and the world’s greatest mama, Marion Sharp. Both are sources of unfailing love and inspiration.
Finally, I’m indebted to those I named, to anyone I missed, and especially to YOU, for reading this book.
I waited out of camera range, holding the bridle on a saddled horse. Movie lights flooded the scene with brightness. The set was pin-drop quiet.
“Action!’’
I let go of the bridle, slapped the horse on the rump, and stood back so the camera operator could capture the animal racing past. Just as the riderless horse entered a clearing, gathering speed to a gallop, a voice rang out into the silence.
“My stars and garters! Somebody’s let a horse get loose. Don’t just stand there, Mace! Come help me catch him.’’
An orange blur dashed into the animal’s path, waving arms and yelling.
“Cut!’’ The assistant director put his fingers to his temples and massaged. I could tell him it’s not so easy to rub away this kind of headache.
A short bald man in a bright red shirt kicked over a chair on the sidelines. “Security!’’ The word exploded from his mouth. “Would somebody grab that stupid hillbilly?’’
A muscled guy in a baseball cap started toward The Hillbilly, a.k.a. my mama. Cringing, I stepped forward. “She’s with me.’’
The short man came closer and leveled a glare. “And who the hell are you?’’
“Mace Bauer.’’ I offered my hand. He looked at it like it was bathed, palm to pinky, in manure. “I’m the animal wrangler.’’
“And I am not impressed.’’ His leathery face scrunched like he smelled a load of hogs.
As I slipped my unshaken hand into the pocket of my jeans, Mama marched to my side. She smoothed her orange-sherbet pantsuit, fluffed her platinum hair, and straightened to her full four foot, eleven inches. The jerk in the red shirt may have had her by a few inches, but she had the Mama Glare, and it was set at stun.
“Well, who the blue blazes are you? All we know is you’re a rude little man who has no idea how to talk to a lady. By the way, Florida’s as flat as a frying pan, so I can’t be a hillbilly, can I?’’
Whispers and a few snickers traveled around the set. His beady eyes met her glare. “I’m the boss here. The top dog. Let me put it in terms you’ll understand. If this movie set was a barbecue joint, I’d own the building. I’d own the chairs and tables. I’d even own the pigs. And I’d get to say who gets to sit down for dinner, and who doesn’t.’’
Mama, brows knit, glanced at me. “Is he saying I can’t come to his rib joint?’’
I shrugged.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to go there anyway,’’ she said. “I can tell you it’ll never be as popular as the Pork Pit, which has been in Himmarshee forever. Not only do they have ribs to die for, they make the best peach cobbler, too. Besides, the folks at the Pork Pit know how to treat their customers. You certainly have a lot to learn about how to treat people …’’
As Mama went on, I tried to imagine I was somewhere else. The assistant director massaged his head so hard, I thought he’d rub the hair right off his temples. Meanwhile, the old guy’s face was getting purple. Jabbing his cigar, he looked mad enough to pick Mama up and toss her off the set himself.
Just then, a woman stepped up to him with a cell phone in one hand and a sandwich in the other. She whispered in his ear. He handed her his cigar, took the cell phone, and jammed half the sandwich in his mouth. Then he began shouting into the cell.
“What kind of idiot do you think I am? I’ll have your ass in the courtroom faster than you can say breach of contract …’’
He stomped away, Mama’s transgression seemingly forgotten. As he left, little missiles of what looked like roast beef launched from his mouth. I pitied the person on the other end of the call. Even though the woman was almost a head taller than him, she had to run to keep up.
The assistant director scolded Mama through
tightly pursed lips: “You ruined the shot. This is your first—and last—warning.’’
“It’s her first time on a movie,’’ I apologized, as he stalked back to the director’s tent.
Next to us, the behemoth in the ball cap still loomed. “Don’t worry,’’ I told him. “I’ll make sure she understands the concept of Quiet on the Set.’’
The three of us watched the departing loudmouth in red. “Who is he, anyway?’’ I asked the security man.
“You mean besides being a First Class Asshole?’’
“Language, son,’’ Mama said, but she was smiling.
“Norman Sydney. He’s the movie’s executive producer, but he thinks he’s God.’’
_____
“How was I supposed to know you let the horse go on purpose?’’
“We’re shooting a movie here, Mama. The scene is supposed to look like something bad happened to one of the kids in the family. The horse is spooked, so it races off alone.’’
Mama’s bottom lip was set in a pout. The horse, in contrast, plodded along with no whining at the end of a lead rope. He seemed happy to be heading back to the movie’s corral.
The Hollywood folks were in Himmarshee doing a film about the early days of cattle-ranching in Florida. It was supposed to be based on Patrick Smith’s classic book, A Land Remembered. But I’d peeked at a script, and cows were about the only thing it had in common with the book. Supposedly, the new working title was Fierce Fury Past. Hired to handle the horses, I was using up vacation time from my real job at a nature park. It was a good chance to make some extra cash. Since the film was the most exciting thing going on in our little slice of middle Florida, Mama nagged me until I got her on the set, too.
After her embarrassing interruption, we’d done five or six more takes of the galloping horse. Bored, she’d wandered off to find somewhere she wouldn’t get yelled at for talking.
Now, we’d met up again, and were about to have lunch. But first I had to return the horse. Still smarting over the producer’s dressing down, Mama was uncharacteristically quiet.
Saddle leather creaked as we walked through a pasture. The horse’s hooves thudded on a sandy path cut through a blanket of Bahia grass. A mockingbird sang from an oak branch.
Curiosity finally triumphed over Mama’s bad mood: “Have you seen any of the Hollywood stars yet? I’ve got my autograph book all ready. Is that Greg Tilton as good-looking in person as on the screen?’’
“It’s just my first day. I’m sure I will see some stars, unless one of my family members manages to get me fired from the movie.’’
She narrowed her eyes. “Why would any of us want to do that?’’
“Just don’t bug anybody. And try to stay out of trouble, would you, Mama?’’
“Me? I thought you were in trouble. I thought you needed my help with that horse. What kind of mother would I be if I saw you in a jam and didn’t step in? Besides, it was that awful man’s fault for jumping all over me. He’s wound up tighter than granny’s girdle.’’
A loud whinny sounded from the horse corral. A whicker came from behind us in return.
“Rebel, what’s wrong?’’ I made a half-turn to run a reassuring hand below his mane.
Turning back, I plowed smack into Mama, who’d stopped in her tracks. Rebel’s big head hit me between my shoulders. Mama gave a sharp gasp.
“Oh, my! It’s that horrible producer, Mace. I can see his bright red shirt. Your eyes are younger than mine. Isn’t that him, leaning against the corral gate?’’
I stepped around her to get a better view.
“I hope he hasn’t come to fire you,’’ she said.
“It’s him, Mama. But he’s not leaning against the corral.’’
I took my cell phone from my pocket and hit speed dial for Carlos Martinez, a detective with the Himmarshee police department, and my boyfriend.
Somebody had tossed Norman Sydney over the fence like drying laundry. The white, sandy ground beneath his body was stained, as red as his tomato-colored shirt.
Mama clutched at my arm. “Great Uncle Elmer’s Ghost, Mace! You will not believe who is swaggering our way.’’
I turned. Greg Tilton strutted toward us, a bit shorter-seeming in person than on screen, but with those same broad shoulders and that devilish grin that had caused a million women to swoon.
Mama and I hurriedly shifted our positions in front of Norman’s body. We stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at Tilton. He raised a hand in greeting, every bit the red-carpet Hollywood star acknowledging his fans.
As he came closer, Mama elbowed me to speak. “I’m afraid Norman Sydney’s had some kind of accident, Mr. Tilton.’’ I pointed at the body hanging over the fence about twenty-five feet behind us.
Tilton’s eyes widened. Confusion and realization held a race across his features. Then, he jumped into action. Before I could stop him, he rushed to the fence and hefted the body onto his shoulders. We ran right behind him.
“What happened?’’ he asked, not even out of breath.
“We were returning the horse to the corral, and saw the body as soon as we got close. I don’t think you should move him, though. I already checked him over, and the cops will want to see where he was left.’’
He ignored me, going down to one knee and lowering the body gently to the ground. He knelt with his ear close to Norman’s mouth in the classic CPR pose: looking, listening, and waiting to feel on his own cheek any evidence of breath. Within seconds, Tilton moved on to chest compressions.
“I’m experienced in medical emergencies from my job at the county nature park,’’ I said. “I already examined him. He has no pulse. He’s dead.’’
He kept counting, one hundred presses in a minute.
“Plus, that’s a lot of blood on the ground. And, he has what looks like a gunshot wound to the back of his head.’’
His counting tapered off. Gingerly, he turned Norman’s head to one side. His hand came away coated in gore. Finally, he seemed to absorb the fact the man was beyond his help. This wasn’t a movie. Tilton wiped his hands on his jeans and got up from his knees, looking shaken.
“I’m sorry.’’ Mama’s voice was soft. “Was he a good friend of yours?’’
Tilton tore his gaze away from the body. Sincerity and sadness beamed at us from those famous blue eyes. “Honestly? No,’’ he said. “We weren’t friends at all. But I respected him. With all his faults, he was a good businessman and a great producer.”
All three of us regarded the mortal remains of Norman Sydney, stretched out on the ground.
“We should probably go wait for the authorities where they’ll see us, on the other side of the corral. I wish you’d listened to me about moving him.’’ I began herding them away from the body. “The cops are going to be madder than wasps with a sprayed nest.’’
I was thinking of one cop in particular.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have touched him. It was instinct, but it was stupid.”
Mama tilted her head at him. I was surprised, too. I didn’t expect such a macho movie star to admit fault so easily.
As we walked away, he rubbed a hand across his square jaw. His eyes got a far-away look. “One of my many foster fathers had a heart attack. They’d just taught us CPR in junior high, and I actually managed to save the guy. Guess I thought I could perform a miracle again.’’
I thought of my own father’s fatal heart attack. “That must have felt good, to be able to save a man’s life.’’
He shrugged, leaned against the fence on the opposite side of the corral from where the body had been. “It didn’t win me any points, with that dad or any of the others.’’
I got a glimpse of the sad boy he must have been, before the movie career, before superstardom, before he was Greg Tilton, Action Hero. It almost made me forgive him for acting so rashly.
Almost.
“How come you happened to be all the way over here by the corral?’’ I asked.
My voice must have carried a suspicious tone, because he stopped walking and narrowed his eyes at me.
Mama piped up, “Mace is not normally rude … well, at least not that rude. She’s just gotten awful curious about what appear to be coincidences whenever we find a body.’’
His eyes took in Mama—perfectly coiffed hair, lips gleaming with Apricot Ice, hues of orange sherbet from the polish on her sandaled toes to the clip-on baubles on her ears.
“Find a lot of bodies, do you?’’ He gave us the Tilton smirk.
“It’s been a bad couple of years in Himmarshee,’’ I said.
“Well, I came out here to find the corral because I love horses. Ever since I played …’
“… the young gunslinger with a good heart in that Clint Eastwood Western,’’ Mama interrupted excitedly. “It was your break-out role.’’
I looked at her like she’d been replaced by an alien.
“What?’’ she asked. “You’re not the only one who can find out things on the Wide World of the Web. Your little sister Marty helped me research the cast. BTW, she’s a lot more patient on the computer than you are, Mace.’’
BTW? “Who are you?’’
Tilton held up his hands. “What I was going to say, if you’d give me the chance, is that whenever I’m doing a movie that involves riding, I like to get a look at the horses as early as I can.’’
I might have followed that up with another question, but Mama suddenly clutched at her chest and pointed behind me. Only a rare sight would leave her speechless. I turned to see what it was.
“I knew I’d find you out here making friends with the horses, Greg.’’
Even if I wasn’t staring into her famous face, I’d have known that laugh anywhere. It contained the promise of fun, sex, and mystery, all rolled into one musical sound. Kelly Conover.
Tilton grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to shield her from the body. “Don’t look over there, Kelly.’’
She frowned, deepening some tiny lines that Botox must have missed. She was still a stunning woman. But everybody knows the camera is cruel to aging actresses.
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