Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery

by Deborah Sharp

  “What’s wrong?’’ She shook off his hands and pushed past him, showing a surprising strength in her well-toned arms.

  “It’s our producer.’’ Tilton followed her, and we followed him. “Looks like he was shot.’’

  When she reached the body, Kelly stood and stared for a long moment. She didn’t look shocked, or scared. In fact, her expression hardly changed at all. When she spoke, her voice was cold. The warm laugh was gone. “Now he’s where he belongs, burning in the fires of hell.’’

  Then she spit twice on the ground, once on each side of the corpse of Norman Sydney.

  “Where do you suppose the police are, Mace?’’ Shading her eyes from the sun, Mama squinted across the pasture and into the distance.

  “They’re on their way. We’re out in the boonies, remember? I wish they’d get here, though. I’m ready to walk away and leave this whole mess in the movie people’s lap. Before this morning, we didn’t know Norman Sydney from Adam’s house cat.’’

  “And what we did know of him, we didn’t like.’’ She glanced guiltily toward the body. “Not that it’s my practice to speak ill of the dead.’’

  “It’s really none of my business, Mama. None of yours, either.’’

  “Don’t you worry, honey. I have no plans to get in the middle of this.’’

  Of course, I’d heard those words before. Even so, my mama had somehow managed over the last couple of years to find herself in the middle of a few spots of trouble. At the Dairy Queen, she discovered a body stuffed into the trunk of her turquoise convertible. On a trail ride across Florida’s cattle country, she saw an old beau fall prey to foul play. And during her recent wedding to Husband No. 5 at the VFW hall in Himmarshee, she narrowly escaped becoming the newly dead instead of the blissfully wed.

  Suffice it to say I doubted she’d stay out of this. And I suspected that once again she’d drag me in with her.

  Mama took out her compact and lipstick. Making an O of her mouth, she swiped on a fresh coat of Apricot Ice. “I guess this isn’t really the time to collect some of the stars’ autographs.’’ She looked at me hopefully.

  “Absolutely not!’’ I said.

  She snapped the compact shut. “That Greg Tilton is a fine-looking man though, isn’t he?’’

  “I’m involved, Mama.’’

  “Oh, is this Tuesday?’’ She widened her blue eyes at me, all innocence. “Well, you never know with you and Carlos, honey. On-again, off-again.’’

  I’d be insulted, but she had a point. My path to love hadn’t been smooth. Still, we’d managed to pave over some of the roughest patches. At least these days I could say I was dating a cop, instead of someone who’d showed up on TV as a suspect on Cops.

  “Speaking of Tilton,’’ I shifted the subject from Carlos and me, “seems like he would have had enough time by now to get back to the set and let everybody know about the murder.’’

  As if waiting offstage for his cue, Tilton appeared in the distance, hurrying toward us with the assistant director and security guard right behind him. The security guard loped toward us easily, like the pro athlete he might have been. The assistant director moved awkwardly, like the last time he’d run was in high school, fleeing the bathroom bullies who wanted to dunk his head in the toilet and flush. Kelly Conover followed more slowly. A tall black man in glasses was glued to her side. I hadn’t seen him before.

  “Hey, y’all shouldn’t get too close,’’ I yelled as they approached. “And don’t touch the body. It’s a crime scene.’’

  The guard waved his hand, but otherwise ignored me. The rest of them acted like Mama and I were invisible, which suited me fine. While the three men stood and stared at Norman, who was well beyond caring, Kelly and her friend steered clear of the scene. Now, she seemed agitated: pacing, biting a thumbnail, sneaking quick looks toward the dead man on the ground.

  “What do you think that meant, when Kelly spit on the ground like that?’’ Mama whispered to me. “She sure seemed mad. Do you think she’d mind if I asked for her autograph?’’

  Autographs! I gave Mama a warning glare, and then put a finger to my lips. I didn’t want her to draw attention to us, or have us get caught gossiping about the producer’s murder. The farther I stayed out of this Hollywood mess, the happier I’d be. We retreated to the far side of the corral, where I could still keep an eye out for Carlos.

  The man I hadn’t recognized paced right beside Kelly, an arm draped protectively over her shoulders. They were at least thirty-five feet away, and spoke in whispers. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. She stopped, and he faced her. It appeared he was trying to calm her down. He looked like he was practiced at it. I saw his lips moving, and then he reached over and tenderly brushed a lock of that famous golden-blond hair from her movie-star eyes.

  Trim, in his early forties, he was dressed in a crisp blue polo shirt and jeans with dry-cleaner creases down the front. His skin was as dark as the Cuban coffee Carlos favors. He wore his hair in a short, natural-looking Afro. The horn-rimmed frames on his glasses gave him a serious look.

  Kelly began pacing again, wringing her hands. I wondered if she’d ever played Lady Macbeth on stage. I nudged Mama to drag her eyes away from Tilton and look at Kelly and her friend.

  “What do you think? Are they a couple?’’

  She studied them for a moment. “Not sure. But he’s definitely the ice to her fire.’’

  “What do you mean?’’

  “Well, look at them,’’ Mama said. “The more worked up she gets, the calmer he becomes. That’s not a man who’d ever curse somebody’s soul to eternal damnation.’’

  As we watched, Kelly shook off his hand and stalked away. He trailed after her, and both of them headed our way. Mama and I pretended to study the ground. We needn’t have bothered. They were oblivious to us. They were just on the other side of the fence, close enough that we could hear them now.

  “I can’t handle it, Sam. It’s too much.’’

  “You don’t have to. It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore.’’

  In the distance, a police siren wailed.

  _____

  “Step back! Move outta da way. Da police are here.’’

  I recognized the Bronx-inflected bark. Mama’s new husband, Sal Provenza, bulled his way through a growing circle of movie people milling around the body. Carlos followed in the wake made by Sal’s massive frame. A trio of uniformed officers fanned out, trying to shepherd the onlookers out to the perimeter.

  Technically, only Carlos and the patrolmen were “da police,’’ in Sal’s Bronx-ese. But it looked like local law enforcement had the pleasure of Sal’s assistance once again, whether they wanted it or not.

  My stomach somersaulted at the sight of my detective beau. We were very much on-again these days, not that I wanted to go into just how much so with my mama. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the blush surely rising on my face as a few choice scenes from our most recent tryst replayed in my mind. In deference to the seriousness of the situation, I clamped a lid on the X-rated thoughts. But I couldn’t help the tingle I got when I looked at him: skin the color of buttered toffee; thick, dark hair; and eyes as black as bottomless caverns. Bedroom eyes. Kitchen eyes. And even in-the-back-seat-of-Carlos’s-car eyes.

  He raised a hand in a half-wave. I nodded in return. Both of us were maintaining our “all-business’’ manners.

  Mama elbowed me in the side. “Why don’t you go fill Carlos in on what’s happened, Mace?’’

  “Stop poking! I told him on the phone how we found Norman. I’m going to let the man do his job. He’ll come over and talk to me when he’s ready.’’

  Mama pressed her lips together. “Hmmmm.’’

  “What’s that supposed to mean?’’

  “Just that if I were you, I’d make sure I was close by when he questions that Kelly Conover. He probably had a poster in his bedroom of her in that white bikini from that TV show where she was a teenaged detective. Every red-bl
ooded male in America was in love with her back then.’’

  I snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mama.’’ The words were barely out of my mouth when I glanced over at Carlos. His body posture was still Dragnet, but his eyes had shifted toward Kelly. And there they stayed. He actually swallowed a few times, looking like a nervous schoolboy.

  And what man wouldn’t be nervous? Her hair was a cascade of blond curls, reaching halfway down her back. Blue jeans, strategically torn under each cheek of her round bottom, fit like a second skin. And, of course, there were the eyes that made her famous, as green as freshly minted money.

  I bit back a grin. I was more amused than threatened. Carlos’s fascination with Kelly was predictable. It was just like Mama and me, forgetting poor Norman to stare open-mouthed at Greg Tilton in the flesh. These people were screen legends. Bigger than life. I understood completely.

  Even so, I decided to mark my claim. I walked up behind him, placing a hand firmly on his arm. “Anything you need me to do?’’

  It was almost comical, the way he spun around at the sound of my voice. Guilty thoughts?

  “Thanks for calling, Mace. I would appreciate it if you, Sal, and your mother would help shift these movie people back toward their base camp. A crime scene van is on the way. We don’t need any more people out here tramping around than we’ve already had. Tell them I’ll come over there when I can, and talk to whoever’s in charge.’’

  “Will do.’’

  Who’d be in charge now that Norman was dead?

  Carlos’s eyes roamed the crowd. People were already beginning to disperse, moved either by the orders of the police officers or the menace in Big Sal’s tone. Carlos’s gaze stopped at the body on the ground.

  “I thought you said somebody hung him over the fence.’’

  I filled him in on what Tilton had done. Frowning, he took a notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote something down. “So he clearly handled the body. Anyone else?’’

  I told him about checking for a pulse, and how the guard and the assistant director had stood over Norman, trying to decide what to do. Then, I mentioned how Kelly had spit twice on the ground.

  He raised his eyebrows at me, and then turned to look over his shoulder at the movie queen. She was crying now, collapsed on the shoulder of her comforter, Sam. Expression darkening, Carlos stared hard at Kelly, and then jotted some more words in his notebook.

  Even though I said the murder was none of my business, I’d have given anything to know what he wrote.

  Greg Tilton stood ramrod straight, feet at forty-five degrees, hands clasped behind his back. He must have played a rookie cop, addressing a superior officer, in some forgotten movie.

  “I established the victim was dead, beyond medical help.’’

  Carlos’s eyes were unreadable, but I saw the slightest smirk breaking through the hard set of his jaw. “At ease, Greg. We’re just talking here.’’

  Tilton seemed to relax a bit.

  “You complicated things by moving the body, though.’’

  He tensed up again. “I know. I’m so sorry. Like I told her …’’ he raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

  “Mace Bauer,’’ I said. “I’m the animal wrangler.’’

  “Yeah. Anyway, I was moving on adrenaline and instinct. I didn’t even realize what I did until it was over. I’m sure you’ve been in a similar situation on the job, Officer.’’

  “Detective,’’ Carlos corrected him.

  “Sorry. Detective.’’

  He laid a hand, man-to-man, on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos stared at it like somebody had just dropped a rotten fish on his starched white button-down. Tilton jerked his hand back like he’d caught a hook in the palm. He checked the crowd, probably wondering who had witnessed him overstepping his boundaries.

  A couple dozen members of cast and crew had gathered in the open space between the production trailers. They milled around, eating, smoking, waiting to see what would happen next. The sun was relentless, the nearing-noon temperature climbing into the nineties. Whoever scheduled the location shoot in September hadn’t done their homework. “Fall’’ in middle Florida can still be blisteringly hot; and September holds a better chance than any other month of the year of a hurricane roaring through.

  Carlos had been silent long enough to make Tilton sweat. “Who’s in charge?’’ he finally asked.

  “The director, Paul Watkins …” Tilton started to say.

  “I’m Jonathan J. Burt, first assistant director.’’ The officious-looking man who’d directed the morning horse scene stepped forward, interrupting Tilton. “At your service.’’

  He looked like he was expecting a gold star. Another tiny smirk threatened to crack through Carlos’s deadpan demeanor, but he banished it. I’d lay odds on what he was thinking, though: What a weenie.

  Jonathan J. Burt was just a few inches taller than Mama. He wore a pearl-colored cardigan that looked like cashmere, gray wool slacks, and highly polished wing tips. A silk bow tie completed his ensemble. A silk tie. In Himmarshee! In September!!

  “I’d like to talk to the man you have handling security,’’ Carlos said.

  “Certainly. Anything you need.’’ The assistant director bobbed his head in time to his words. “I finished shooting the scene we’d scheduled for this morning. Can you tell us what we must do now to accommodate the police investigation?’’

  “You can’t do any scenes by the horse corral. We’ll be there all day,’’ Carlos said. “Crime scene tape is up. Access is restricted. We may want to remove the section of fence where the victim was found. If we do, the horses might have to be relocated.’’

  The assistant director cocked his head toward me. “Can you do that?’’

  “If I need to,’’ I said. “There’s a second enclosure we’re going to use for cattle.’’

  He head-bobbed, and then turned his eyes to the crowd. It seemed like he was searching for someone. “Anything else?’’ he asked Carlos.

  “Just carry on with your business. But keep yourselves available.’’

  Bob-bob, head cock: “Will you need to question anyone?’’

  “Not yet. Let me see what I have here first.’’ Carlos paused. “Why? Is there someone you think I should question?’’

  The assistant director spoke quickly. “No, not at all. No. Of course not.’’

  The crowd was hushed, waiting for Carlos to say more. He focused those black lasers of his on Jonathan J. Burt. I could almost feel the poor man squirm under the heat. I can remember getting singed a time or two myself, when Carlos first moved up from Miami and thought my mama was a murderer.

  Burt started bobbing. Just as it looked like he might open his mouth to amend his denial, a woman’s shout broke the silence. “Yeeeeeeeee-haw! Let’s get this party started.’’

  Jesse Donahue, grown-up ’tween star gone wrong, tossed her cowboy hat in the air, as she walked toward the assembled group. With a Rockette kick, she caught the hat on the pointy toe of her boot. Then, stumbling a bit, she plucked off the hat and returned it to her head. She looked around, probably expecting applause. She got stunned silence from the audience instead.

  “Jeez, did somebody die?’’

  Several people gasped. Mama’s hand flew to her heart. Jesse, oblivious, took off the hat again, shook out her mane of flaming red hair, and yelled over her shoulder to the trailer she’d just exited. “Toby! Get your hot little butt out here. I need somebody to party with, and there’s nobody here but a bunch of dinosaurs and deadbeats.’’

  The trailer door opened. A shirtless Toby Wyle stepped out. I recognized him from my careful reading of the National Enquirer at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow beauty salon, Mama’s workplace. He ranked No. 7 in the tabloid’s list of Hollywood’s Top 10 Teen Hotties.

  He stood on the trailer’s wide top step as if it were a stage. And then, slowly, deliberately, he zipped up the open fly on his jeans.

  I looked again at Jesse. Her face was flushed, the fam
ous hair caked with sweat and who knows what else. As everyone watched, she mounted the trailer’s steps, grabbed one of Toby’s bare nipples, and playfully tweaked. “C’mon, you ham. Everyone already knows you’re a stud.’’

  The tall woman I’d seen earlier handing the sandwich and cell phone to Norman hurried toward the young couple. She whispered in Jesse’s ear. The troubled star clapped a hand over her own mouth, mostly hitting her cheek instead.

  “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry!’’

  Jesse’s words were a bit slurred. Apparently, the Enquirer had its facts straight about her and substance abuse. Eyes tearing up, she turned to her young co-star. “Toby, you won’t believe it! While we were shagging all morning, somebody shot Norman Sydney.’’

  Toby took a step backward, clutching his stomach as if he’d been punched. He was either truly shocked, or a decent actor. I couldn’t remember if Top 10 Teen Hotties said he had real talent, or was just coasting on his stunning looks.

  “Where’s Paul? Does he know?’’ Jesse asked.

  Shrugs and head-shakes moved around the crowd.

  “Paul?’’ Carlos asked.

  “Watkins. Our director.’’ Jonathan’s head bobbed. “He’s in charge of every scene in the movie.’’

  “I thought you said you shot the horse scene this morning?’’ The lasers recalibrated, focusing on Jonathan again. I thought I smelled the scent of his skin, frying.

  He tugged at his bow tie. Bobbed that head a couple of times.

  “Well?’’ Carlos prodded.

  Jonathan pursed his lips like the classroom tattle-tale he must have been. “Paul told me to do the scene. He said he needed some time away from the set to cool down.’’

  “And?’’ Carlos waited.

  “He said if Norman got into his face one more time, he was going to kill him.’’

  His forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Now it was obvious: September really was too hot in Himmarshee to wear cashmere.

  The sandwich-and-cell-phone woman stepped out of the crowd. She smoothed the hem of a jean skirt that was far too short for a woman of her age. “I’m Barbara Sydney, Norman’s ex-wife.’’