Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery

by Deborah Sharp

  “Did you have the grades?’’

  She shrugged, implying that grades were, like, whatev. “I was better at acting. It’s more my thing.’’

  The young star and I sat in two camp chairs outside her trailer. The set medic had stabilized Johnny, and transported him closer to the road to wait for the ambulance. Most of the onlookers, including my sisters, followed them. I’d bet Mama had found her way there, too. I hoped she wasn’t toting her autograph book with her.

  Jesse chomped her gum and blew a big, pink bubble. “So, this town seems really boring. Isn’t there anything to do here?’’

  “We’ve got a new library,’’ I said. “My sister Marty works there.’’

  Jesse crinkled her nose, probably a sign her GPA wasn’t med school material.

  “My mama works at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow beauty parlor. She does color consultations and aromatherapy.’’

  Jesse’s face brightened; the chewing motions paused. “Do they do massage, too?’’

  “Nope.’’

  “Mud baths?’’

  I shook my head.

  “Cavitosonic chambers?’’

  “Say what?’’

  “How about hot stone treatments? Does the salon have those, at least?’’

  “Nope. But you could go down and scoop up some of the gravel for the road project along State Road 70. It gets plenty hot sitting out in the sun.’’

  She blew another bubble. “Are there any clubs here?’’

  “Not unless you count the VFW hall. We’ve also got a bar at the Speckled Perch restaurant. Thursday is Ladies’ Night: Domestic draft beer is 2-for-1.’’

  “Ohmigod!’’ Jesse rolled her eyes. “I am trapped in Hick City.’’

  I was about to jump to the defense of my hometown when a siren sounded in the distance. It silenced me, and even seemed to affect Jesse. Her sneer faded, replaced with a sober expression. Soon, I spotted the ambulance on the highway, visible across an open, flat stretch of ranch land. I pointed it out to her as it slowed, preparing to turn down the dirt road that led to the movie set.

  Within moments, Johnny would be loaded into the back. The doors would slam shut. I barely knew the man, but I still said a prayer he’d be okay.

  I wondered whether Jesse did the same.

  “There she is, Mace.’’

  Marty nodded toward two people in the distance in dark blue directors’ chairs. Their backs were to us. Mama sat in one; Paul Watkins was in the other. Even if his name hadn’t been spelled out in blocky white letters on the back of the chair, I recognized his khaki bush jacket. His gray ponytail swung from shoulder to shoulder as he shook his head. I could only imagine the question Mama had asked him.

  As we drew closer, I saw one of her library books on acting tucked beside her on the chair. I could hear the director chuckling, though, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

  “Well, there you are, girls!’’

  “We’ve been looking for you for a half-hour, Mama,’’ I said. “Is your cell phone battery dead again? The gals from Hair Today called me to find out when you’d be there. They said you’re supposed to finish a color chart tonight for the woman from the Chamber of Commerce, Lori something.’’

  “McCaskill. Lori McCaskill. Everybody knows her, Mace.”

  She looked at her watch, clasped a hand to her chest. “My stars and garters, where did the time go? Why didn’t you girls come find me earlier?’’

  Marty and I exchanged a look. “We left you with Maddie. We thought it was her turn to keep track of time for our fully grown mother,’’ I said.

  “No, honey, Maddie had to go home early.’’ Sarcasm eludes Mama. “Tonight is her date night with Kenny, and it’s his turn to choose. They’re going to the tractor pull.’’

  “Poor Maddie,’’ Marty said.

  The sun was starting to sink in the sky. The energy on the set had already dropped with the exit of the ambulance carrying Johnny Jaybird. Now it seemed further diminished by the dying light. Carlos was with the other authorities, still examining the crime scene by the corral. He’d decided that moving the animals would be more disruptive than leaving them there overnight. Marty had helped me feed the half-dozen horses in the enclosure.

  “Let me introduce you girls to Paul.’’ As Mama did the honors, it became clear why he’d been laughing.

  “You see that beautiful gold cross in Paul’s earlobe? Now, wouldn’t you girls assume he’s a man of faith?’’

  Considering I’d seen a drunken biker with the same gold earring toss a rival into a barroom mirror in Daytona, and then start making out with the guy’s teenaged hooker girlfriend, I wouldn’t assume anything. But I didn’t want to get Mama off track, so I didn’t say so.

  “Your mother wondered whether I’d been saved,’’ Paul said dryly.

  “I quoted Romans 10:9, girls: If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.’’

  “And I told your mother I’d let her redeem me in a New York minute. I’m just not sure the Lord wants somebody as bad as me in his saved column.’’

  His eyes sparkled. He aimed a purely devilish grin at Mama. He was flirting!

  Mama didn’t notice, as she was too busy offering eternal life through salvation. “Of course the Lord wants you, Paul. He may hate sin, but he loves the sinner.’’

  “Ah, yes, but do you love the sinner?’’

  That come-on was so obvious, even Mama got it. She slapped him playfully on the wrist.

  “I love the Lord,’’ she said. “And He knows when you’re being naughty.’’

  “Okay,’’ Paul said. “I’m being serious now. You’re a beautiful woman. Have you ever thought about acting?’’

  Mama’s eyelashes fluttered. One hand flew to her throat, while the other hid her paperback copy of “The Art of Acting’’ under her leg. “I’m much too modest, Paul. I hate the very thought of being in the spotlight.’’

  Marty even rolled her eyes at that. Mama had been saying for weeks this movie could be her ticket to stardom.

  “I mean it. You could be an actress. You should let me audition you.’’

  Marty and I were transfixed. The man was a walking stereotype of a Hollywood director. Where did he keep his casting couch? We were so transfixed, in fact, we didn’t hear Barbara Sydney approach. But we did hear her screech: “Oh, for God’s sake, Paul. Why don’t you just ask her back to your trailer to see your etchings? Can’t you keep it in your pants, for a change?’’

  Her glare took in both the director and Mama. Mama shrank a bit, but Barbara’s tirade bounced off Paul like water off a whirligig beetle.

  “Is there something you need?’’ His tone was even.

  “Yes. I need a little concern from you for your young star. Toby is still sitting in a police car, waiting for that detective to talk to him. It’s inhumane.’’

  “You’re a lawyer. File a lawsuit.’’

  “Someone had to have loaded that gun, Paul. It wasn’t Toby.’’

  I wondered how Barbara was so sure of that.

  “If Norman were here,’’ her voice was taunting, “he’d have worked things out by now.’’

  “Yeah?’’ Paul stared at her. “Well, Norman’s not here, may he rest in peace. And there’s not a thing I can do about the fact that he’s dead, or that one of my actors shot my assistant director with a gun that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. How about we let the police do their job, Barbara? Aren’t they still out there, combing the scene?’’

  She nodded.

  “So, once they finish investigating, we’ll get everything sorted out.’’

  Their eyes locked. I hoped birds and small animals stayed out of the charged space between them. Finally, Barbara blinked.

  “Fine. Enjoy your floozies.’’ She shot three withering glances, one each for Mama, Marty, and me, and then stomped away.

  Paul didn’t watch her go. He was staring in
tently at Mama, Floozy No. 1. “Barbara just gave me an idea. I see you as a beautiful dancehall girl for the scene where all the cowboys blow their money on women and liquor.’’ He put a hand on her chin, lifted it toward what was left of the sunlight. “I’m not kidding. The camera is going to love this face.’’

  Paul’s fingers were tracing the still-smooth line of Mama’s cheek when Sal blustered onto the scene. His face was as dark as a stormy sky over Lake Okeechobee. “We haven’t had the pleasure,’’ he said to Paul, “though I see you’ve met my wife.’’

  Hollywood, say hello to New York City. Ego, meet Ego.

  “Chill, dude,’’ Paul caressed Mama’s face before dropping his hand from her cheek. “I didn’t mean any harm.’’

  The woman who shunned the spotlight didn’t give her husband time to respond before she gushed, “I’m getting a part in the movie, Sally!’’

  “Fuhgeddabout it, Rosie.’’ His eyes still bored into Paul. “Everybody’s heard stories about dis ‘dude.’ Paul Watkins is trouble with a capital T, and you’re a married woman. I forbid it.’’

  Mama got out of the chair, and pulled herself up to her full height. She barely reached Sal’s chest, but still she stared him down. Her eyes were narrowed, firing off sparks.

  “Uh-oh,’’ Marty whispered.

  “You said it,’’ I agreed.

  We both took a few steps backward, putting ourselves out of collateral damage range.

  “Meet me at my Jeep, Mama. I’ll give you a ride to the salon,’’ I shouted over my shoulder, hurrying off with Marty.

  Once we were far enough away, my sister said, “That could get ugly.’’

  “For Sal, anyway,’’ I said. “Mama will flatten him like an armadillo on State Road 98 if he tries to come between her and that spotlight she claims to hate.’’

  The bells on the purple door at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow jangled. As we came in, Betty Taylor’s last customer of the day left.

  “Whew.’’ The salon owner exhaled. “This has sure been a day!’’

  “Honey, you have no idea!’’

  Mama plopped herself at the small table where she does her color charts, and launched into a long recitation of the events of her day.

  As I escaped off to the side, behind the cover of a People magazine, she led off with Norman Sydney berating her, barely mentioning his murder in passing. She sidetracked from Paul Watkins returning to the set, to focus on what she believed was the day’s headline: the casting coup for Fierce Fury Past.

  “Oh, Rosalee,’’ Betty clapped her hand to her cheek. “You’re going to be a star! Maybe you’ll get a scene with Greg Tilton.’’

  Mama gave a modest flutter of her lashes. “Well, honey, it’s not 100 percent set in stone yet.’’

  From her nexus at Gossip Central, Betty was able to offer us a tidbit, too: “My sister-in-law’s cousin’s daughter works at the hospital. She says that director who got shot is going to be okay.’’

  “Assistant director, honey. We call him the AD in the movie business.’’

  Behind my magazine, I rolled my eyes.

  Betty pointed her purple styling comb toward the pile of fabric swatches and folders, untouched on Mama’s table. “So, how are you coming with that color chart, Rosalee?’’

  Color Me Beautiful, the folders said in purple script across the front.

  “Don’t fret, Betty. This won’t take but a few minutes to put together. Lori from the Chamber has the same coloring as Mace. She’s a pure Winter, just like Mace. I know the colors that will flatter her the most. I could pick them out in my sleep.’’

  I lifted my face out of People. “It’s true, Betty. She could. She’s only told me a thousand times or so exactly what colors I should wear.’’

  Mama speaks with authority on the topic. For $35, she gives a diagnosis on whether a Hair Today customer is a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall. She offers counsel on wearing warm tones or cool ones, dark colors or pastels. She also throws in an aromatherapy candle, and the cardboard folder with fabric samples in colors to beautifully complement eyes, skin tone, and hair.

  She leaned over and held a bubble gum-colored swatch to my face. I’d sooner be hog-tied and dunked in a pit full of gators than wear pink.

  “I just want you to make the most of what God gave you, honey. Is that so wrong?’’

  “Your mama is one-hundred percent right, Mace.’’ Betty approached with a gleam in her eye, wielding that comb like a weapon. “When are you going to let me go to work on that gorgeous hair of yours? It has so much potential.’’

  I tented the People over my head, protecting every snarl and split end of my thick, black hair. “I was just here. How could I forget those Scarlett O’Hara ringlets you gave me for Mama’s wedding?’’

  “That was over three months ago.’’ Betty picked up a pair of scissors and made snip-snip noises around my ears.

  “Oh, leave her alone, honey. If Mace wants to go around looking like a possum crawled in her hair and built itself a nest, that’s her business.’’

  Betty sighed, and holstered her scissors. I let out the breath I’d been holding. Inhaling, I got a nose full of the shop’s warring scents: fruity shampoos and flowery conditioner, nail polish and permanent solution. I’m sure some people found a beauty parlor’s signature smell pleasing, but it made me think of a fruit roll-up dipped in ammonia.

  Ducking behind the magazine again, I made my way through pictures of fashion faux pas from the Hollywood red carpet, through a story about a 911-dialing dog that saved his owner, and through a profile of the movie industry’s troubled young stars. Jesse was prominently featured, slouching in a booth at some New York nightclub. Her eyes were at half-mast; she clutched a drink and cigarette in her hand.

  “Mace, what are you so interested in over there? Why don’t you come over and tell me what you think of the chart I’ve put together?’’

  “I’m just getting to a story about a family that staged a kidnapping of one of their kids so they could get on a reality TV show.’’

  Shaking her head, Betty stabbed a handful of combs into a sterilizing solution. “What is wrong with people today?’’

  “Some folks will do anything to be famous,’’ Mama said. “Forget about the trash in that magazine, honey. We’ve got a better story right here in Himmarshee than anything in People.’’

  Mama ran a glue stick across the top edge of some of the intense Winter colors I knew by heart: royal blue, imperial red, emerald green. She pressed them into her folder. I hoped poor Lori Whoever wouldn’t mind being bossed by Color Me Beautiful.

  Betty’s apprentice, D’Vora, came from the back with her arms full of fresh-laundered purple smocks, still wrinkled from the dryer. “Have you got the movie set murder solved yet, Mace?’’

  “No interest, D’Vora. I’m staying out of this one. Plus, I may be too busy trying to keep Sal and Mama from killing each other.’’

  D’Vora’s brows went up in a question. Her purple eye shadow matched everything else in Betty’s shop.

  Mama waved a hand airily. “Mace is exaggerating, girls. It’s nothing serious. Every once in a while, Sal has to be reminded of who’s boss.’’

  I snorted. “Keep flirting with that creepy director and we’ll have another murder on our hands. Either Sal will kill him, or Barbara will kill you.’’

  “Barbara?’’ All three of them turned puzzled frowns on me.

  I explained to D’Vora and Betty that Barbara was the dead producer’s ex-wife, and then said to Mama, “Anyone with eyes can see she has a thing going with Paul Watkins.’’

  “But he’s married.’’ Mama frowned. “We met that sweet wife of his. She’s a Southerner; name’s Savannah.’’

  D’Vora picked up a smock from the load she’d dropped on a chair and snapped it, as loud as a gunshot. “Oh, I’ve been there, done that. Since when has being married ever stopped a man from cheating?’’

  “Trouble with Darryl again, honey?’’ Mama
looked up from her glue stick.

  Betty shook her head. “That boy’s name is trouble. D’Vora’s too good for him, and she’ll realize it someday.’’

  “That mo-ron brought home another rottweiler puppy.’’ She shook another wrinkled smock, crack. “Like that’ll make up for him staying out all night.’’

  “How many dogs is that now, honey? Three?’’

  “Four,’’ Betty answered for D’Vora. “In a trailer.’’

  “It’s a manufactured home,’’ D’Vora said.

  “If I were you, I’d skip picking up that 12-pack for Darryl on your way home tonight,’’ Betty said. “Drinking is a big part of that boy’s problem, and all you’re doing is enabling him.’’

  D’Vora’s eyes went wide. “Darryl’s got me so distracted, I forgot to tell y’all the biggest news. I saw Kelly Conover yesterday in this little tiny convertible, right behind me in the drive-thru at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze. No make-up, her hair all knotted from the wind.’’

  D’Vora waved her hands around her own immaculately done hair and face to demonstrate. “I was way up high in our pickup, and I could see her in the rearview. She had on a big ugly T-shirt with stains and sweat pants that looked like pajamas. She looked really upset. Not like a movie star, for sure.’’

  The gleam returned to Betty’s eye. “Maybe you could drop Kelly a hint about our services at Hair Today, Rosalee.’’

  Mama shook her head. “No can do, Betty. On-set hair and make-up artists take care of all that for those of us in the cast. It’d be like Buck at the feed store outsourcing his cattle supplements.’’

  “Maybe Kelly just needs a break from looking gorgeous. Did you ever think of that?’’ I asked.

  Mama gave a thoughtful nod. “I can tell you it’s an awful pressure to be famous for your beauty, girls. People judge you all the time.’’

  She stood, leaning close to the mirror to examine her face. Out came the Apricot Ice lipstick. She applied a fresh coat, and then popped her lips as if blowing herself a kiss. “I can understand just how that poor Kelly feels, bless her heart.’’

  The only sound in the shop was D’Vora, snapping those purple smocks.