Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery

by Deborah Sharp

  As Maddie’s words hung in the air, I glanced at Marty. Eyes glued to Carlos as he pushed his way through the crowd, she was working on her bottom lip like it was a hunk of taffy.

  _____

  Jeb was back with his cows; I was back to myself. And now I was angry. Had someone deliberately tried to hurt me? Was it personal? Or, was the light blowing up over the corral at just that moment a coincidence in a string of convenient coincidences? I intended to find out.

  “Barbara, do you have a minute?’’

  Norman Sydney’s ex-wife was stalking across the set, a can of Coke in one hand and an ice-pack in the other. She rolled her eyes and checked her wristwatch. “I’m on my way to see Toby. I have thirty seconds. What can I do for you?’’

  Learn some manners, I thought. But I said, “You heard about the light this morning?’’

  She nodded. “I wasn’t far away when it exploded. I saw for myself you weren’t seriously injured, as did many other witnesses.’’

  “I’m not interested in suing you, Barbara. I want to know, do you think the light was sabotaged?’’

  “What’s your name again?’’

  I told her.

  “Ah, yes. Somebody told me about you. You’re some kind of hillbilly detective, right?’’

  “Guess so.’’ I didn’t bother correcting her about our dearth of hills.

  “Well, Mace, the more salient question is whether this latest incident is linked to Norman’s murder. If so, it means someone wants to impact the movie, maybe even shut it down. Frankly, you’re not important enough to the film to be a target.’’

  Was that supposed to make me feel better? “Well, who is?’’

  “Lots of people. The actors, the director, me.’’

  “You?’’

  She shrugged. “I was Norman’s business partner. I control the money. And in Hollywood, like everywhere else on earth, everything comes down to money.’’ She looked at her watch. “Your thirty seconds are up, Marsha.’’

  “Mace.’’

  “Whatever.’’

  As she started away, I said, “Just one more thing. If it was deliberate, who has a motive? Who’d want to shut you down?’’

  She stopped, and slowly turned. Her eyes avoided mine. “I really don’t want to say.’’

  “Look, this is important.’’

  She glanced around, like she was checking for eavesdroppers. We were alone outside, about fifty feet from the production office trailer. After I'd convinced my sisters I was okay, they returned to town. Mama had disappeared somewhere. Sal was out on the road to the ranch with the cops and movie security people, fending off reporters and curious townsfolk. Carlos was talking to the electrical chief who supervises lighting and powering for the set.

  “I’m the last person to gossip,’’ Barbara leaned toward me and whispered, “but Greg Tilton is unhappy with some of the cuts that have been made to his role. He made his feelings quite clear to Norman, and now to me. More importantly, I saw him skulking around this morning by the lighting equipment. What business did he have there?’’

  She positioned her wristwatch under my nose. “Now, I’ve got to run. Time is money, Marsha.’’

  Mace.

  _____

  Perks reflect an actor’s place on Hollywood’s totem pole. Lesser stars share trailers. Big ones relax in spacious luxury. Finding which trailer at base camp was Tilton’s didn’t take long, given my great powers of deduction. That, plus his name was above the red star on his door.

  I climbed three metal steps to the door, and knocked.

  “I’m rehearsing,’’ came a muffled voice from inside.

  “It’s Mace, the animal wrangler.’’ I yelled through the door. “I’m the one who was nearly killed by that light this morning. This won’t take but a minute.’’

  Footsteps echoed from inside. The door opened. Tilton was still in his period costume. I guess the wardrobe people figured the rougher and more rumpled his clothes looked, the more believable he was as a Florida frontiersman. Those famous blue eyes assessed me. It was surreal. I still struggled to get my mind around the fact I was standing face to face with the most famous action hero on the planet.

  “I heard about the accident,’’ he said. “You okay?’’

  I rolled my neck, lifted my shoulders. Winced. “I’ll live.’’

  “Good to hear.’’ He stood back, motioning me inside.

  The place looked like a high-end man cave. Black-out shades covered most of the windows. A glossy leather recliner was positioned in front of a big-screen TV. The black granite top of a coffee table gleamed. A fat script, a heavy rocks glass, and an expensive-looking bottle of Scotch, Glen-something, sat atop the table.

  He nodded at the bottle. “Want a drink?’’

  “I’ll pass on the Scotch, but some water would be great.’’

  As he went to fetch a bottled water for me from the fridge, I checked out the living area. The room was neat, nearly devoid of human touches. No jacket was tossed over a chair. No open book rested on an arm of the sofa. The only thing out of place was a white coffee cup, which had been washed and set to dry on a dish drainer in a double sink.

  Maybe all those years rotating through foster families had taught Tilton to never become too much at home.

  My eyes were drawn to the one thing in the room that seemed personal: a display rack over a door that led to a small bedroom showed off a mounted, kid’s-style rifle. I pointed at it when Tilton returned.

  “Is that little .22 rifle from a role?’’

  “Nah, I’ve had that since I was a boy. It’s about the only link to my childhood that has good memories attached.’’

  “How so?’’

  He set a coaster on the black granite, placed the glass of iced water on that. Looking at the rifle, he smiled. “One of my first families, the foster dad was a good guy. Rural. Salt of the earth. He taught me to hunt, and he taught me about firearms.’’

  My surprise must have shown on my face. He chuckled.

  “Remember Charlton Heston? He was a president of the National Rifle Association. Our director, Paul Watkins, collects guns from all the movies he’s done. Not everyone in Hollywood is a Second Amendment-hating liberal.’’

  “I didn’t think they were,’’ I lied.

  “Right. Anyway, they gave me that old Winchester for Christmas. It was a hand-me-down from one of their ‘real’ kids, but it meant a lot to me.’’ He reached up, brushed a speck of dust from the barrel. “It still does.’’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I thought of Mama and my sisters, and the father I’d loved so much. I couldn’t imagine not having kin, a close family to call your own. Silence hung between us. He hadn’t taken a seat, so I didn’t either. Both of us were still standing.

  My eyes shifted from the rifle to a series of promotional posters from his most famous roles. They filled the walls where family photos or paintings might be displayed.

  I stepped closer to the wall to check out the Greg Tilton filmography.

  “Pretty lame, huh?’’

  “Hey, you’ve had a great career. I can see how you’d be proud.’’

  He sat in his leather recliner. “Just so you know, someone in my publicist’s office had already hung them when I got to the set. It makes me feel like some kind of museum piece. Nothing like having a pictorial record of growing old, in 27x40-inch frames.”

  Funny about perception: When Tilton looked at the posters, he saw himself aging. I saw him saving the world. I had to shake off that good-guy image if I was going to question him about what I’d come to find out. I circled back to stand in front of his chair.

  “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but did you have anything to do with that light blowing up this morning?’’

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Man, you don’t waste any time, do you?’’

  “Life’s short.’’

  “What makes you think I’d have anything to do with that?’’

  I weighed re
vealing what Barbara had told me. Why was I worried about protecting a woman who never asked how I was, who couldn’t even be bothered to get my name right?

  “Barbara said she saw you hanging around the lighting gear.’’ I filled him in on what she claimed was a possible motive that he’d want the picture shut down.

  When I’d finished, he smirked at me. “A highly reliable source, Barbara.’’

  “What do you mean?’’

  He poured himself a glass of whiskey, pointed the bottle toward the sofa next to his recliner. “Have a seat. You’re making me nervous.’’

  I sat, stiffly. I was sure to have a bruise where Jeb knocked me down. Not taking my eyes off Tilton’s, I waited for him to answer.

  “Listen, I’ve been in Hollywood a long time. I’m used to people lying about me, spreading gossip. I’m not surprised the same bullshit is happening here. But that’s all it is.’’ He took a swallow of the Scotch. “I’m completely happy with my role in this film. I wanted the part, and I wanted to work with the other actors they’ve hired.’’

  “Even Toby?’’

  “Especially Toby. He’s the next Leo DiCaprio.’’

  I searched his face for evidence he was lying, or being sarcastic. I didn’t see it.

  “Maybe you should ask Barbara what she was doing when she claimed she saw me.’’

  “Barbara? What would she have to gain?’’

  “She wanted out of this production almost from the start. It’s bleeding money, and she never believed there’d be an audience for the film once it’s finished. You know she and Norman were still in business together, right?’’

  I nodded.

  “Well, they fought like crazy about even taking on this project. Barbara would have had a good reason to see her ex-husband dead. Now that he is, she’d be a lot better off financially if this movie would just go away.’’

  He drank again, his blue eyes beaming sincerity at me from above the rim of his glass.

  Leaving Tilton’s trailer, I looked up to see clouds massing and a helicopter circling. Stymied on the ground, the media was taking to the air to try to get pictures of the private ranch where Fierce Fury Past was filming.

  When the sun peeked out, I caught a quick flash from the corner of my eye of a sparkling diamond earring and chestnut-colored hair.

  “Hey, you!’’

  As Savannah Watkins turned toward me, a wide smile lit her face. “Girl, I am so happy to see you standing on two feet. I heard about your close call. You must feel as lucky as a cat on a cream truck.’’

  “Yeah, I should buy a lottery ticket,’’ I said. “Listen, you knew Norman pretty well, didn’t you?’’

  She nodded, thick hair swinging against her cheek.

  “How about his ex-wife?’’

  “Oh, I know Barbara. Everybody in Hollywood knows Barbara. Why do you ask?’’

  I’d only met Savannah the day before, but for some reason I felt I could trust her. Maybe it was the Southern accent. Maybe it was her friendly, down-to-earth manner. She didn’t seem like the rest of the Hollywood crowd.

  “You want to grab a quick cup of coffee?’’ I asked.

  As the chopper made another loud pass, Savannah glanced upward. I did, too. It was flying low enough that I spotted a cameraman. He’d slid the door open on the passenger’s side, and was aiming a long lens our way.

  “Vultures!’’ Savannah spit out the word.

  “Don’t worry,’’ I said. “The cattleman who owns this ranch is politically connected. There’s also a colony of endangered wood storks in a swamp on his land. It won’t be long before he pulls the right strings to shut down the air space up there.’’

  “Really?’’ Savannah looked impressed.

  I nodded. “Environmental concerns.’’

  We made our way to the craft services truck, and helped ourselves to a couple of coffees. Once we were seated comfortably in two chairs in the shade, I detailed my suspicions about sabotage. I told her how Norman’s ex-wife had pointed me toward Tilton, who in turn had aimed me right back toward Barbara.

  “What do you think?’’ I asked. “Is somebody trying to derail this movie?’’

  Savannah blew on her coffee and took a sip. Balancing the cup gingerly between her knees, she poured in another packet of sugar. “Girl, your mama wasn’t kidding when she said you’re a detective. Didn’t you say you were going to stay out of it?’’

  It wasn’t clear from her voice if she was being critical or just curious. When I looked at her, though, she grinned.

  “I don’t always do what I say I’m going to do,’’ I shrugged.

  Her tone got serious. “Well, Barbara was right when she said money is king in Hollywood. And Greg hit the mark about this picture being Norman’s baby, not hers. She didn’t want to do it, and she didn’t want Paul as the director, either. With Norman dead, I’m sure she’d love to pull the plug, but she can’t. Contractual obligations.’’

  “Would a murder and a string of accidents make it easier for her to shut it down?’’

  “Maybe. But plenty of productions have gone on after horrible accidents, or the deaths of their stars. In the ’80s, a helicopter crashed and killed Vic Morrow and two young kids on the set of Twilight Zone. They finished that film. When Heath Ledger died from drugs, he’d just completed his part on The Dark Knight; but he was only halfway through a Terry Gilliam film. Both of those projects went on to be released.’’

  A dim memory surfaced. “Didn’t that helicopter decapitate somebody?’’

  She shuddered. “Yeah, Vic Morrow, the star; and one of the child actors, too.’’

  Thinking about that gruesome scene, suddenly the shock of finding Norman’s body hanging on the fence didn’t seem so horrible after all.

  Sipping her coffee, Savannah stared into the distance. “It might be different with a murder, though,’’ she said thoughtfully. “The fear of who might be next could be debilitating to the production. More importantly for Barbara, it could also raise an issue of liability.’’

  “How so?’’

  “Well, what if it turns out someone is stalking victims? Suppose nothing is done to ensure the safety of the crew and the actors. If anyone else were to die or get injured, their family would certainly have grounds to sue the production company for negligence.’’

  I remembered how quickly Barbara assumed I was going to sue over the light.

  “Barbara told me any number of people could be possible targets. I’ve been wondering more about who might be a suspect,’’ I said. “Who hated Norman Sydney that much?’’

  Savannah pursed her lips. “That’s a long line, honey.’’

  “Yeah, but hated him enough to commit murder?’’

  Her expression became wary. She glanced over each shoulder. We were alone, sitting off by ourselves in the shade of a big oak tree. Unless someone was perched among the leaves—I quickly scanned the branches above, just to be sure—we couldn’t be overheard.

  “Norman had issues with women,’’ she finally said.

  “Like he cheated? He was a player?’’

  “Worse. Let’s just say he had some dark tastes when it came to sex. Very young women. Multiple partners.’’ She cupped a hand to her mouth, whispering the last words. “Not all the girls were willing.’’

  The disgust must have registered on my face. She nodded. “Awful, right? But it’s true; the Hollywood casting couch at its worst. Many a starlet got her first big break in a Norman Sydney production. He made sure they paid for the opportunity.’’

  “Kelly Conover?’’

  “I don’t know for sure. Probably.’’

  “Jesse Donahue?’’

  Savannah nodded decisively. “And it wasn’t just girls. Norman had many wealthy, powerful friends with a taste for young men. He threw parties, stocked with hopeful young actors.’’

  I thought of Greg Tilton. Was that possible? Then, Toby’s smooth-cheeked face popped into my mind. My stomach clenched in revul
sion and anger. If what Savannah said was true, Norman Sydney was a sexual predator. His murder suddenly seemed like deserving punishment.

  “He wasn’t a nice man, Mace. Lots of people on this set could have wanted to kill him.’’

  “It’s weird, Savannah. When I try to think about which of these stars might have done it, it’s hard for me to see them as real people. I keep getting them mixed up with their public images.’’

  Those larger-than-life movie posters in Tilton’s trailer ran like a slideshow behind my eyes. I blinked them away.

  “I know what you mean,’’ Savannah said. “I’ve been part of the industry for a long time; now mostly by marriage. But when I look at Toby, for example, I see him the way he’s usually cast: a troubled boy turning into a man, who always ends up doing the right thing.’’

  “Right,’’ I said. “I saw him just like that, playing a part in a TV show where he was in a juvenile detention center. He ended up saving a younger kid from a brutal guard.’’

  “Locked Up,’’ Savannah said. “What’s Kelly Conover’s image?’’

  “Fragile, but with deep reserves of inner strength,’’ I supplied.

  “Exactly. Like the beaten single mother who had to track down the molester who kidnapped her daughter.’’

  “The Screwbox,’’ I easily filled in the title, even though I’m not as big a movie buff as Mama and my sisters. “How about Jesse?’’ I asked her.

  Savannah’s pretty face darkened. “Jesse’s got a big problem. No one even remembers she was a talented young actress once. All the public sees is her climbing out of a car without undies, or shoving drunkenly at the paparazzi as she stumbles out of some nightclub.’’

  “You know, Jesse’s a lot smarter than she lets on.’’ I told Savannah about Jesse’s father, the emergency room doctor, and the girl’s own medical expertise.

  “You’d never know it. Jesse better figure out whether she wants to be Jodie Foster or Lindsay Lohan.’’ A brief flash of anguish crossed Savannah’s face. “Jesse told Paul she wanted this role to help her get back to practicing her ‘craft.’ I hope she can do that, become a respected actress again.’’