Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery

by Deborah Sharp

  “Thanks for that,’’ I said. “I wish I hadn’t been such a fool.’’

  She sighed. “You said it at the bar. Love makes us do strange things.’’

  “Is that why you killed Norman?’’ I asked. “To avenge Jesse?’’

  “What?’’ She leaned close to my face; scrunched up her forehead. “Hell, no. What Norman did to Jesse had nothing to do with it. This film was Paul’s absolute last chance to save his reputation as a director. Norman was going to fire him. I couldn’t let him do that. What would I do without Paul’s income?’’

  Get a job? I thought it, but I didn’t say it.

  “I was poor once, Mace. I don’t intend to ever be poor again.’’

  Savannah glanced at her wedding ring, the big diamond winking in the diminishing daylight. She seemed lost in thought. Almost to herself, she said, “All the other stuff was to cause confusion on the set, to divert attention from Paul and me.’’

  “What did you mean when you said Paul did what you told him to do?’’

  “My husband was definitely on board for Norman, but he was reluctant about the rest of it. He didn’t want anyone else murdered. Well, maybe except for Greg Tilton.’’

  “Yeah, that poisoned sandwich could have killed him.’’

  She laughed. “That’s funny, because we had nothing to do with that sandwich. Toby? Yes, that was me; and Paul skinned that cable for Jesse’s close call, too. Johnny Jaybird was in the wrong place at the wrong time, though.’’

  “What do you mean?’’

  “When Paul planted the loaded gun, we thought Toby would use it to rehearse with Greg, not the A.D. Johnny’s talent was useful to us; Greg, we didn’t need.’’

  Thunder clapped, loud enough to split the sky in half. Savannah looked up to roiling black clouds. She stood, dusting her hands against her knees. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Mace. It’s time for the climactic scene. It’s always been the same, way back to the days of silent film. Ever hear of The Perils of Pauline? That poor gal got into some crazy jams. There she’d be, tied to a train track just as a locomotive was bearing down.’’

  Sensing the storm, the cows jostled and shifted together at the pen’s far side. Whip in hand, Savannah gestured toward the animals.

  “Right there is your locomotive, Mace.’’

  I knew it wasn’t possible, but the eyes of the cattle seemed to gleam with menace.

  I watched Savannah’s boots as she strode away, continuing across the pasture in the direction of the horse corral. What was she up to now?

  I did remember seeing those ancient film clips from The Perils of Pauline. Someone always rescued the silent movie heroine at the last possible moment. Unfortunately, my horizon looked pretty scarce on the cavalry.

  I started flexing and contracting the muscles in my wrists, trying to work on loosening the ropes. The pressure eased a bit, but there was no way I’d get the knots untied by the time Savannah returned to carry out the rest of her plan.

  I started to pray. I might be rusty, but I still knew enough to ask for God’s hand to guide me.

  I hoped the big man was listening. Within moments, hoof beats pounded the ground outside the pen. Galloping up, Savannah stopped the Appaloosa just short of the gate. The mare shook, and snorted though her nose, close enough for me to feel a fine mist spray down onto my face. Savannah’s boots hit the ground. The chain jangled as she unwound it from the gatepost.

  The cattle paced on the far side of the pen, their big heads swaying. The Appaloosa stepped through and stood inside the gate, waiting patiently for her rider to remount. Savannah pulled the gate closed, but didn’t chain it.

  The cows, wary, regarded the horse and rider. Thunder crashed like a bomb exploding. A fat raindrop splattered in the dirt beside my head. Savannah began uncoiling the whip from the saddle.

  A huge streak of lightning turned the dark clouds silvery white. In the burst of light, I saw red in the distance. Mama, still wearing Ruby’s red dress and shoes, picked her way across the pasture toward the pen. She’d probably spotted Savannah on the horse, and mistaken her for me. Head down, concentrating on avoiding manure stains on her Ruby shoes, Mama was silent.

  I prayed she’d stay that way. No such luck. Closer now, she called out: “Yoo-hoo! Mace! Honey, you better get in before it really starts to rain …”

  As soon as Mama’s voice rang over the pasture, Savannah whirled in the saddle in her direction. A moment later, Mama, who had quit watching the ground, stepped on the shovel blade. The handle shot up and hit her in the forehead. She staggered backward. Fingers pressed to her forehead, she fought to keep her balance.

  “I’m over here! Help, Mama!’’

  Maybe it was the desperation in my voice, but she caught on quickly for somebody just smacked in the face with a shovel. Of course, it was just the narrow wooden handle, not like the full force of the blade that had hit me.

  Mama’s head swiveled, like a camera panning the three points of a triangle: Savannah in the saddle, unwinding the whip. Me on the ground, in front of the gate. The cows in the corner, awaiting their cue.

  Savannah cracked the whip. The cows scattered, starting into a trot. As the rain fell harder, she edged the horse into the herd, driving the animals into a line that hugged the curve of the fence. One followed another, picking up the pace. I could guess what she was up to. She wanted them to circle the pen a few times, gathering speed, before she funneled them out the gate, and over me.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  As Savannah snapped the whip, Mama grabbed the shovel. She raced toward the gate. “Get back, cows! Go on, now! Get back!’’

  With Savannah in pursuit on horseback, wielding that whip, the animals paid little heed to Mama.

  Dropping the shovel, she fell to her knees beside me. The hem on Ruby’s dress dragged through a puddle of rain and cow manure. Her small, nimble fingers worked at the ropes that bound me. They were the same fingers that had treated my tomboy injuries; patched the childhood clothes I ripped by playing too rough.

  Hooves thundered on the other side of the fence. Mama picked and pulled at the knots. Her breath came in short, frantic gasps. Rain streaked down her face. But when I looked into her eyes, I didn’t see a trace of fear. There was nothing there but steely determination and a mother’s devoted love.

  I saw Savannah, starting to shift the horse’s position. We had only seconds before she’d move the cattle, pushing them through the gate and out the enclosure. Mama gave a final tug, and I was free. I enfolded her into a protective embrace, wrapping my arms and legs around her.

  “Roll!’’ I shouted, taking us both to the sodden ground.

  Entwined like two TV wrestlers, we tumbled over and over, trying to get away, as the animals thundered past. Their huffing breath filled my ears. My arms stung from bits of rock kicked up by their flying hooves. I tucked my head tight over Mama’s and held on, feeling her racing heartbeat clear through her back.

  I wasn’t even certain we were in a safe place, until, suddenly, the cows were gone. Knowing I had to move fast, I let go of Mama. By the time Savannah got herself clear of the stampede and turned to see the results of her deadly plan, I was off the ground and onto the fence. Snatching one of the coiled ropes from a post, I climbed up to straddle the top rail.

  She was in range. I’d get only one chance. Would my muscles remember those endless hours of roping practice, all through my childhood and the years of high school rodeo?

  Coils in one hand, loop in the other, I flipped the rope over my wrist and swung it in circles over my head. Then I let the loop end fly. It floated toward Savannah, seeming to hang forever right above her head. Then the loop dropped, just where I intended it to.

  I jumped from the fence and pulled the rope taut. Savannah was so surprised at being lassoed like a Corriente steer, that she dropped the horse’s reins. With both hands, she tried to free herself from the rope, now tightening against her midsection. Still holding on, I moved hand-over-
hand along the rope as I closed the distance between us.

  Meanwhile, Mama grabbed the shovel and used it to goose the horse’s sensitive flank. The Appaloosa bucked, and started to bolt. Savannah’s boots flew from the stirrups.

  That was the moment I needed. I yanked on the rope with all my strength. She tumbled from the saddle and hit the ground.

  Standing over her, I jerked tight as she strained against the loop. “Don’t struggle, honey,.’ I repeated the words she’d used on me. “It’ll just make it worse.’’

  Mama came up beside me. Jamming the shovel’s blade into the muddy ground just inches from our captive’s face, she said, “Looks like this was your last roundup, Savannah.’’

  “I tell you girls, when that shovel smacked me, I saw stars!’’

  At the horse corral, Mama brought my sisters up to speed on what happened. My fingers explored what felt like a small mountain range of bumps on the back of my head.

  “It was only the handle that hit you, Mama.’’

  “Still …” she cut her eyes at me, and continued her story, “I didn’t know if I’d be able to stand up, until I heard Mace calling out for me to rescue her.’’

  Not surprisingly, in Mama’s tale she had the lead, not the supporting, role. I didn’t care. Fact is, if she hadn’t stumbled onto the scene, I might not be here. I’d be torn and trampled; maybe even dead.

  My sisters had been stuck in a backup on State Road 98, after a tractor-trailer jackknifed across both lanes of the highway. Mama and I were drying out, after the storm’s fierce winds blew the weather system north. The rain clouds were probably pouring misery over Disney World right now, derailing the vacation dreams of legions of tourists.

  The security guard we’d met on the first day of filming had accompanied Maddie and Marty to the corral. “You can’t be too careful,’’ he’d said, with a smitten glance at my little sister. “It’s getting dark, and I didn’t think these ladies should be out here alone. Not with a murderer on the loose.’’

  That’s when Mama and I pointed across the pasture to the cow pen. Savannah was trussed up and tied to the fence. Once the guard picked his eyeballs off his chest, he radioed base camp to call the cops. Then he went to stand watch over Savannah, who made it pretty clear her confessional mood was over.

  “That woman is crazy,’’ she shouted, gesturing toward me with her chin. “I want her arrested! She tried to kill me.’’

  Since I was the one with the goose eggs on the back of my head, and the welts where I’d been hogtied, the guard looked doubtful about Savannah’s claims. The fact that Marty vouched for my non-homicidal character only confirmed his initial decision.

  Now, word seemed to be spreading. One of the Teamsters was easing a big generator truck into the pasture, as crew members hurriedly laid cable and set up movie lights. Soon, dusk would seem as bright as noon.

  Tilton loped toward the corral. Toby was right on his heels, followed by a loose knot of cast, crew and production types. There was Jesse, and Johnny Jaybird; Kelly, and her love-struck shadow, Sam. I didn’t see Barbara or Paul. I wondered if Norman’s ex-wife was even now turning over the director to the law? Or, was she so obsessed with the man she was helping him escape?

  I ran my thoughts past my sisters and Mama. “Savannah said Paul did what she told him to do. He helped kill Norman, and stage the other threats and ‘accidents.’’’

  “Maybe so,’’ Maddie said, “but he probably didn’t agree to share a murder rap.’’

  “I don’t know, girls.’’ Mama, watching the stars approach, patted her hip through the fabric of Ruby’s gown. Had she hurt herself rolling on the ground? “Paul didn’t seem like a bad sort to me. He wore a cross in his ear.’’

  Catching my eye, Marty shook her head and grinned.

  As Tilton drew near, I could see him waving something over his head. “Mace!’’ he yelled.

  My sisters whirled at the sound of his famous voice. Mama’s fingers scrabbled at her hip through the voluminous folds of the dress.

  “Put out your hand,’’ Tilton said, as he reached my side.

  Considering the red outline revealing how hard I’d whacked him with the mane comb, I expected a handshake shock, or maybe a poisonous spider. There were plenty of witnesses, though, so I flipped my wrist and opened my palm.

  In the center, he laid a chocolate and pecan treat, still in its plastic package. Savannah City Confections, the wrapping said.

  “This was in the food basket with the sandwiches I gave to the cops. I forgot I’d taken it out, and put it away for a late-night snack.’’

  “Maddie, run get that gift bag off the horse trailer.’’ I pointed to Savannah’s beribboned present, now sodden and bedraggled.

  She gave me a look.

  “I could have a concussion, sister!’’

  Marty nudged her, and she hurried to get the bag. When she brought it back, I shook out a collection of treats with the same label I’d seen before. Pralines, pecan clusters, and chocolate chunks with veins of marshmallow.

  “It was Savannah,’’ Tilton said, “She tried to poison me.’’

  I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew what Savannah had said about the tainted sandwich. Why would she cop to all the other crimes, and deny that one? Then again, she’d been eager all along to cast suspicion on Tilton, to try to ruin his image. He stared into my face, his eyes shining with honesty.

  I still hadn’t made up my mind whether it was truth or acting, when Mama sidled up to the movie star. Her hand darted to her full skirt like a sparrow after a crumb. She pulled out a little autograph book and miniature pen.

  “Now that our shoot—and the shooting—is over, would you do me the honor?’’ She jabbed the pen at his hand like a student nurse trying her first IV.

  His eyes flashed irritation for a second, then the corners crinkled into a good-natured smile.

  “Why not?’’ He shrugged. “You sure worked for it.’’

  Sirens wailed in the distance. “Carlos!’’ I wasn’t even aware I’d said his name aloud until Marty clutched my hand and squeezed. Maddie patted my back.

  Tilton signed with a flourish and handed Mama back her pen and book. Tucking away the set in the gown’s cavernous pocket, she brought out a tiny mirror and her tube of Apricot Ice.

  “Here you go, honey.’’ She offered both to me. “It was a miracle these didn’t break or get lost the way we tumbled across that ground. I’d say that’s a sign our Lord wants you to spruce up a bit before Carlos gets here.’’

  Mama’s ‘miracle’ seemed kind of paltry, compared with Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead or feeding a multitude with just two fish and a few loaves of bread. Still, I had walked away from what seemed certain death, or at least grave danger. I wasn’t about to argue with a sign.

  “Hand it over,’’ I said to Mama. “Anybody have a hairbrush? Maybe a breath mint?’’

  D’Vora slapped a rolled-up magazine against the counter at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow. Her glittery purple nail polish sparkled in the sunshine pouring in through the salon’s front window.

  “Y’all are NOT going to believe this!’’

  She displayed the front cover of People. A headline screamed, Murderous Movie: What Really Happened in Florida?

  “Does it say if Paul, the director, has turned up yet?’’ I asked D’Vora.

  Betty looked at her over the poodle perm of the bank president’s wife. “How about the shop? Does it talk about Hair Today?’’

  Mama grabbed for the magazine. “Let me see. Does it mention I’m in the movie?’’

  “Well, I didn’t have time to read it.’’ D’Vora ducked out of Mama’s reach, hugging the magazine to her ample breast. “I ran right over as soon as I saw the magazine in my mailbox.’’

  It’d been fifteen days since the movie people packed their gear and exited Himmarshee; two weeks since Savannah was arrested on murder charges. We all gathered around the counter as D’Vora flipped open the magazine and leafed t
hrough the pages. The banker’s wife got up, too, her protective cape billowing around her like a lavender sail.

  The first page of the article showed a big picture of Savannah, sitting in leg shackles in a hallway of the courthouse before her first appearance. Shackles. You’ve got to love our criminal justice system in Florida.

  She’d entered a plea of not guilty, of course, and everybody expected her high-powered attorney to try to cast suspicion anywhere but on Savannah. The photographer had caught the same crooked smile Mama and I had seen when we first met her; the same mad gleam in her eye I originally took for playfulness. Her attorney was right beside her, whispering in her ear. He looked a lot less playful than she did.

  Photos of the stars of the movie ran along the right-hand side of the page.

  “Ooooh, there’s that Greg Tilton. He’s gorgeous.’’ Mrs. Bank President clutched a hand over her heart.

  Tilton would no doubt be pleased his picture was first: top billing. “I could have been killed!’’ The caption underneath was a quote from the action hero.

  Jesse looked horrible in her photo, not to mention high. “Oh, my! I didn’t know they were allowed to use a picture of her shooting somebody the bird.’’ Mama tsked. “That poor gal still hasn’t learned that the media can be an actress’s friend.’’

  Betty raised her painted-on brows.

  “Mama is referring to the article about her role in the movie that Buck Aubrey put in the feed store newsletter,’’ I explained.

  Mama patted her hair. “Publicity is publicity, Mace.’’

  “Listen to this, y’all. It’s about Toby.’’ D’Vora began to read.

  “The young star surprised Hollywood insiders when he agreed to appear as grand marshal in next year’s Gay Pride parade in Long Beach, Calif. Wyle said, ‘I look forward to a day when all people will be treated equally and accepted for who they are, whether they’re straight or gay; black or white; Christian or not …’”

  “That doesn’t sound like too much to ask, does it, Mama?’’

  “Hmm,’’ she said, but didn’t rise to my bait.