Mama Sees Stars

“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 gra

A loud whi

“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.’’