Mama Sees Stars

I thought of my own father’s fatal heart attack. “That must have felt good, to be able to save a man’s life.’’

He shrugged, leaned against the fence on the opposite side of the corral from where the body had been. “It didn’t win me any points, with that dad or any of the others.’’

I got a glimpse of the sad boy he must have been, before the movie career, before superstardom, before he was Greg Tilton, Action Hero. It almost made me forgive him for acting so rashly.

Almost.

“How come you happened to be all the way over here by the corral?’’ I asked.

My voice must have carried a suspicious tone, because he stopped walking and narrowed his eyes at me.

Mama piped up, “Mace is not normally rude … well, at least not that rude. She’s just gotten awful curious about what appear to be coincidences whenever we find a body.’’

His eyes took in Mama—perfectly coiffed hair, lips gleaming with Apricot Ice, hues of orange sherbet from the polish on her sandaled toes to the clip-on baubles on her ears.

“Find a lot of bodies, do you?’’ He gave us the Tilton smirk.

“It’s been a bad couple of years in Himmarshee,’’ I said.

“Well, I came out here to find the corral because I love horses. Ever since I played …’

“… the young gunslinger with a good heart in that Clint Eastwood Western,’’ Mama interrupted excitedly. “It was your break-out role.’’

I looked at her like she’d been replaced by an alien.

“What?’’ she asked. “You’re not the only one who can find out things on the Wide World of the Web. Your little sister Marty helped me research the cast. BTW, she’s a lot more patient on the computer than you are, Mace.’’

BTW? “Who are you?’’

Tilton held up his hands. “What I was going to say, if you’d give me the chance, is that whenever I’m doing a movie that involves riding, I like to get a look at the horses as early as I can.’’

I might have followed that up with another question, but Mama suddenly clutched at her chest and pointed behind me. Only a rare sight would leave her speechless. I turned to see what it was.

“I knew I’d find you out here making friends with the horses, Greg.’’

Even if I wasn’t staring into her famous face, I’d have known that laugh anywhere. It contained the promise of fun, sex, and mystery, all rolled into one musical sound. Kelly Conover.

Tilton grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to shield her from the body. “Don’t look over there, Kelly.’’

She frowned, deepening some tiny lines that Botox must have missed. She was still a stu

“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 i

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.