Her voice had a smoker’s burr, and her words were missing their R’s. Boston, maybe?
Carlos raised an eyebrow. I could almost see his detective’s brain, fitting a jigsaw puzzle together. How “ex-” were they? Was the divorce amiable or acrimonious? Where would Barbara’s piece fit?
“I’m sorry for your loss,’’ he said.
“Thank you.’’ For a moment, the hard features of her face softened. “I cared for Norman once, about a hundred years ago, and we did manage to stay on speaking terms after our split. But I have to be honest with you: The man was not well loved by Hollywood. If Paul Watkins was overheard threatening him …’’
She paused and looked at the assistant director, contempt and skepticism written on her face. He started to explain, but Barbara raised her hand like a traffic cop. Jonathan Burt snapped his mouth shut, and stared at the ground.
She continued speaking to Carlos. “I just want you to know that on any given day, half the cast and crew might have made the same kind of threat. Hell, I’ve threatened to kill him, plenty of times.’’
A few nervous titters could be heard. But as Carlos turned his eyes on the crowd, silence descended. He missed nothing. I knew he was watching for tics, facial expressions, body language. My eyes were on Sam and Kelly. Her beauty was like a magnet, pulling my gaze in. Sam watched her, too. But Kelly’s eyes seemed focused far off in the distance, or maybe in the past. What did she see?
I also noticed that her eyes were clear, with little evidence of her earlier crying jag. If I’d sobbed like she had, my lids would be swollen and puffy. My nose would be a beet. These Hollywood people must have some make-up tricks that not even Mama knows.
On the periphery of the crowd, the young star, Jesse, raised her hand. Carlos nodded at her to speak. She tossed her red hair like the head cheerleader.
“Are we gonna be here much longer?’’
“Are we keeping you from something?’’
“It’s just that I really, really, really need some caffeine, even though the coffee here is a sorry excuse. On my last film, we had a whole coffee bar: cappuccinos, syrups, lattes, espresso—whatever we wanted.’’
“What’s your name, Miss?’’
As Carlos extracted his notebook, Jesse raised her brows at her playmate, Toby, beside her. Then she shot a disbelieving look at Carlos. She shook her hair again. “Uhhmmm, Jesse Donahue? Maybe you’ve heard of me?’’
He took his time writing something, and then finally looked up from the notebook. Smiled. “Sorry,’’ he said. “I don’t read the tabloids.’’
She waved a hand. “Whatev. All I’m saying is I’d love some coffee. And I’d kill to be able to find a half-skim vanilla latte in this stupid hick town.’’
Mama tsk-tsked beside me. Even Toby looked embarrassed. Barbara glared at Jesse. “Maybe you’re too drug-addled to remember, but somebody did just kill my ex-husband. And it probably wasn’t over a latte.’’
Jesse quickly hung her head. “Sorry, Barbara.’’ Her mumbled voice was barely audible. “You’re right.’’
Mama and I exchanged a glance. I put my mouth right next to her ear. “I thought that Barbara was Norman’s lowly assistant this morning, the way she was running after him.’’
“Me, too,’’ Mama whispered back.
Jesse’s head was still down, her hair a tent over her face. Toby and the assistant director were also busy trying to avoid meeting the gaze of the producer’s ex-wife.
“Looks like we had it wrong, Mama. Barbara Sydney is nobody’s assistant. She’s definitely the alpha dog of this Hollywood pack.’’
_____
I sat next to Carlos at a long plastic table under the catering tent. Norman’s murder had put a temporary hold on the morning’s movie-making. Carlos, awaiting the arrival of crime scene techs from the state lab, had a few moments for a coffee break.
“I couldn’t believe that little witch Jesse made such a big deal over coffee. This brew is fine.’’ I showed my nearly empty cup to him and Mama, who sat across from us. “Almost as tasty as a latte, in fact.’’
“What’s a latte?’’ Mama asked.
“It’s delicious.’’ I licked my lips.
“Wrong. It’s a fancy drink with more sugar and foamy milk than coffee, Rosalee,’’ Carlos countered. He favors the strong, black brew known as Cuban crack.
Mama had started to tell us to quit bickering, when a voice sounded above us. “Is this seat taken?’’
The newcomer’s melodious Southern drawl, more boarding school than backwoods, marked her as an outsider to the Hollywood crowd. One of us. Mama perked up, ready to play the down-home hostess.
“Sit right down, honey. We’d be pleased to share our table with you. I’m Rosalee Provenza, and this is my middle daughter, Mace.’’
The woman put down her coffee cup and nodded at me down the table. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ She offered her hand to Mama, long, tapered fingers extended gracefully. Her chestnut-colored hair was sprinkled with gray.
As the drawling woman got comfortable, Mama nodded toward Carlos. “And this handsome man is Mace’s boyfriend. At least he is today.’’
“I’m Savannah. I’m married to Paul Watkins, the director.’’
Carlos slid his notebook onto the table.
She stiffened. “Are you a reporter?’’ The slightest edge crept into her voice.
“Nope. A detective.’’
She stared at him for a long moment, and then chuckled. “Well, honestly Carlos, I don’t know which one is worse.’’
Mama leaned toward her. “Oh, I think a reporter is worse, honey. Carlos is just trying to find out the truth. All those journalists want to do is dig up dirt.’’
“Sometimes it’s one and the same, Mama.’’
I leaned across the table and shook Savannah’s hand. Her grip was firm, but not too firm. She looked right at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. I liked that about her, along with the fact that she hadn’t kneeled at Hollywood’s shrine to youth by dyeing her hair or zapping the laugh lines around her mouth.
Carlos stood up abruptly and announced he was getting a coffee refill. Savannah’s brow inched up. “He gets crazy during a case,’’ I apologized for him.
“He’s come a long way with his manners. But you have to remember, he is from Miamuh,’’ Mama said.
When Carlos was far enough away he couldn’t hear me gossiping, I asked her, “You know about what’s happened, right?’’
She nodded, her lips set in a grim line. “Barbara called and told me. It’s awful, isn’t it? I turned right around and came back to the set. I was already in Jacksonville this morning.’’
“Is that where you’re from?’’
“Only because my mama and daddy didn’t make it all the way to Georgia. I was born in the back seat of an old Ford at a rest stop along US Highway 1.’’ She grinned. “They named me Savannah anyway, since that’s where we were headed when we left Eau Gallie, Florida. Could have been worse. They could have called me Eau Gallie.’’
“Oh Golly!’’ Mama laughed, hands clapped to her heart. “Honey, that’s such a sweet story. Did your folks ever make it on up to Savannah?’’
She sipped at her coffee. “No. Daddy took up with a stripper and ended up leaving us in a $29-a-night hotel room when I was just six months old. It was Mama and me on our own after that. She got the job in the club that the stripper ran off and left.’’
We were quiet. I considered Savannah’s rich-looking loafers and tailored clothes, casual gray slacks and white linen blouse. Her hair was thick and glossy. Tastefully sized diamonds glittered at her ears, around her neck, and on her wedding ring finger. She’d traveled a long way from that $29-a-night hotel room.
Mama said, “Oh, I know all about bad husbands, honey. I’ve had one or two myself.’’
“Mama’s on Husband No. 5,” I said. “Sal’s a keeper though.’’
“That’s not fair, Mace! You know at least o
ne of those husbands was a good man, but a bad match. And, of course, your daddy was my life’s love—until he up and died on me.’’
“On us, too, Mama.’’ It always irked me when she left out the part about three young girls also losing a father.
“Speaking of husbands …’’ Savannah must have sensed the tension between us on this subject. She smoothly changed it, Southern woman that she was. “Have y’all seen mine?’’
Mama pressed her lips together, stopping a stray word from issuing out. I took a quick look to make sure Carlos was still out of sight. And then I plunged in.
“After Mama and I found Norman’s body, the assistant director made a big deal about your husband being missing all morning.’’
“What’d he say?’’
Mama and I looked at each other. I hesitated, wondering how much I should reveal.
“Just tell her, Mace. Someone is bound to.’’ Mama said to Savannah, “My daughter’s an amateur detective. She’s already solved a couple of murders.’’
“My mama exaggerates,’’ I said, as Savannah eyed me suspiciously. “I’m staying out of this mess.’’
Glancing toward the serving line, I still didn’t see Carlos. He probably took his coffee to go. I took a deep breath and told her how Jonathan J. Burt had as good as called her husband a killer.
“Johnny Jaybird? That little twerp!’’
Savannah, imitating, bobbed her head. I immediately understood the assistant director’s nickname.
“His voice is squawky, too, just like a blue jay,’’ Mama said.
“Well, he’s squawking up the wrong tree this time,’’ Savannah said. “My husband has done just about every job there is on a movie set, from grip to script. Paul’s forgotten more than that little runt will ever know about film-making!’’
Savannah seemed to be working herself into a lather, defending her husband. Mama patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. If that Johnny Jaybird is trying to cast aspersions, the truth will win out.’’
“Paul wasn’t even scheduled to be on the set this morning. He was out scouting tomorrow’s location. Today, he’s shooting all afternoon, and into the evening. For all I know, that pint-sized creep took it upon himself to be Paul’s stand-in. What scene did he film?’’
I told her about the galloping and re-galloping horse.
“Figures. He fancies himself an action director.’’
“So where is your husband, then?’’
I was startled to hear Carlos asking the question. We’d been so wrapped up in our conversation, none of us had noticed him hunkered over a table off to our side, his back to us. That explained the quick departure. His plan all along had probably been to sneak back and eavesdrop. How long had he listened? He turned around, regarding the three of us over the rim of his coffee cup.
Savannah coolly met his eyes. “Paul is probably off tromping through the woods right now. He loves the natural side of Florida. He wants to do it justice in the movie. I’ll bet he’s sitting under a cypress tree somewhere, staring up through the needles at that beautiful blue sky and imagining how things were, back in the olden days.’’
Just as Savannah finished summing up her husband’s high opinion of authentic Florida, a crash sounded in the woods behind the catering tent. A string of curses followed. A sixty-something man in a bush vest, cargo pants, and a long gray ponytail stumbled out of the palmetto scrub. His face was bright red. Skunk vine trailed from his ankles. His pant legs were stained with black mud and sopping wet up past his knees.
“Paul!’’ Savannah called out.
He lurched toward us, swatting at bugs with both hands. I smelled the insect repellent on him before he arrived.
“Remind me again, Savannah. Why’d I ever take on a film in this God-forsaken state? ‘A Land Remembered’? It should be ‘A Land Forgotten’.’’
Carlos stood up. “Love it or hate it, you better get used to it. Nobody leaves Himmarshee until we find out who killed Norman Sydney.’’
“I can’t believe Greg Tilton moved that poor dead man off the fence.’’ My sister Maddie polished off one chicken drumlet and reached for another. “Maybe he thought he was doing a scene from Rescue.’’
“Which one is that now?’’ I asked.
Maddie snapped her fingers in front of my face, but since they were slick with pesto sauce, it was more of a sssttt than a snnaap.
“The one about paramedics. You’re going to have to study up if you want to be in the film industry, Mace. People will expect you to know these things.’’
“I’m moving horses and critters from place to place, Maddie. I’d hardly say that makes me a Hollywood insider.’’
“It’s an important job, Mace,’’ Marty said.
“Do you suppose I can get Greg’s autograph now?’’ Mama asked.
“Still not a good time, Mama,’’ I warned.
We’d been bringing my sisters up to speed on the morning’s events when Mama’s new cousin by marriage stopped by the table in her catering tent to talk.
“So, whaddaya think of my prosciutto and provolone panini?’’ C’ndee Ciancio hovered over us, beaming proudly.
“Well, honey, I’m not sure I could spell it, but I sure can eat it.’’ Mama took a bite to demonstrate. “It’s delicious, almost as good as the pulled pig on a bun at the Pork Pit.’’
Maddie had taken a couple of days off from her school principal’s job, while her assistant principal filled in. Marty was on vacation from her job at the Himmarshee library. Both had agreed to help me with the animals, mainly so they’d get the chance to see some Hollywood stars. So far, I hadn’t needed their help. But that didn’t stop them from coming out to the location shoot, especially after Mama called to tell them about the murder.
Mama’s new friend, the security man, only needed one look at the doll-sized Marty—big blue eyes, shiny blond hair, and a face so innocent it’d break your heart. He waved her and Maddie over to the tent to join us. My big sister didn’t even need to pull out her scary school administrator routine.
Now, C’ndee glanced around the tent, which was set up next to her catering truck. “Where’s Sal?’’ She raked bright red fingernails through her mane of black hair. “He loves my sandwiches.’’
Sal was helping the police keep looky-loos away from the corral, now a crime scene. Carlos was working out there, too.
“Wrap up a couple of those pan-ninnies in a little to-go bag, hon. I’ll make sure Sal gets them when I leave,’’ Mama said.
“Will do, Rosalee. I better run. Enjoy, girls.’’
Maddie waved goodbye with a drumstick. Marty toasted C’ndee with a glass of sparkling Italian soda. “I love this raspberry flavor,’’ she called after her. “It may replace sweet tea as my favorite.’’
Over the last several months my sisters and I had become friendly with C’ndee. We forgave her for bulldozing her way into Mama’s wedding, not to mention for being from New Jersey. Her new business, C’ndee’s Ciao, was doing well, even though no one in Himmarshee could pronounce it. The second word is Italian, and you’re supposed to say it like “chow.’’
“Mace, pass me some of that aioli, would you?” Maddie pointed her drumlet at a little pot of sauce on the table. The Pork Pit would call it mayonnaise.
“A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, Maddie.’’
My older sister shot Mama a glare. “I happen to be big-boned.’’
Marty nodded. “That’s true. She is, just like the two of us are little shrimps, and Mace is tall and slender. That’s genetics, Mama.’’
“Well, I read in the Enquirer that Kelly Conover triumphed over her weight issues with a cabbage soup diet. Maybe you could try that, Maddie.’’
“Humph!’’ Maddie harrumphed, a habit she must have gotten from Mama in her chromosomes.
Marty changed the subject from food to a less emotional topic. “Are you going to solve the murder, Mace?’’
“I’m staying out of it. These Ho
llywood people are crazy.’’
Marty got a dreamy look on her face as she sipped her raspberry drink. “Do you suppose Toby and Jesse are really a couple?’’
Mama slathered her panini with aioli. “Well, they were definitely coupling in her trailer. Somebody ought to call the scandal sheets and tell them about that, especially after Jesse sat right on Oprah’s couch and told her she’d gotten treatment for her sex addiction.’’
“Sisters, you should have seen Jesse get all meek and scared-looking when the producer’s ex-wife yelled at her,’’ I said. “Total transformation. Something is definitely up with that Barbara Sydney.’’
Maddie took a sip of Marty’s soda, and made a face. “Ewww, needs sugar. Wouldn’t that be horrible to be Barbara, and find out your ex had been murdered?’’
Mama shrugged, and swiped her knife through Maddie’s pesto. Maddie pulled the plate out of her reach. “I can see you’re all choked up, Mama. It's amazing you being so upset over the murder hasn’t spoiled your appetite, or stopped you from stealing off my plate.’’
“Well, of course I mourn the passing of any one of God’s creatures, girls.’’
“While you’re mourning, you might want to wipe that dribble of pesto off your chin,’’ Maddie said.
Mama dabbed, and then put down her sandwich. “Truth is, I can’t muster up a single tear for that man. All I knew about him is he screamed at me for no good reason this morning. The great acting coach Stella Adler might say I could channel the anger I felt at him into my craft, if I can get a part.’’
Mama had been poring over library books on the actor’s “craft,’’ which was vaguely troubling to my sisters and me. I was about to tell them why Norman had screamed at her, when a ruckus broke out from the serving line. Jesse’s voice was raised in an angry shout.
“I won’t eat that! It’s not vegetarian anymore. You got blood from the roast on the serving utensil.’’ She batted at C’ndee’s spoon. “Where’d they hire you? The animal slaughterhouse?’’
C’ndee jabbed back at her with the big spoon, bringing it just inches from Jesse’s nose. She ratcheted up the volume on her Jersey foghorn voice. “This spoon did not touch anything but your precious vegetable medley. Although from what I’ve read about all the crap you put into your body, a little beef jus would be the least of your worries.’’
Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery Page 3