Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery by Deborah Sharp

Barbara was so sure of that.
    “If Norman were here,’’ her voice was taunting, “he’d have worked things out by now.’’
    “Yeah?’’ Paul stared at her. “Well, Norman’s not here, may he rest in peace. And there’s not a thing I can do about the fact that he’s dead, or that one of my actors shot my assistant director with a gun that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. How about we let the police do their job, Barbara? Aren’t they still out there, combing the scene?’’
    She nodded.
    “So, once they finish investigating, we’ll get everything sorted out.’’
    Their eyes locked. I hoped birds and small animals stayed out of the charged space between them. Finally, Barbara blinked.
    “Fine. Enjoy your floozies.’’ She shot three withering glances, one each for Mama, Marty, and me, and then stomped away.
    Paul didn’t watch her go. He was staring intently at Mama, Floozy No. 1. “Barbara just gave me an idea. I see you as a beautiful dancehall girl for the scene where all the cowboys blow their money on women and liquor.’’ He put a hand on her chin, lifted it toward what was left of the sunlight. “I’m not kidding. The camera is going to love this face.’’
    Paul’s fingers were tracing the still-smooth line of Mama’s cheek when Sal blustered onto the scene. His face was as dark as a stormy sky over Lake Okeechobee. “We haven’t had the pleasure,’’ he said to Paul, “though I see you’ve met my wife.’’
    Hollywood, say hello to New York City. Ego, meet Ego.
    “Chill, dude,’’ Paul caressed Mama’s face before dropping his hand from her cheek. “I didn’t mean any harm.’’
    The woman who shunned the spotlight didn’t give her husband time to respond before she gushed, “I’m getting a part in the movie, Sally!’’
    “Fuhgeddabout it, Rosie.’’ His eyes still bored into Paul. “Everybody’s heard stories about dis ‘dude.’ Paul Watkins is trouble with a capital T, and you’re a married woman. I forbid it.’’
    Mama got out of the chair, and pulled herself up to her full height. She barely reached Sal’s chest, but still she stared him down. Her eyes were narrowed, firing off sparks.
    “Uh-oh,’’ Marty whispered.
    “You said it,’’ I agreed.
    We both took a few steps backward, putting ourselves out of collateral damage range.
    “Meet me at my Jeep, Mama. I’ll give you a ride to the salon,’’ I shouted over my shoulder, hurrying off with Marty.
    Once we were far enough away, my sister said, “That could get ugly.’’
    “For Sal, anyway,’’ I said. “Mama will flatten him like an armadillo on State Road 98 if he tries to come between her and that spotlight she claims to hate.’’

The bells on the purple door at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow jangled. As we came in, Betty Taylor’s last customer of the day left.
    “Whew.’’ The salon owner exhaled. “This has sure been a day!’’
    “Honey, you have no idea!’’
    Mama plopped herself at the small table where she does her color charts, and launched into a long recitation of the events of her day.
    As I escaped off to the side, behind the cover of a People magazine, she led off with Norman Sydney berating her, barely mentioning his murder in passing. She sidetracked from Paul Watkins returning to the set, to focus on what she believed was the day’s headline: the casting coup for Fierce Fury Past .
    “Oh, Rosalee,’’ Betty clapped her hand to her cheek. “You’re going to be a star! Maybe you’ll get a scene with Greg Tilton.’’
    Mama gave a modest flutter of her lashes. “Well, honey, it’s not 100 percent set in stone yet.’’
    From her nexus at Gossip Central, Betty was able to offer us a tidbit, too: “My sister-in-law’s cousin’s daughter works at the hospital. She says that director who got shot is going to be okay.’’
    “Assistant director, honey. We call him the AD in the movie business.’’
    Behind my magazine, I rolled my eyes.
    Betty