Текст книги "Mama Sees Stars"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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 pointed her purple styling comb toward the pile of fabric swatches and folders, untouched on Mama’s table. “So, how are you coming with that color chart, Rosalee?’’

Color Me Beautiful, the folders said in purple script across the front.

“Don’t fret, Betty. This won’t take but a few minutes to put together. Lori from the Chamber has the same coloring as Mace. She’s a pure Winter, just like Mace. I know the colors that will flatter her the most. I could pick them out in my sleep.’’

I lifted my face out of People. “It’s true, Betty. She could. She’s only told me a thousand times or so exactly what colors I should wear.’’

Mama speaks with authority on the topic. For $35, she gives a diagnosis on whether a Hair Today customer is a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall. She offers counsel on wearing warm tones or cool ones, dark colors or pastels. She also throws in an aromatherapy candle, and the cardboard folder with fabric samples in colors to beautifully complement eyes, skin tone, and hair.

She leaned over and held a bubble gum-colored swatch to my face. I’d sooner be hog-tied and dunked in a pit full of gators than wear pink.

“I just want you to make the most of what God gave you, honey. Is that so wrong?’’

“Your mama is one-hundred percent right, Mace.’’ Betty approached with a gleam in her eye, wielding that comb like a weapon. “When are you going to let me go to work on that gorgeous hair of yours? It has so much potential.’’

I tented the People over my head, protecting every snarl and split end of my thick, black hair. “I was just here. How could I forget those Scarlett O’Hara ringlets you gave me for Mama’s wedding?’’

“That was over three months ago.’’ Betty picked up a pair of scissors and made snip-snip noises around my ears.

“Oh, leave her alone, honey. If Mace wants to go around looking like a possum crawled in her hair and built itself a nest, that’s her business.’’

Betty sighed, and holstered her scissors. I let out the breath I’d been holding. Inhaling, I got a nose full of the shop’s warring scents: fruity shampoos and flowery conditioner, nail polish and permanent solution. I’m sure some people found a beauty parlor’s signature smell pleasing, but it made me think of a fruit roll-up dipped in ammonia.

Ducking behind the magazine again, I made my way through pictures of fashion faux pas from the Hollywood red carpet, through a story about a 911-dialing dog that saved his owner, and through a profile of the movie industry’s troubled young stars. Jesse was prominently featured, slouching in a booth at some New York nightclub. Her eyes were at half-mast; she clutched a drink and cigarette in her hand.

“Mace, what are you so interested in over there? Why don’t you come over and tell me what you think of the chart I’ve put together?’’

“I’m just getting to a story about a family that staged a kidnapping of one of their kids so they could get on a reality TV show.’’

Shaking her head, Betty stabbed a handful of combs into a sterilizing solution. “What is wrong with people today?’’

“Some folks will do anything to be famous,’’ Mama said. “Forget about the trash in that magazine, honey. We’ve got a better story right here in Himmarshee than anything in People.’’

Mama ran a glue stick across the top edge of some of the intense Winter colors I knew by heart: royal blue, imperial red, emerald green. She pressed them into her folder. I hoped poor Lori Whoever wouldn’t mind being bossed by Color Me Beautiful.

Betty’s apprentice, D’Vora, came from the back with her arms full of fresh-laundered purple smocks, still wrinkled from the dryer. “Have you got the movie set murder solved yet, Mace?’’

“No interest, D’Vora. I’m staying out of this one. Plus, I may be too busy trying to keep Sal and Mama from killing each other.’’

D’Vora’s brows went up in a question. Her purple eye shadow matched everything else in Betty’s shop.

Mama waved a hand airily. “Mace is exaggerating, girls. It’s nothing serious. Every once in a while, Sal has to be reminded of who’s boss.’’

I snorted. “Keep flirting with that creepy director and we’ll have another murder on our hands. Either Sal will kill him, or Barbara will kill you.’’

“Barbara?’’ All three of them turned puzzled frowns on me.

I explained to D’Vora and Betty that Barbara was the dead producer’s ex-wife, and then said to Mama, “Anyone with eyes can see she has a thing going with Paul Watkins.’’

“But he’s married.’’ Mama frowned. “We met that sweet wife of his. She’s a Southerner; name’s Savannah.’’

D’Vora picked up a smock from the load she’d dropped on a chair and snapped it, as loud as a gunshot. “Oh, I’ve been there, done that. Since when has being married ever stopped a man from cheating?’’

“Trouble with Darryl again, honey?’’ Mama looked up from her glue stick.

Betty shook her head. “That boy’s name is trouble. D’Vora’s too good for him, and she’ll realize it someday.’’

“That mo-ron brought home another rottweiler puppy.’’ She shook another wrinkled smock, crack. “Like that’ll make up for him staying out all night.’’

“How many dogs is that now, honey? Three?’’

“Four,’’ Betty answered for D’Vora. “In a trailer.’’

“It’s a manufactured home,’’ D’Vora said.

“If I were you, I’d skip picking up that 12-pack for Darryl on your way home tonight,’’ Betty said. “Drinking is a big part of that boy’s problem, and all you’re doing is enabling him.’’

D’Vora’s eyes went wide. “Darryl’s got me so distracted, I forgot to tell y’all the biggest news. I saw Kelly Conover yesterday in this little tiny convertible, right behind me in the drive-thru at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze. No make-up, her hair all knotted from the wind.’’

D’Vora waved her hands around her own immaculately done hair and face to demonstrate. “I was way up high in our pickup, and I could see her in the rearview. She had on a big ugly T-shirt with stains and sweat pants that looked like pajamas. She looked really upset. Not like a movie star, for sure.’’

The gleam returned to Betty’s eye. “Maybe you could drop Kelly a hint about our services at Hair Today, Rosalee.’’

Mama shook her head. “No can do, Betty. On-set hair and make-up artists take care of all that for those of us in the cast. It’d be like Buck at the feed store outsourcing his cattle supplements.’’

“Maybe Kelly just needs a break from looking gorgeous. Did you ever think of that?’’ I asked.

Mama gave a thoughtful nod. “I can tell you it’s an awful pressure to be famous for your beauty, girls. People judge you all the time.’’

She stood, leaning close to the mirror to examine her face. Out came the Apricot Ice lipstick. She applied a fresh coat, and then popped her lips as if blowing herself a kiss. “I can understand just how that poor Kelly feels, bless her heart.’’

The only sound in the shop was D’Vora, snapping those purple smocks.

I heard the music thumping from the Eight Seconds Bar even before I opened the door. Toby Keith was singing some song about putting America’s boot in the butt of the rest of the world.

I took a deep breath of outside air, and walked in. The place smelled like man sweat and spilled beer.

The lighting was dim inside the dive just over the Himmarshee County line. But it wasn’t so dark I couldn’t see Jesse Donahue doing a routine out of “Coyote Ugly’’ on the top of the bar. Several cowboys hooted, hollered, and cheered her on as she danced back and forth. She stomped her high-heeled boots, her long legs flying in her second-skin jeans. Between the jeans’ strategic rips and glittering rhinestones, and her breasts overflowing a matching rhinestone halter, she looked like she’d been shopping at the hootchie ho’ outlet store.

I was surprised to see Toby in a booth off to the side. A can of Coke and a glass of ice sat beside a cowboy hat on the table. Alone, he watched Jesse’s performance with a dark frown on his face.

Carlos sat at the far end of the bar. Empty seats on either side created a protective barricade, as he nursed the one beer he’d keep all night. He alternated between aiming disapproving looks at Jesse, and keeping watch over Toby. I crossed the room.

“Hey.’’ The kiss I planted on his cheek caused a small crack in the granite of his jaw.

“Hey, yourself.’’ He stood, smiled, and took my arm. “Let’s get a booth where it’s quieter.’’

With one last lip curl of contempt at Jesse, he steered me to a spot where he could still survey the room.

“That girl is making a spectacle of herself. It’s not right.’’ He waited for me to slide in first, and then sat beside me in the booth, both of us looking out. “She needs a Cuban tía for a chaperone. She’d be afraid to misbehave.’’

“Tía?’’

“Auntie. Nothing gets past them.’’

“The real shame is that Jesse is a lot smarter and competent than she lets on.’’ I told him about how in-charge she’d been when Toby shot Johnny Jaybird.

Then I nodded toward Toby. “He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying Jesse’s showy side much. I thought you’d have him in jail by now, enjoying bread and water and doing hard labor.’’

“Well, he’s a minor. And I’m not sure about intent. Toby swears he thought the gun was loaded with blanks. The reason he thought that is because it’s a replica of the prop gun. The one with the blanks is still in the possession of the prop master. They’re really careful about that on movie sets, ever since Brandon Lee was fatally shot on the set of The Crow.

“So the copy was loaded?’’

He nodded.

“Where’d it come from?’’

“Good question. Toby says he found it right outside his trailer before lunch. He decided to pick it up and rehearse with it, thinking it was the gun with blanks.’’

“So it was planted?’’

He picked at the paper label on his beer bottle. “Looks like it.’’

“By whom?’’

He shrugged. “Are you going to investigate, as usual?’’

“You can wipe the smirk off your face. This one is all yours. I hate to say it, but I don’t really care who murdered that jerk of a producer.’’

He winked at me. “So you say now. We’ll see. Anyway, I still have a lot of questions to answer about how that gun came into Toby’s hands. Prosecutors like their i’s dotted and t’s crossed when it comes to filing formal charges of attempted murder, or even assault.’’

We both glanced toward Toby, who still hadn’t poured his soda. He stared morosely into the glass of ice.

“He’s not going anywhere,’’ Carlos said. “Besides, Barbara’s protecting him, and she can be pretty persuasive.’’

I raised my brows. Where was the hard-case Miami detective of a year or so ago? Carlos had tossed my mama into jail on less evidence than he had here. Of course, there were extenuating circumstances with Mama. There always are.

“The kid has had it pretty rough.’’ He sipped his beer. “His parents see him as an investment. The way Barbara tells it, she’s the only person in the world who really cares about him.’’

“Yeah. Earning fifteen percent off him really brings out the maternal instinct.’’

He leaned back in the booth and frowned.

“What?’’

“It’s a rare day when you’re more cynical than I am. Who’s Miami here and who’s Himmarshee?’’

“Can’t help it. I don’t trust these Hollywood people. I can’t tell their real emotions from their fake.’’

Across the room, Jesse was trying to pull one of the biggest cowboys up on the bar to dance with her. Instead, he lifted her into the air like she was a fluff of dust. He had one hand on her butt, and the other on a breast as he spun her onto the dance floor. Jesse made no effort to remove either hand.

“My daddy would have whipped me like a mule if I ever acted like that.’’

“Toby looks like he’s considering doing just that,’’ Carlos said.

The young star’s eyes were slits. His fists were clenched. Before we could react, he sprang out of the booth, raced across the floor and jumped onto the big cowboy. He looked like a Yorkie going after a Great Dane.

“Get your hands off her!’’ Toby hung on, pounding one wimpy fist against the cowpoke’s broad back.

Jesse wriggled free of the fight, just as Carlos and I rushed the dance floor. We weren’t fast enough to stop the cowboy from plucking Toby off his back like an annoying bug. He dangled him two feet off the floor, with Toby squirming like a puppy held by the scruff.

“Don’t hit him in the face,’’ Jesse yelled, backing away. “Not in the face!’’

Carlos pulled out his detective’s gold badge just as the bartender rushed in, hoisting a baseball bat. The cowboy wasn’t too drunk to weigh the consequences of going up against either the badge or the bat. He swung Toby a couple of times, then tossed him to the floor. Raising his hands in the air, he stepped away backwards. His friends tightened into a knot around him. I saw Carlos wade in, holding his badge high and shuffling the cowboy toward the door like a calf cut from the herd.

Toby, stunned, was flat on his back like a plopped-over turtle. I offered him my hand. He gathered his breath, and then moaned as I helped him off the dirty floor.

“You’re lucky that bulldogger didn’t pound you into dirt,’’ I said. “He’s a big ol’ boy.’’

“What’s a bulldogger?’’

“A rodeo cowboy who specializes in wrestling 500-pound steers to the ground.’’

His mouth dropped open as he stared after the departing cowpoke.

“The Eight Seconds Bar is a rodeo hang-out,’’ I said. “Eight seconds is how long a rider has to stay on a bull or a bronc to qualify.’’

“That doesn’t seem like very long.’’

“Try it sometime. It feels like an eternity.’’ I supported him as he limped to a seat. “Speaking of getting hurt, how are you?’’

He rubbed gingerly at his right elbow, and then leaned down to touch his knee.

I signaled the bartender. “Can we get some ice?’’

Toby slowly raised his right arm. “I must have hit the floor on this side of my body.’’

“What were you thinking?’’

His eyes darted toward Jesse. My gaze followed his to find her in the crowd, flirting with a new cowboy. Seemingly forgotten: the fight and Toby’s close call with the bulldogger.

“She’s not worth it.’’

I immediately regretted my words, as Toby’s head snapped back toward me. His face reddened. “You don’t even know her!’’

“I know what I see. She’s playing you, Toby.’’

His eyes got round. “She is not! She cares about me. We’re in love.’’

No wonder Carlos went easy on him. He was like a lamb, gamboling innocently to slaughter. Just as I was wishing I had my sister Marty here to help me find some sensitive, soothing words, the bartender delivered a beer bucket of ice. I divided it into three bar towels, and gave them to Toby.

“Rest those where it hurts.’’

His beautiful lips curved into half a smile. “I don’t think the bar has enough ice for that. I wonder if this is how the bulldogged steer feels?’’

I laughed, and felt the tension between us fade. We sat for a few moments. Toby shifted the icy towels to their best advantage, while I checked out the bar scene. I was watching for Carlos to return when the door swung open. Barbara stepped through. Toby saw her, too. His face brightened, and he sat up straighter. He yelled to her and waved. She didn’t notice. Paul Watkins was right behind her, and she turned, crooking a finger into his collar to pull him inside.

Paul threw an arm around Barbara’s shoulders. She turned to press every inch of her body to his: breast to chest, groin to groin, thigh to thigh. They broke apart, and then beelined to a corner booth.

At our table, a few moments passed in awkward silence. “She must not have seen you,’’ I finally said to Toby. “And the music’s really loud in here.’’

He shrugged. “Barbara’s laydar is up.’’

“Laydar?’’

“Yeah, like radar, except it detects the prospects of her getting laid.’’

I turned my head. Barbara straddled Paul’s lap; his hands were under her blouse. Their shared kiss was hot enough to singe the red leather seats in their corner booth.

“It looks to me like her prospects are pretty good,’’ I said.

I tossed the keys to my Jeep into the gaping mouth of Al, my combination coffee table art and conversation piece.

“Nice dunk,’’ Carlos said.

“Thanks.’’

“That still kills me.’’

“What? That I’m such an incredible shot?’’

He grinned. “No, that you keep a dead alligator’s head in your living room like a sculpture. Who does that?’’

Before Al was a taxidermy exhibit, he was a nuisance gator, which basically means too many people moved into what used to be Al’s Florida domain. My state-trapper cousin and I wrestled the ten-footer out of the swimming pool of a newcomer—who loved the notion of living in a natural setting, until nature came to call.

“Hey, don’t they say art is in the eye of the beholder?’’ I asked.

“I think that’s ‘beauty’ that’s in the eye, niña.’’

“Well, Al was beautiful, in his way. It’s not his fault he crashed some guy’s pool party.’’

Carlos shuddered. “¡Dios mío! Lucky no one was killed.’’

I looked over at Al, in profile. As always, I imagined that beady glass eye of his judging me. Murderer, it said.

A plaintive yowl issued from the bedroom. It was followed by another, even louder.

“Hush, Wila!” I made the Shhhh sound, to no avail.

Carlos nodded toward the room, where my foster cat was pouting under a pile of dirty clothes. “Is she going to speak to me tonight?’’

“Oh, she’ll speak, but more likely she’ll speak about you rather than to you.’’

Wila’s Siamese nose was out of joint because the two of us normally had my little cottage to ourselves. Tonight we had company. Carlos and I usually used his apartment in town when we got together. But he was renovating, and his one bathroom was out of commission. I didn’t think his landlord would appreciate me peeing in the backyard.

I still couldn’t believe I shared my living space with a noisy cat. I’m a dog person. Wila came my way the summer Mama discovered a dead man in her turquoise convertible. With everything else going on back then, it seemed too complicated to try to find the cat a real home. She turned out to be smart and funny, with a personality all her own. Truth is, Wila’s grown on me. She’s pretty cool, for a cat.

Meowrrrrr.

Well, except for that. Siamese love to hear the sound of their own voices. Kind of like Mama, come to think of it.

Carlos covered his ears.

“She’ll settle down after I feed her,’’ I said. “Then she’ll get used to you being here. Just don’t try to approach her before she’s ready.’’

MEOWRRRRR.

“You don’t have to worry about that.’’ Wincing from the sound, he took a seat on the couch.

After I set out the cat’s food, I puttered about the kitchen. I grabbed a couple of beers, a can of peanuts, and a roll of paper towels for Carlos and me.

“Don’t go to any trouble,’’ he called from the living room.

I looked at the meager offering. Martha Stewart I’m not. “You don’t have to worry about that.’’

The cat waited long enough so she wouldn’t seem desperate. Then, streaking past Carlos like she believed speed made her invisible, she tore into the kitchen to eat. A blessed quiet reigned in my cottage. Nights were getting cool enough to open the windows. Nature sounds filtered in through the screens. A bullfrog croaked from a distant creek. An owl hooted. The breeze ruffled leaves on the oak trees that shade my property.

When I joined Carlos, his head was leaned back on the couch, his eyes closed.

“You asleep?’’ I whispered.

“Just resting my eyes.’’ He took the bottle of beer I offered, and gave me a weak smile. “Long day.’’

“Probably be another one tomorrow.’’

He took a swallow of beer. Closed his eyes again. I waited what I thought was an appropriate time, and then asked, “So, who do you think killed Norman Sydney?’’

His eyes slowly opened. He shook his head. “You’re kidding me, right?’’

“What?’’

“Not tonight, Mace. I just want to kick back and unwind. I don’t want to be interrogated.’’

I got a little huffy. “It’s hardly an interrogation. It’s just one little question.’’

“I thought you weren’t interested in trying to solve this case. You said, and I quote: Those weird Hollywood people can kill each other off for all I care.’’

“Right. And I’m not getting involved. That doesn’t mean I’m not curious, though.’’

“Curiosity killed the dog.’’

“Cat,’’ I said. Sometimes Carlos confuses his English-language aphorisms.

“Okay, cat.’’ He rested his head on the back of the couch again.

I looked at his face and saw stress and fatigue written there. Carlos was right. I had vowed to steer clear. And it wasn’t worth us arguing over. I clinked my bottle softly against the one he held in his hand.

“Bottom’s up,’’ I said. “Let the stress release begin.’’

By the time we polished off our beers and half the can of peanuts, we were both feeling mellow.

“How about dessert?’’ Carlos said.

I remembered finishing off a bag of Oreos in front of the TV.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything sweet in the house.’’ I picked a stray peanut off his chest.

“I think you do.’’ He looked at me, desire suddenly sparking in those bottomless-pool eyes.

“Oh.’’

I fed him the peanut. He bit gently at my fingertip, and then ran his tongue around the nail. With his finger, he traced a trail across my lips, down my chin, and then slowly, slowly along the outside of my throat. I swallowed. When his lips followed the path his finger had made, I shivered, even though my body was the opposite of cold.

“Yeah,’’ he said. “Oh.’’

He brought his face back to mine. Our lips met. His tasted like peanuts. That wasn’t a problem. I could eat peanuts all day.

I stood, held out my hand, and pulled him to his feet. “On second thought,’’ I said, “I might have a sweet treat or two hidden in my bedroom.’’

“¡Qué bueno! I love a treasure hunt.’’

_____

Afterward, I lay in my bed behind Carlos as he slept. With my thumb, I followed the curlicue of a cowlick at the back of his neck. I straightened it, and then watched it spring right back to its original position.

It struck me that our relationship was a little like that stubborn curl. I could try to force it into something it wasn’t, or I could just let it grow the way it wanted to. I listened to the even rhythm of his breathing. Heat from his body warmed me as I pressed my naked body against his. I felt well loved. It seemed like more than just the physical afterglow of sex. Was it real happiness?

I wanted to shower, but I could feel myself dropping off to sleep. I felt the familiar heaviness, the letting-go of muscle tension in my limbs. I was beyond relaxed. Why fight it? My body had just begun floating downward into the mattress’s soft embrace when the shrilling of the telephone jarred me back to consciousness.

Beside me, Carlos grumbled and buried his head in a pillow.

The nightstand clock said 10:37—late for idle chit-chat. I hoped nothing had happened to Mama, or to one of my sisters. The number displayed on the phone was local, but not one I recognized. My hand shook a bit as I picked up the phone and said hello.

“Hey, darlin,’ long time no see.’’

I gasped, and felt Carlos’s body go rigid beside me. He was wide awake now.

“Well, say something, why don’t you?’’ The caller’s tone was light, joshing. “Sorry it’s late. I just wanted to call to let you know it looks like we’re going to be working together out there on that movie set.’’

I tried to get my tongue and lips to form some words. All I managed was a little squeak.

A low, sexy chuckle came over the line, hitting me hard in the memory bank. “I expected a little more of a response to the news than that.’’

Instinctively, I turned my back to Carlos, hunching my shoulders and tucking the phone close to my mouth. Even in the dim moonlight that shone through the bedroom window, I knew Carlos would be able to read the emotions on my face. If he did, what would he see?

A tapping issued from the phone, like the caller was knocking the mouthpiece against something to make sure it was working.

“Is this thing on? Are you there, Mace?’’ He paused. “It’s me. Jeb Ennis.’’