“You can’t do any scenes by the horse corral. We’ll be there all day,’’ Carlos said. “Crime scene tape is up. Access is restricted. We may want to remove the section of fence where the victim was found. If we do, the horses might have to be relocated.’’
The assistant director cocked his head toward me. “Can you do that?’’
“If I need to,’’ I said. “There’s a second enclosure we’re going to use for cattle.’’
He head-bobbed, and then turned his eyes to the crowd. It seemed like he was searching for someone. “Anything else?’’ he asked Carlos.
“Just carry on with your business. But keep yourselves available.’’
Bob-bob, head cock: “Will you need to question anyone?’’
“Not yet. Let me see what I have here first.’’ Carlos paused. “Why? Is there someone you think I should question?’’
The assistant director spoke quickly. “No, not at all. No. Of course not.’’
The crowd was hushed, waiting for Carlos to say more. He focused those black lasers of his on Jonathan J. Burt. I could almost feel the poor man squirm under the heat. I can remember getting singed a time or two myself, when Carlos first moved up from Miami and thought my mama was a murderer.
Burt started bobbing. Just as it looked like he might open his mouth to amend his denial, a woman’s shout broke the silence. “Yeeeeeeeee-haw! Let’s get this party started.’’
Jesse Donahue, grown-up ’tween star gone wrong, tossed her cowboy hat in the air, as she walked toward the assembled group. With a Rockette kick, she caught the hat on the pointy toe of her boot. Then, stumbling a bit, she plucked off the hat and returned it to her head. She looked around, probably expecting applause. She got stunned silence from the audience instead.
“Jeez, did somebody die?’’
Several people gasped. Mama’s hand flew to her heart. Jesse, oblivious, took off the hat again, shook out her mane of flaming red hair, and yelled over her shoulder to the trailer she’d just exited. “Toby! Get your hot little butt out here. I need somebody to party with, and there’s nobody here but a bunch of dinosaurs and deadbeats.’’
The trailer door opened. A shirtless Toby Wyle stepped out. I recognized him from my careful reading of the National Enquirer at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow beauty salon, Mama’s workplace. He ranked No. 7 in the tabloid’s list of Hollywood’s Top 10 Teen Hotties.
He stood on the trailer’s wide top step as if it were a stage. And then, slowly, deliberately, he zipped up the open fly on his jeans.
I looked again at Jesse. Her face was flushed, the famous hair caked with sweat and who knows what else. As everyone watched, she mounted the trailer’s steps, grabbed one of Toby’s bare nipples, and playfully tweaked. “C’mon, you ham. Everyone already knows you’re a stud.’’
The tall woman I’d seen earlier handing the sandwich and cell phone to Norman hurried toward the young couple. She whispered in Jesse’s ear. The troubled star clapped a hand over her own mouth, mostly hitting her cheek instead.
“Ohmigod, I’m so sorry!’’
Jesse’s words were a bit slurred. Apparently, the Enquirer had its facts straight about her and substance abuse. Eyes tearing up, she turned to her young co-star. “Toby, you won’t believe it! While we were shagging all morning, somebody shot Norman Sydney.’’
Toby took a step backward, clutching his stomach as if he’d been punched. He was either truly shocked, or a decent actor. I couldn’t remember if Top 10 Teen Hotties said he had real talent, or was just coasting on his stunning looks.
“Where’s Paul? Does he know?’’ Jesse asked.
Shrugs and head-shakes moved around the crowd.
“Paul?’’ Carlos asked.
“Watkins. Our director.’’ Jonathan’s head bobbed. “He’s in charge of every scene in the movie.’’
“I thought you said you shot the horse scene this morning?’’ The lasers recalibrated, focusing on Jonathan again. I thought I smelled the scent of his skin, frying.
He tugged at his bow tie. Bobbed that head a couple of times.
“Well?’’ Carlos prodded.
Jonathan pursed his lips like the classroom tattle-tale he must have been. “Paul told me to do the scene. He said he needed some time away from the set to cool down.’’
“And?’’ Carlos waited.
“He said if Norman got into his face one more time, he was going to kill him.’’
His forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Now it was obvious: September really was too hot in Himmarshee to wear cashmere.
The sandwich-and-cell-phone woman stepped out of the crowd. She smoothed the hem of a jean skirt that was far too short for a woman of her age. “I’m Barbara Sydney, Norman’s ex-wife.’’
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.’’