Mama Sees Stars: A Mace Bauer Mystery © 2011 by Deborah Sharp.

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First e-book edition © 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738730837

Book design and format by Donna Burch

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © Doron Ben-Ami

Editing by Connie Hill

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Dedication

To my mother-in-law, Jeanné Sanders, who not only

embraces my books, but also gave me a wonderful gift—

a kind and caring man whose mama raised him right.

Acknowledgments

At a signing once, a reader surprised me with a blunt question: “Why do you acknowledge all those people in your book? You’re the one who wrote it.’’ Aside from the fact my mama taught me to always say thank you, it’s wrong to think an author does it all alone.

As always, I had help. The title, Mama Sees Stars, came from my brilliant cousin-in-law, Mark Prator. My friend and former newspaper editor, Karen Feldman McCracken, improved the manuscript, as she’s done in the past. My fabulous agent, Whitney Lee, also gave it a polish, along with everything else she does. I’m grateful to all of them.

Even before I wrote the book, several people assisted in researching the movie setting. Director Brian Carroll, shooting a small independent movie in Stuart, Florida, invited me to watch. Ashlee Webster clued me in on jargon and who does what. Bet she becomes more than an intern someday! I owe a special debt to movie-set Teamster Red Bedell for behind-the-scenes schooling about large-scale Hollywood productions. As a member of Local 769 in Miami, he’s worked most of the big location shoots in Florida. Jeff Rollason also helped me. Any errors, or exaggerations about murderous movie folk, are mine, not theirs. Kim Loggins invited me to the Bergeron Rodeo Grounds for a closeup with cattle.

I’m grateful to Terri Bischoff and the talented staff at Midnight Ink. Lisa Novak designs great covers; Connie Hill’s editing skills save me; and Courtney Colton spreads the word about my books.

Okeechobee, Florida, the real-life prototype for fictional Himmarshee, is always in my heart. So is the world’s greatest husband, Kerry Sanders, and the world’s greatest mama, Marion Sharp. Both are sources of unfailing love and inspiration.

Finally, I’m indebted to those I named, to anyone I missed, and especially to YOU, for reading this book.

I waited out of camera range, holding the bridle on a saddled horse. Movie lights flooded the scene with brightness. The set was pin-drop quiet.

“Action!’’

I let go of the bridle, slapped the horse on the rump, and stood back so the camera operator could capture the animal racing past. Just as the riderless horse entered a clearing, gathering speed to a gallop, a voice rang out into the silence.

“My stars and garters! Somebody’s let a horse get loose. Don’t just stand there, Mace! Come help me catch him.’’

An orange blur dashed into the animal’s path, waving arms and yelling.

“Cut!’’ The assistant director put his fingers to his temples and massaged. I could tell him it’s not so easy to rub away this kind of headache.

A short bald man in a bright red shirt kicked over a chair on the sidelines. “Security!’’ The word exploded from his mouth. “Would somebody grab that stupid hillbilly?’’

A muscled guy in a baseball cap started toward The Hillbilly, a.k.a. my mama. Cringing, I stepped forward. “She’s with me.’’

The short man came closer and leveled a glare. “And who the hell are you?’’

“Mace Bauer.’’ I offered my hand. He looked at it like it was bathed, palm to pinky, in manure. “I’m the animal wrangler.’’

“And I am not impressed.’’ His leathery face scrunched like he smelled a load of hogs.

As I slipped my unshaken hand into the pocket of my jeans, Mama marched to my side. She smoothed her orange-sherbet pantsuit, fluffed her platinum hair, and straightened to her full four foot, eleven inches. The jerk in the red shirt may have had her by a few inches, but she had the Mama Glare, and it was set at stun.

“Well, who the blue blazes are you? All we know is you’re a rude little man who has no idea how to talk to a lady. By the way, Florida’s as flat as a frying pan, so I can’t be a hillbilly, can I?’’

Whispers and a few snickers traveled around the set. His beady eyes met her glare. “I’m the boss here. The top dog. Let me put it in terms you’ll understand. If this movie set was a barbecue joint, I’d own the building. I’d own the chairs and tables. I’d even own the pigs. And I’d get to say who gets to sit down for dinner, and who doesn’t.’’

Mama, brows knit, glanced at me. “Is he saying I can’t come to his rib joint?’’

I shrugged.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to go there anyway,’’ she said. “I can tell you it’ll never be as popular as the Pork Pit, which has been in Himmarshee forever. Not only do they have ribs to die for, they make the best peach cobbler, too. Besides, the folks at the Pork Pit know how to treat their customers. You certainly have a lot to learn about how to treat people …’’

As Mama went on, I tried to imagine I was somewhere else. The assistant director massaged his head so hard, I thought he’d rub the hair right off his temples. Meanwhile, the old guy’s face was getting purple. Jabbing his cigar, he looked mad enough to pick Mama up and toss her off the set himself.

Just then, a woman stepped up to him with a cell phone in one hand and a sandwich in the other. She whispered in his ear. He handed her his cigar, took the cell phone, and jammed half the sandwich in his mouth. Then he began shouting into the cell.