As Maddie’s words hung in the air, I glanced at Marty. Eyes glued to Carlos as he pushed his way through the crowd, she was working on her bottom lip like it was a hunk of taffy.

_____

Jeb was back with his cows; I was back to myself. And now I was angry. Had someone deliberately tried to hurt me? Was it personal? Or, was the light blowing up over the corral at just that moment a coincidence in a string of convenient coincidences? I intended to find out.

“Barbara, do you have a minute?’’

Norman Sydney’s ex-wife was stalking across the set, a can of Coke in one hand and an ice-pack in the other. She rolled her eyes and checked her wristwatch. “I’m on my way to see Toby. I have thirty seconds. What can I do for you?’’

Learn some manners, I thought. But I said, “You heard about the light this morning?’’

She nodded. “I wasn’t far away when it exploded. I saw for myself you weren’t seriously injured, as did many other witnesses.’’

“I’m not interested in suing you, Barbara. I want to know, do you think the light was sabotaged?’’

“What’s your name again?’’

I told her.

“Ah, yes. Somebody told me about you. You’re some kind of hillbilly detective, right?’’

“Guess so.’’ I didn’t bother correcting her about our dearth of hills.

“Well, Mace, the more salient question is whether this latest incident is linked to Norman’s murder. If so, it means someone wants to impact the movie, maybe even shut it down. Frankly, you’re not important enough to the film to be a target.’’

Was that supposed to make me feel better? “Well, who is?’’

“Lots of people. The actors, the director, me.’’

“You?’’

She shrugged. “I was Norman’s business partner. I control the money. And in Hollywood, like everywhere else on earth, everything comes down to money.’’ She looked at her watch. “Your thirty seconds are up, Marsha.’’

“Mace.’’

“Whatever.’’

As she started away, I said, “Just one more thing. If it was deliberate, who has a motive? Who’d want to shut you down?’’

She stopped, and slowly turned. Her eyes avoided mine. “I really don’t want to say.’’

“Look, this is important.’’

She glanced around, like she was checking for eavesdroppers. We were alone outside, about fifty feet from the production office trailer. After I'd convinced my sisters I was okay, they returned to town. Mama had disappeared somewhere. Sal was out on the road to the ranch with the cops and movie security people, fending off reporters and curious townsfolk. Carlos was talking to the electrical chief who supervises lighting and powering for the set.

“I’m the last person to gossip,’’ Barbara leaned toward me and whispered, “but Greg Tilton is unhappy with some of the cuts that have been made to his role. He made his feelings quite clear to Norman, and now to me. More importantly, I saw him skulking around this morning by the lighting equipment. What business did he have there?’’

She positioned her wristwatch under my nose. “Now, I’ve got to run. Time is money, Marsha.’’

Mace.

_____

Perks reflect an actor’s place on Hollywood’s totem pole. Lesser stars share trailers. Big ones relax in spacious luxury. Finding which trailer at base camp was Tilton’s didn’t take long, given my great powers of deduction. That, plus his name was above the red star on his door.

I climbed three metal steps to the door, and knocked.

“I’m rehearsing,’’ came a muffled voice from inside.

“It’s Mace, the animal wrangler.’’ I yelled through the door. “I’m the one who was nearly killed by that light this morning. This won’t take but a minute.’’

Footsteps echoed from inside. The door opened. Tilton was still in his period costume. I guess the wardrobe people figured the rougher and more rumpled his clothes looked, the more believable he was as a Florida frontiersman. Those famous blue eyes assessed me. It was surreal. I still struggled to get my mind around the fact I was standing face to face with the most famous action hero on the planet.

“I heard about the accident,’’ he said. “You okay?’’

I rolled my neck, lifted my shoulders. Winced. “I’ll live.’’

“Good to hear.’’ He stood back, motioning me inside.

The place looked like a high-end man cave. Black-out shades covered most of the windows. A glossy leather recliner was positioned in front of a big-screen TV. The black granite top of a coffee table gleamed. A fat script, a heavy rocks glass, and an expensive-looking bottle of Scotch, Glen-something, sat atop the table.

He nodded at the bottle. “Want a drink?’’

“I’ll pass on the Scotch, but some water would be great.’’

As he went to fetch a bottled water for me from the fridge, I checked out the living area. The room was neat, nearly devoid of human touches. No jacket was tossed over a chair. No open book rested on an arm of the sofa. The only thing out of place was a white coffee cup, which had been washed and set to dry on a dish drainer in a double sink.

Maybe all those years rotating through foster families had taught Tilton to never become too much at home.

My eyes were drawn to the one thing in the room that seemed personal: a display rack over a door that led to a small bedroom showed off a mounted, kid’s-style rifle. I pointed at it when Tilton returned.

“Is that little .22 rifle from a role?’’

“Nah, I’ve had that since I was a boy. It’s about the only link to my childhood that has good memories attached.’’

“How so?’’

He set a coaster on the black granite, placed the glass of iced water on that. Looking at the rifle, he smiled. “One of my first families, the foster dad was a good guy. Rural. Salt of the earth. He taught me to hunt, and he taught me about firearms.’’

My surprise must have shown on my face. He chuckled.

“Remember Charlton Heston? He was a president of the National Rifle Association. Our director, Paul Watkins, collects guns from all the movies he’s done. Not everyone in Hollywood is a Second Amendment-hating liberal.’’

“I didn’t think they were,’’ I lied.

“Right. Anyway, they gave me that old Winchester for Christmas. It was a hand-me-down from one of their ‘real’ kids, but it meant a lot to me.’’ He reached up, brushed a speck of dust from the barrel. “It still does.’’

I wasn’t sure what to say. I thought of Mama and my sisters, and the father I’d loved so much. I couldn’t imagine not having kin, a close family to call your own. Silence hung between us. He hadn’t taken a seat, so I didn’t either. Both of us were still standing.

My eyes shifted from the rifle to a series of promotional posters from his most famous roles. They filled the walls where family photos or paintings might be displayed.

I stepped closer to the wall to check out the Greg Tilton filmography.

“Pretty lame, huh?’’

“Hey, you’ve had a great career. I can see how you’d be proud.’’

He sat in his leather recliner. “Just so you know, someone in my publicist’s office had already hung them when I got to the set. It makes me feel like some kind of museum piece. Nothing like having a pictorial record of growing old, in 27x40-inch frames.”

Funny about perception: When Tilton looked at the posters, he saw himself aging. I saw him saving the world. I had to shake off that good-guy image if I was going to question him about what I’d come to find out. I circled back to stand in front of his chair.

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but did you have anything to do with that light blowing up this morning?’’

He cocked an eyebrow. “Man, you don’t waste any time, do you?’’

“Life’s short.’’

“What makes you think I’d have anything to do with that?’’

I weighed revealing what Barbara had told me. Why was I worried about protecting a woman who never asked how I was, who couldn’t even be bothered to get my name right?