“Barbara said she saw you hanging around the lighting gear.’’ I filled him in on what she claimed was a possible motive that he’d want the picture shut down.

When I’d finished, he smirked at me. “A highly reliable source, Barbara.’’

“What do you mean?’’

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, pointed the bottle toward the sofa next to his recliner. “Have a seat. You’re making me nervous.’’

I sat, stiffly. I was sure to have a bruise where Jeb knocked me down. Not taking my eyes off Tilton’s, I waited for him to answer.

“Listen, I’ve been in Hollywood a long time. I’m used to people lying about me, spreading gossip. I’m not surprised the same bullshit is happening here. But that’s all it is.’’ He took a swallow of the Scotch. “I’m completely happy with my role in this film. I wanted the part, and I wanted to work with the other actors they’ve hired.’’

“Even Toby?’’

“Especially Toby. He’s the next Leo DiCaprio.’’

I searched his face for evidence he was lying, or being sarcastic. I didn’t see it.

“Maybe you should ask Barbara what she was doing when she claimed she saw me.’’

“Barbara? What would she have to gain?’’

“She wanted out of this production almost from the start. It’s bleeding money, and she never believed there’d be an audience for the film once it’s finished. You know she and Norman were still in business together, right?’’

I nodded.

“Well, they fought like crazy about even taking on this project. Barbara would have had a good reason to see her ex-husband dead. Now that he is, she’d be a lot better off financially if this movie would just go away.’’

He drank again, his blue eyes beaming sincerity at me from above the rim of his glass.

Leaving Tilton’s trailer, I looked up to see clouds massing and a helicopter circling. Stymied on the ground, the media was taking to the air to try to get pictures of the private ranch where Fierce Fury Past was filming.

When the sun peeked out, I caught a quick flash from the corner of my eye of a sparkling diamond earring and chestnut-colored hair.

“Hey, you!’’

As Savannah Watkins turned toward me, a wide smile lit her face. “Girl, I am so happy to see you standing on two feet. I heard about your close call. You must feel as lucky as a cat on a cream truck.’’

“Yeah, I should buy a lottery ticket,’’ I said. “Listen, you knew Norman pretty well, didn’t you?’’

She nodded, thick hair swinging against her cheek.

“How about his ex-wife?’’

“Oh, I know Barbara. Everybody in Hollywood knows Barbara. Why do you ask?’’

I’d only met Savannah the day before, but for some reason I felt I could trust her. Maybe it was the Southern accent. Maybe it was her friendly, down-to-earth manner. She didn’t seem like the rest of the Hollywood crowd.

“You want to grab a quick cup of coffee?’’ I asked.

As the chopper made another loud pass, Savannah glanced upward. I did, too. It was flying low enough that I spotted a cameraman. He’d slid the door open on the passenger’s side, and was aiming a long lens our way.

“Vultures!’’ Savannah spit out the word.

“Don’t worry,’’ I said. “The cattleman who owns this ranch is politically connected. There’s also a colony of endangered wood storks in a swamp on his land. It won’t be long before he pulls the right strings to shut down the air space up there.’’

“Really?’’ Savannah looked impressed.

I nodded. “Environmental concerns.’’

We made our way to the craft services truck, and helped ourselves to a couple of coffees. Once we were seated comfortably in two chairs in the shade, I detailed my suspicions about sabotage. I told her how Norman’s ex-wife had pointed me toward Tilton, who in turn had aimed me right back toward Barbara.

“What do you think?’’ I asked. “Is somebody trying to derail this movie?’’

Savannah blew on her coffee and took a sip. Balancing the cup gingerly between her knees, she poured in another packet of sugar. “Girl, your mama wasn’t kidding when she said you’re a detective. Didn’t you say you were going to stay out of it?’’

It wasn’t clear from her voice if she was being critical or just curious. When I looked at her, though, she grinned.

“I don’t always do what I say I’m going to do,’’ I shrugged.

Her tone got serious. “Well, Barbara was right when she said money is king in Hollywood. And Greg hit the mark about this picture being Norman’s baby, not hers. She didn’t want to do it, and she didn’t want Paul as the director, either. With Norman dead, I’m sure she’d love to pull the plug, but she can’t. Contractual obligations.’’

“Would a murder and a string of accidents make it easier for her to shut it down?’’

“Maybe. But plenty of productions have gone on after horrible accidents, or the deaths of their stars. In the ’80s, a helicopter crashed and killed Vic Morrow and two young kids on the set of Twilight Zone. They finished that film. When Heath Ledger died from drugs, he’d just completed his part on The Dark Knight; but he was only halfway through a Terry Gilliam film. Both of those projects went on to be released.’’

A dim memory surfaced. “Didn’t that helicopter decapitate somebody?’’

She shuddered. “Yeah, Vic Morrow, the star; and one of the child actors, too.’’

Thinking about that gruesome scene, suddenly the shock of finding Norman’s body hanging on the fence didn’t seem so horrible after all.

Sipping her coffee, Savannah stared into the distance. “It might be different with a murder, though,’’ she said thoughtfully. “The fear of who might be next could be debilitating to the production. More importantly for Barbara, it could also raise an issue of liability.’’

“How so?’’

“Well, what if it turns out someone is stalking victims? Suppose nothing is done to ensure the safety of the crew and the actors. If anyone else were to die or get injured, their family would certainly have grounds to sue the production company for negligence.’’

I remembered how quickly Barbara assumed I was going to sue over the light.

“Barbara told me any number of people could be possible targets. I’ve been wondering more about who might be a suspect,’’ I said. “Who hated Norman Sydney that much?’’

Savannah pursed her lips. “That’s a long line, honey.’’

“Yeah, but hated him enough to commit murder?’’

Her expression became wary. She glanced over each shoulder. We were alone, sitting off by ourselves in the shade of a big oak tree. Unless someone was perched among the leaves—I quickly scanned the branches above, just to be sure—we couldn’t be overheard.

“Norman had issues with women,’’ she finally said.

“Like he cheated? He was a player?’’

“Worse. Let’s just say he had some dark tastes when it came to sex. Very young women. Multiple partners.’’ She cupped a hand to her mouth, whispering the last words. “Not all the girls were willing.’’

The disgust must have registered on my face. She nodded. “Awful, right? But it’s true; the Hollywood casting couch at its worst. Many a starlet got her first big break in a Norman Sydney production. He made sure they paid for the opportunity.’’

“Kelly Conover?’’

“I don’t know for sure. Probably.’’

“Jesse Donahue?’’

Savannah nodded decisively. “And it wasn’t just girls. Norman had many wealthy, powerful friends with a taste for young men. He threw parties, stocked with hopeful young actors.’’

I thought of Greg Tilton. Was that possible? Then, Toby’s smooth-cheeked face popped into my mind. My stomach clenched in revulsion and anger. If what Savannah said was true, Norman Sydney was a sexual predator. His murder suddenly seemed like deserving punishment.