Kelly began pacing again, wringing her hands. I wondered if she’d ever played Lady Macbeth on stage. I nudged Mama to drag her eyes away from Tilton and look at Kelly and her friend.

“What do you think? Are they a couple?’’

She studied them for a moment. “Not sure. But he’s definitely the ice to her fire.’’

“What do you mean?’’

“Well, look at them,’’ Mama said. “The more worked up she gets, the calmer he becomes. That’s not a man who’d ever curse somebody’s soul to eternal damnation.’’

As we watched, Kelly shook off his hand and stalked away. He trailed after her, and both of them headed our way. Mama and I pretended to study the ground. We needn’t have bothered. They were oblivious to us. They were just on the other side of the fence, close enough that we could hear them now.

“I can’t handle it, Sam. It’s too much.’’

“You don’t have to. It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore.’’

In the distance, a police siren wailed.

_____

“Step back! Move outta da way. Da police are here.’’

I recognized the Bronx-inflected bark. Mama’s new husband, Sal Provenza, bulled his way through a growing circle of movie people milling around the body. Carlos followed in the wake made by Sal’s massive frame. A trio of uniformed officers fanned out, trying to shepherd the onlookers out to the perimeter.

Technically, only Carlos and the patrolmen were “da police,’’ in Sal’s Bronx-ese. But it looked like local law enforcement had the pleasure of Sal’s assistance once again, whether they wanted it or not.

My stomach somersaulted at the sight of my detective beau. We were very much on-again these days, not that I wanted to go into just how much so with my mama. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the blush surely rising on my face as a few choice scenes from our most recent tryst replayed in my mind. In deference to the seriousness of the situation, I clamped a lid on the X-rated thoughts. But I couldn’t help the tingle I got when I looked at him: skin the color of buttered toffee; thick, dark hair; and eyes as black as bottomless caverns. Bedroom eyes. Kitchen eyes. And even in-the-back-seat-of-Carlos’s-car eyes.

He raised a hand in a half-wave. I nodded in return. Both of us were maintaining our “all-business’’ manners.

Mama elbowed me in the side. “Why don’t you go fill Carlos in on what’s happened, Mace?’’

“Stop poking! I told him on the phone how we found Norman. I’m going to let the man do his job. He’ll come over and talk to me when he’s ready.’’

Mama pressed her lips together. “Hmmmm.’’

“What’s that supposed to mean?’’

“Just that if I were you, I’d make sure I was close by when he questions that Kelly Conover. He probably had a poster in his bedroom of her in that white bikini from that TV show where she was a teenaged detective. Every red-blooded male in America was in love with her back then.’’

I snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mama.’’ The words were barely out of my mouth when I glanced over at Carlos. His body posture was still Dragnet, but his eyes had shifted toward Kelly. And there they stayed. He actually swallowed a few times, looking like a nervous schoolboy.

And what man wouldn’t be nervous? Her hair was a cascade of blond curls, reaching halfway down her back. Blue jeans, strategically torn under each cheek of her round bottom, fit like a second skin. And, of course, there were the eyes that made her famous, as green as freshly minted money.

I bit back a grin. I was more amused than threatened. Carlos’s fascination with Kelly was predictable. It was just like Mama and me, forgetting poor Norman to stare open-mouthed at Greg Tilton in the flesh. These people were screen legends. Bigger than life. I understood completely.

Even so, I decided to mark my claim. I walked up behind him, placing a hand firmly on his arm. “Anything you need me to do?’’

It was almost comical, the way he spun around at the sound of my voice. Guilty thoughts?

“Thanks for calling, Mace. I would appreciate it if you, Sal, and your mother would help shift these movie people back toward their base camp. A crime scene van is on the way. We don’t need any more people out here tramping around than we’ve already had. Tell them I’ll come over there when I can, and talk to whoever’s in charge.’’

“Will do.’’

Who’d be in charge now that Norman was dead?

Carlos’s eyes roamed the crowd. People were already beginning to disperse, moved either by the orders of the police officers or the menace in Big Sal’s tone. Carlos’s gaze stopped at the body on the ground.

“I thought you said somebody hung him over the fence.’’

I filled him in on what Tilton had done. Frowning, he took a notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote something down. “So he clearly handled the body. Anyone else?’’

I told him about checking for a pulse, and how the guard and the assistant director had stood over Norman, trying to decide what to do. Then, I mentioned how Kelly had spit twice on the ground.

He raised his eyebrows at me, and then turned to look over his shoulder at the movie queen. She was crying now, collapsed on the shoulder of her comforter, Sam. Expression darkening, Carlos stared hard at Kelly, and then jotted some more words in his notebook.

Even though I said the murder was none of my business, I’d have given anything to know what he wrote.

Greg Tilton stood ramrod straight, feet at forty-five degrees, hands clasped behind his back. He must have played a rookie cop, addressing a superior officer, in some forgotten movie.

“I established the victim was dead, beyond medical help.’’

Carlos’s eyes were unreadable, but I saw the slightest smirk breaking through the hard set of his jaw. “At ease, Greg. We’re just talking here.’’

Tilton seemed to relax a bit.

“You complicated things by moving the body, though.’’

He tensed up again. “I know. I’m so sorry. Like I told her …’’ he raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

“Mace Bauer,’’ I said. “I’m the animal wrangler.’’

“Yeah. Anyway, I was moving on adrenaline and instinct. I didn’t even realize what I did until it was over. I’m sure you’ve been in a similar situation on the job, Officer.’’

“Detective,’’ Carlos corrected him.

“Sorry. Detective.’’

He laid a hand, man-to-man, on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos stared at it like somebody had just dropped a rotten fish on his starched white button-down. Tilton jerked his hand back like he’d caught a hook in the palm. He checked the crowd, probably wondering who had witnessed him overstepping his boundaries.

A couple dozen members of cast and crew had gathered in the open space between the production trailers. They milled around, eating, smoking, waiting to see what would happen next. The sun was relentless, the nearing-noon temperature climbing into the nineties. Whoever scheduled the location shoot in September hadn’t done their homework. “Fall’’ in middle Florida can still be blisteringly hot; and September holds a better chance than any other month of the year of a hurricane roaring through.

Carlos had been silent long enough to make Tilton sweat. “Who’s in charge?’’ he finally asked.

“The director, Paul Watkins …” Tilton started to say.

“I’m Jonathan J. Burt, first assistant director.’’ The officious-looking man who’d directed the morning horse scene stepped forward, interrupting Tilton. “At your service.’’

He looked like he was expecting a gold star. Another tiny smirk threatened to crack through Carlos’s deadpan demeanor, but he banished it. I’d lay odds on what he was thinking, though: What a weenie.

Jonathan J. Burt was just a few inches taller than Mama. He wore a pearl-colored cardigan that looked like cashmere, gray wool slacks, and highly polished wing tips. A silk bow tie completed his ensemble. A silk tie. In Himmarshee! In September!!