As I threaded my way through the tent toward Sal, I noticed Carlos doing the same. We arrived at the big man’s side at almost the same moment. I’d heard Sal panting from several yards away. His face was now three shades beyond rosy, and the veins were popping out on his neck from exertion. If we didn’t do something fast, Mama had a good chance of becoming a widow again.

“You’ve made your point, Sal.’’ Carlos put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “Let go of the chair.’’

He was using his calming voice, the one for talking suicides off a bridge—or retired tough guys out of a fool’s mission.

I grabbed Sal’s opposite elbow, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Mama is positively swooning because you stood up for her. She says if the two of you go home right now, she’ll find a special way to show you her love and appreciation.’’

He hesitated, just long enough for Paul to release his death grip on the chair’s arms, and leap out of the seat. The director scooted quickly away from Sal, glancing around the tent to see how many people had witnessed his humiliation. Pretty much everyone had. As Sal’s breathing slowed to normal, Paul tugged at his pony tail to straighten it. He smoothed his safari jacket, trying to regain some of his dignity.

“You’ve got to be crazy if you think I was really coming on to your wife, man. She’s way too old for me. And she’s not even that pretty.’’

Mama gasped with hurt feelings. That did it. Sal hauled back and hit Paul in the jaw. The force of the big man’s punch sent the director reeling. He staggered backward into one of the serving tables, lost his balance, and tumbled to the floor, taking the tablecloth with him.

Brownies and biscotti rained down, pelting the director in a downpour of dessert.

Barbara finger-combed a hunk of baklava from Paul’s ponytail. She brushed shattered biscotti from the shoulders of his bush vest. She blotted with a napkin at a glob of brownie frosting hanging off his left ear.

“Who does that New York asshole think he is?’’ she asked, loudly. “He probably has a hundred pounds on you, Paul.’’

The “New York asshole’’ had stormed out of the tent after his dust-up with the director. Mama had to run to keep up with her defender’s long strides. My last sight of Sal and Mama was out the tent’s plastic panels, as they ducked under a trailer’s awning to wait out the rain.

“That man is a menace.’’ Paul rubbed his jaw. “I ought to file charges against him.’’

Carlos looked him up and down. His clothes were stained with chocolate, which would be hell to get out in the wash. But aside from that, Paul’s ego seemed the only thing that had suffered any real damage.

“You could do that,’’ Carlos said. “But we might have to get into what you’d been playing at with another man’s wife that provoked him to lose his temper.’’

Barbara leveled a cold look, taking in both of us. “Oh, please. That hillbilly can’t keep her hands off Paul. He was just responding, the way any red-blooded male would.’’

“Why don’t we just say that both of them like to flirt, and leave it at that?’’ I said. “And the insult you want in Florida is ‘Cracker.’ No hills here, hence no hillbillies.’’

I didn’t tell her a lot of Floridians, with roots deep in our sandy soil, wear the Cracker label as a badge of honor. I know I do.

People lined up to pay their respects to Paul. A sympathetic murmur moved through the ranks of cast and crew. I heard someone mutter, “That New Yorker has a lot of nerve. Did you see the way he pounded Paul?’’

Carlos and I took a few steps back, so we’d be out of the way of the sycophants and well-wishers.

Someone else chimed in, “Yeah, Paul wasn’t even doing anything. That huge guy attacked him for no reason.’’

Carlos leaned close to me and whispered, “Nothing like getting your butt kicked by a big guy to make people forget you’re a jerk.’’

I nodded. I couldn’t do more because I was busy inhaling my ex-boyfriend’s distinctive male scent: sandalwood and spices, and a trace of strong Cuban coffee on his breath. God, how I missed this man!

“So, that was smart of Paul, no?’’ he asked.

I took one last deep breath, hoping the smell would hold me for a while. “No. I mean yes. It was smart of Paul. Surely a man who can’t even defend himself couldn’t be a murderer, right?’’

“Are you asking me if Paul’s a suspect?’’

“Are you telling?’’

“Not a chance,’’ Carlos said.

“Tease!’’

He was stonewalling me, as usual. But I didn’t even mind, because we were talking. He was even grinning at me. I studied his face. Despite the crooked smile, there were fatigue lines around his eyes and mouth. Stress was taking a toll.

“You look tired, Carlos.’’

“Flatterer.’’

“No, you’re still devastatingly handsome. I just meant you look physically beat. Are you sleeping okay?’’

He shrugged. The closed look descended over his features again.

“Listen,’’ I said, “even if you don’t want us to be a couple anymore, that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring. Who else will watch out for you if you freeze me out?’’

“Perdóneme. Forgive me, niña.”

His eyes softened, and he reached toward me. I thought he was going to caress my shoulder. I steeled myself for the shiver of desire I always felt at his touch. But the touch didn’t come. Catching a glance at his wristwatch, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets instead.

“Am I keeping you from something?’’

“Sorry,’’ he said. “I do have to go. The police chief’s been holding regular news conferences to occupy the media. He’s trying to keep them in town, and away from the movie set and crime scene.’’

“Good luck with that. The ranch road looked like a parking lot for TV live trucks when I drove in this morning.’’

“Yeah, I get dozens of shouted questions every time I come and go. Anyway, the chief wants me in town to talk to reporters at this afternoon’s briefing, notwithstanding the fact I have absolutely nothing new to report.’’

The expression of dread on his face was almost comical. He looked like he’d just been gowned and prepped for a colonoscopy.

“You’ll do fine,’’ I said. “I’ve seen you dance around questions. Just give them the Martinez Glower. You’ll terrify those reporters into submission.’’

“This is the national media, Mace. They’re sharks, and sharks don’t get scared. Just this morning, the muscle guys on the movie’s security team found a reporter from NBC’s Today show nosing around. They tossed him out, none too gently. He just laughed and said he’d find another way to get on the set.’’

He glanced over his shoulder at Barbara and Paul.

My eyes followed his. The director was accepting handshakes and back pats. Barbara stood at his side, whispering occasionally into his ear. Otherwise, she watched him with the adoring gaze of a political spouse. Everyone was treating Paul like he was lucky to have survived an unwarranted attack by a crazy man.

Sal was a little crazy, which I chalked up to him being married to Mama. But giving the obnoxious director a punch in the kisser was warranted, as far as I was concerned. I felt a smile on my lips as I thought of Paul tumbling over that table. It was a shame about the ruined desserts, though.

Suddenly, I sensed Carlos staring at me. I quickly ran my tongue over my teeth to check for chocolate traces. I’d scooped a brownie off the floor and eaten it, in accordance with the five-

second rule. Carlos’s face was unreadable.

“What?’’ I asked him.

“I was just remembering something.’’

Something good? Something bad? I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but I didn’t. Maybe he was remembering why he’d been so angry at me.