“Is that your grandchild?’’ I gestured at the picture.

Nodding, she handed it to me. It captured a dark-haired child in a pink dress, standing in front of an imposing old church. A sweet smile dimpled her cheeks. Chubby, toddler arms stretched up toward an unseen photographer.

“That was taken at the Salem Witch Museum.’’

I restrained myself from asking Barbara if she was a visitor or an exhibit.

“The girl is adorable,’’ I said, looking at the picture.

Barbara’s arrogant smirk softened to a smile. “She is,’’ she agreed. “Her name is Taylor. She’s the best thing in my life.’’

The emotion that thickened her voice made me feel a little guilty. I handed back the photo. She gazed at it, pure love radiating from her face. With a sigh, she gently replaced it on her desk.

“Her mother was a difficult child. We were estranged for years. But when Taylor was born, my daughter came back into my life. Norman’s, too. He cared so much about our little granddaughter; he wanted to become a better man for her.’’ Her eyes got a distant look, and she touched the photo. “He took this picture.’’

She brought a knuckle to her eye. Ohmigod, was she going to cry?

“Taylor keeps asking why she can’t talk to Pop-Pop on the phone. She doesn’t understand that her grandfather Norman is gone.’’

Tears glistened. She took a shuddery breath. “I’m really not the bitch you think I am, Mace. Hell, that everyone thinks I am.’’ Making an O of her mouth, she touched the tips of her index fingers beneath her eyes, trying to stop the tears before they dissolved her mascara.

“Sorry,’’ she said. “These last few days have been pretty awful.’’

I fumbled through the pockets of my jeans for my cotton bandana, and handed it to her. She used it to blot. The scarf was probably covered with horse hair. I hoped she wasn’t allergic. A few moments ago, I would have relished the idea that she was.

“You cannot imagine how tired I am of being Barbara Sydney. When I was coming up in Hollywood, a woman had to be tough, and more so than a man in every way to succeed. More cruel. More cut-throat. More heartless.’’

She sighed. “I was good at pretending to be all those things, until finally I wasn’t pretending anymore. That’s who I became.’’

She blew her nose into my bandana. Luckily, I had another in the horse trailer.

“You’re a strong woman, too, Mace. I can tell.’’

She looked at me. I wasn’t sure what she wanted. Agreement? Commiseration? I simply nodded, choosing neither.

“It’s different for women your age, though. You don’t have to be hard to be strong.’’ She sniffled. “I’m so sick of being hard.’’

“Well then, change,’’ I said. “If you don’t like the way you are, become someone different.’’

“At this point, I don’t think I can.’’ She looked down at the desk, and her voice got soft. “That’s what scares me.’’

Now, her tears started to really flow. I sat there, squirming in my seat. A crying jag was the very last thing I expected when I set out to question Barbara. What was I supposed do now, pat her on the back and murmur, There, there?

The truth was, I did see a bit of this woman in myself. And I didn’t particularly like the resemblance. Barbara offered a cautionary tale of how needing to always be in charge can close you off to human feelings. I made a silent vow to work harder at showing Carlos how much I cared for him. As long as I was making promises, I also decided I’d try to be nicer to people in general.

There was no time like the present to start.

“There, there.’’ I reached across the desk and patted Barbara’s hand, taken aback when I didn’t detect either scales or a cloven hoof. “Everything is going to be okay.’’

_____

“You’re putting us on, Mace.’’ Maddie leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “Is this a practical joke?’’

“Hand to God.’’ I raised my right hand. “Barbara was blubbering like a baby.’’

My sisters, Mama, and I had gathered at base camp. We sat around a picnic table in the common grounds between the rows of work trailers and stars’ quarters. Marty and Maddie had come to the location again, in case I needed help.

If the afternoon sun got strong enough to dry out the soaked landscape, Paul might want the horses to shoot a scene so far delayed by the rain. There was still standing water on the ground, but the sky was trying to clear. While we waited, I caught them up on my encounter with Barbara in her trailer.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,’’ Mama said. “I wouldn’t have believed that woman was capable of shedding tears.’’

“Humph,’’ Maddie said. “Maybe crocodile tears.’’

“Did you believe her, Mace?’’ Marty asked.

I hesitated. When I was sitting there across from her, I’d been a hundred-percent convinced she was emotionally wounded. Given time to replay the scene in my head, I wasn’t so sure.

“You know how a killdeer acts around its nest?’’

Mama and Maddie offered up matching blank looks. Marty, a student of animal behavior, like me, nodded. “Of course,’’ she said. “The wounded-wing routine.’’

“Right. The bird hops around, dragging a wing, to deflect attention from what she really wants to protect.’’

“So what’s Barbara protecting?’’ Maddie asked.

“Herself, that’s what. That woman has self-preservation written all over her.’’ Mama applied fresh lipstick and fluffed her hair. “Mace, did Barbara happen to mention me at all? I’m a little worried that after that crazy scene in the food tent, Paul might decide to cut my part.’’

Leave it to Mama to work the conversation back to her. I’d given them the condensed version of Barbara’s breakdown, knowing enough to leave out the names she’d called Mama. If I hadn’t, we’d be in the middle of a half-hour dissertation on how other women were always jealous, and how Mama never could help the way men responded to her.

“Your name never came up,’’ I told her.

Technically that was true. Barbara had only referred to her as a slut and a hillbilly.

As Mama recounted in detail for my sisters how Sal had defended her honor, my attention wandered. Birds splashed on the ground in puddles left by the rain. The wind was picking up again, rustling the cabbage palms and blowing more clouds our way. I looked over toward Jesse’s trailer. The blinds were drawn. I thought about Savannah standing there knocking at the door. Despite Jesse’s claim that Savannah was nuts, I liked her. And if she truly was in love with Jesse, I felt sorry for her.

Several birds had gathered again near the young star’s trailer. She’d probably scattered more bread on the ground. One particularly bold cattle egret stalked through the small flock with purpose. Its spindly legs propelled it past the other birds, as it snatched up crumbs with its sturdy yellow bill. It strutted closer and closer to the trailer, as the other birds hung back.

I almost laughed out loud, imagining the bird hopping up the steps to peck at Jesse’s door, demanding more bread. I elbowed Marty so she could watch the bold egret, too. Just then, the bird stepped even closer, and stretched its neck out to snatch a soggy chunk of bread in a puddle at the bottom of the trailer’s steps.

Electrical sparks spit and flashed. The cattle egret rocketed backward through the air. The acrid smell of burned feathers reached my nose. The bird was dead before it hit the ground.

Almost before I’d had a chance to process what happened, the door to Jesse’s trailer swung open. The pointy toe of her boot appeared on the threshold. Like jigsaw pieces, several images instantly combined and shifted through my mind: the long-beaked bird, the puddle, and a black electrical cable snaking through the water from under the star’s trailer.

“Don’t move, Jesse! Stay where you are,’’ I shouted. “Somebody’s trying to kill you.’’