Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (10 page)

I stared at her and gave my head a little jerk.

She turned anxiously to Dr. Bob. “Oh, sorry. What am I saying? I mean, when you two are done with your coffee.” She turned back to me. “Okay?”

“Drew, it is not okay to go barging into East Kishniff in the middle—”

“It’s only Pasadena,” she interrupted.

“Okay, we can’t go all the way out to Pasadena at ten thirty on a Monday night and expect to find anyone there who can answer our questions.”

“Of course we can.” Drew turned to Dr. Bob. “Can’t we? Aren’t they like hospitals, Dr. Bob? Open twenty-four/seven?”

“Not my specific area,” he said mildly. “But I have so many clients who have been through it all. Would you like me to make a few calls?”

“Would you?” Drew asked.

I watched my dear friend pull out his cell and join in the madness, then I turned back to Drew, asking her seriously, “And what, darling, are we trying to find out from this rehab facility at this time of night? Do you think they’ll be willing to talk to us?”

That seemed to stop Drew. “No. That’s true. I’ve been watching
TMZ
all day long, and even Harvey Levin hasn’t been able to get anyone at Wonders to talk.”

“Of course not. This type of publicity could kill them. Beautiful, famous patient leaves their care and is seen, soon after, completely blitzed and then…” I didn’t want to finish that thought and spell out Halsey’s sad ending, even to make a good point, so I just went on, “Some ‘wonder’! Not good brand recognition. No one there will talk to the press, you can bet on it.”

“And to them, we’re the press,” moaned Drew, grabbing my cup of tea and taking a distracted sip. “Eww!” she sputtered. “Mother, really! There have to be like thirty packets of sugar in this tea.”

“Sugar! Never. Wash your mouth out with soap. It’s Sweet’n Low. No trouble.”

She flashed a worried look over my head at Dr. Bob and went back to her original thought. “How can we get in there? How, Mom?”

“Let’s get logical. First, why do you have to go there? What do you hope to find out?” I asked, as Dr. Bob speed-dialed through his preset phone numbers, calling and texting clients who may have been to Wonders in the past few years.

Drew held her hands out, setting the scene. “We start with the knowledge that Burke is telling the truth. He had nothing to do with Halsey and her troubles. So we should talk to anyone at Wonders who could have seen her visitors coming or going.”

“Sounds good,” said Dr. Bob, like one of the Scooby-Doo gang right before they enter the spooky carnival fun-house at night.

“Right,” Drew went on. “They would know that Burke had only shown up there that once, like he said. And they might know what other regular-type visitors Halsey had while she stayed there. If anyone is going down for hurting Halsey, we can at least get an
idea of who the cops should really be talking to. What do you think? Maybe a talkative patient in an adjoining room?”

Oh, right. Like that person should be easy for us to get to, seeing as private rehab patients at superelite facilities such as Wonders are held in such strict secrecy that I half-suspected Osama bin Laden had been hiding out at Betty Ford all these years.

“Any roommate or neighbor patient of Halsey’s would probably still be at Wonders right now, since she only just left yesterday, right?”

“Good thinking.” If we could ever see them.

“Or we could talk to the admitting nurse or whoever signs patients in? Or maybe an orderly?”

“Do they have orderlies these days?” I mused. “Or did that era end after the shock-treatment scene in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
?”

“Mother, are you playing with me?” Drew asked, her voice now dipping into that low and dangerous region.

“Of course not. If you want to drive out to Pasadena tonight, let’s do it. We can only try.”

“Wait up,” said Dr. Bob, punching his cell phone to disconnect from his last call. “Not so fast. It seems they do not have open visiting hours at Wonders. Every visit must be coordinated in advance with the staff.”

“Figures,” I said. We paused in our conversation as the waiter brought over a new pot of tea, and I stirred in a few packets of sweetener.

“But good news for us,” Drew said. “That means that Wonders will have records of everybody who visited and when. And those records will prove that Burke had only very, very limited contact with Halsey.”

“Yes,” I said, not mentioning if that “very, very limited contact” had been just before poor Halsey overdosed and died, it could be enough to put the guy away for a long time. And, come on, why would Burke be so worried about the police if there weren’t something damning to be found? I tried to stifle that certainty and keep myself open to all possibilities, for Drew’s sake. “However, even if we call and ask for an appointment to meet with the staff of Wonders, what are the chances they will agree to talk to us?”

“I’m afraid almost none,” said Dr. Bob.

We both turned to him.

He ran his hand over his tanned scalp and said, “I just talked to a good friend. A patient, actually. Her first husband had a problem with painkillers and spent some time at Wonders, and my friend is still bitter to this day. The doctor who runs the place is someone called Dr. Deiter. He kept my friend away from seeing her husband for two months. She was thinking of getting a court order just to get in and see him on a visiting day or something. And she was the one paying the twelve hundred dollars per day for him to stay in Wonders in the first place.”

“They finally let her in to visit?” I asked.

“When her attorney threatened that she would stop paying his bill, they relented. But by then, it was too late. Her husband had fallen in love with the Korean facialist who came by the Wonders spa three days a week, and that was that.” Dr. Bob shrugged.

“Rehab,” Drew said, realizing, perhaps, that it wasn’t going to be quite so easy to flash our way in and sleuth our way around.

“Isn’t there some other way to get in?” I asked. The whole point, I figured, was to let Drew see, with her own eyes, what this man Burke Norris was all about. Well, okay. The answer to that
could well be waiting at Wonders, where any number of nurses and manicurists and herbalists and therapists may have seen Halsey Hamilton in some wicked embrace with the man Drew insisted on defending. There was really no backing off now. If we were going to do this thing, we’d have to barrel through.

Dr. Bob shook his head. “There is simply no way in, Max, short of a…”

“An intervention?”

They looked at me, one appalled and the other enthralled. My doctor. My daughter. And if only I could rustle up an addiction, I was as good as admitted as a patient into that rehab palace called Wonders this very night.

D
rew asked brightly, “Do we need to bring in a professional interventionist?”

“What?” I coughed. “That’s crazy talk. I’m not about to fight the idea of going into rehab, am I? No, I’m prepared to go in quietly with my dignity intact.”

The waiter brought us more tea and coffee as the dinner crowd thinned out and several after-theater parties strolled into the Grill on the Alley for dessert and a few celebrity sightings. I was noticed. What else is new?

Dr. Bob said, “Drew’s right. A professional substance-abuse counselor will know exactly how to get you into Wonders on an emergency basis. We need to call in someone to mastermind this intervention who has the right connections.”

“Now, wait a minute,” I said.

“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll get the best.”

I wasn’t worried. I just hadn’t made up my mind what I should be addicted to, yet.

As Dr. Bob speed-dialed through a few more numbers, I tried some ideas out. “Pain meds?” Truth was, I hated pain medication. I was the first one off the stuff when I had my little procedures, preferring clearheadedness and a couple of Goliath-strength Tylenols to anything more toxic.

Dr. Bob said, “Please don’t, Max.” A tiny furrow of concern formed on his tanned and lineless face.

He didn’t want it thought that any patient of his would be so unwisely looked after that he or she might develop that particular addiction. I could tell he was sensitive in this area, so I gave it no more thought.

“There’s always booze,” suggested Drew.

“Yes, alcohol,” seconded Dr. Bob.

“Now, wait just a second there,” I objected. “This is all well and good, faking a little addiction to get the inside scoop at the rehab clinic. But I have to go on for the rest of my life, kittens. If it should ever leak out that I had trouble with booze, and I mean
ever
…well, people will whisper and poke each other every time I take a sip of wine in public for the rest of my days.”

“That’s true,” agreed Drew, and she said to Bob with a touch of disappointment, “we can’t expect Mom to take that kind of hit.”

“Damn,” said Dr. Bob, seeing the problem and, multitasking, trying another number on his cell. This time it appeared he’d connected with someone on the other end of an emergency help line. “Oh, hold on,” he told us as he made some quick arrange
ments with the person on the other end. I heard him mention Wonders.

Drew looked at me with a gleam in her eye. Was it admiration? Was it gratitude? Was it just a reflection off the table candle? I’ll never know. She said, “Mom, you are completely awesome.”

“I know, darling.”

“You just rock. I can’t tell you…”

I don’t like a lot of fuss. Really, what was I getting ready to do that any mother wouldn’t gladly offer to do for her daughter? No big deal. So I waved off Drew’s ridiculous compliments and took a moment to check my BlackBerry to see if I had any urgent messages.

I was startled to read a text from Malulu, sent an hour before, saying I’d missed a call from Dakota Hamilton, Halsey’s mother. The woman begged Malulu to contact me. Tonight.

I quickly dialed the number in the message, alarmed at how much pain the poor woman must be in. “Halsey’s mom,” I explained to Drew as I waited for my call to be answered.

“Hello,” came a blowsy female voice after the fifth or sixth ring. “Who is this?”

“Yes, hello. Is this Dakota?”

“Oh, it’s you, Max!” Dakota had recognized my voice immediately. “Oh, Max. What has happened to my little girl?”

Now, wasn’t that the question of the decade. “Dakota, I’m so sorry for your unimaginable loss. Have they told you anything? The hospital. Did they find out what was wrong?”

“Cedars said it was an overdose, Max. Don’t tell anyone else that, please. The emergency-room woman said Halsey had taken too many pills. By the time they brought my baby in, they couldn’t save her.”

“Oh, how horrible.” Would any parent be able to bear that verdict? Especially a parent who hadn’t been quite strong enough, all along, in the discipline department?

Dakota Hamilton went on, “But it’s a lie. She wasn’t doing drugs.” Her voice rang out in anger, in its slightly loopy tone, so outraged. “That other doctor told me so, the one at her clinic. Halsey had been clean for months. Really. Clean and sober. I just can’t stand all the television people saying she’d been drinking again.” Dakota’s voice seemed to be slurring a little, so it was hard to be absolutely sure that she herself hadn’t been easing the pain with something strong, but I suppose any parent could be excused for using medication to slide herself through such an ungodly nightmare.

“They’re not going to do any more…tests?” Even I didn’t have the heart to use the word
autopsy.
But if the police suspected foul play?

“No, thank God. They pumped my baby’s stomach, Max. They took her blood. They found a lot of drugs in her system. But since she had this bad history with pills, Jimmy is doing his best to get it officially listed as an accident. You know, hush things up so no one starts thinking she wanted to kill herself.” She sobbed into the phone.

“You poor thing. And the coroner is agreeing?”

“Thank goodness, it’s being taken care of, Max. There is no question of the time of death since she died in the hospital. There is no question about what caused her death. It was the damned pills.”

“I’m sure no one wants to cause you any more grief.” Since the doctors would certainly have checked for needle marks, I assumed none had been found. They had the sort of riddle that
couldn’t be solved by an autopsy. No medical clue could say why Halsey had overdosed.

“Look,” Dakota said, “the reason I’m bothering you so late at night—it’s Jimmy. He told me you were the last person to see our little Halsey before she…before they took her away in the ambulance.”

“Yes.”

“And I just couldn’t understand what happened to her beautiful dress. Did she tell you anything about that?”

“No, Dakota. I asked her, but she never said a word about why she was so undressed.”

“I see,” Dakota said in her soft, slow way. “Well, her daddy and me were just wondering that. I mean, I told Jimmy it didn’t make any sense. Halsey and I had picked out this one special gown from all the designers who were giving her dresses. At first, she was going to wear a darling peach-colored Elie Saab, but at the last minute some other new designer offered her daddy a lotta money so our precious could wear
his
strapless gown to the Oscars. Best Actress nominees get all the really pretty dresses. You see, I never even got to see the one she chose, Max. Her daddy told me Halsey loved it, though.”

So Halsey’s manager/father had been working a deal to get a payoff from the designer of Halsey’s Oscar gown. It figured. But why had the gown disappeared? Perhaps her limo driver might have an idea. Had she been dressed when he picked her up? I’d have to find out.

Dakota said with a sigh, “I’m sorry I bothered you so late at night, Max. I just remembered how sweet you always were to our Halsey. How cute she was back in middle school when she used to follow your Drew around. She always wanted to be just like your Drew. I better let you go.”

“Give my sympathies to Jimmy.”

“Oh, Jimmy isn’t here,” Dakota said. “Out talking to some men. That’s Jimmy. Always doing business. Even on a day like today.”

“And how is Steffi holding up?” I asked, thinking of Halsey’s little sister, now about the age that Halsey had been back when Drew and I first met her.

“Oh, she’s great. Just signed on to do her first big movie. Co-starring with Zac Efron. We’re thrilled for her, of course. But then, now…this.”

I shook my head. What could I say? I quickly rang off and told Drew what I had learned. The family seemed to be still underwater, but that wouldn’t stop them from making deals. How sad.

Dr. Bob held a hand up, and we fell silent. “Yes,” he was saying into the phone. “Yes, she’s sitting right here, and things have gotten into a terrible state…. Yes, I’m talking about
the
Max Taylor, so I can’t exactly mention the specific substance here over the phone, but we want to do this intervention just as soon as possible.” He listened, and we stayed quiet. “Okay!” He put a hand over his cell and whispered to Drew and me, “I’ve got the guy on the phone. He says this sort of spontaneous substance-abuse intervention is most unusual. Normally, he likes to meet with the ‘intervention team,’ that’s Drew and me, in person for a few sessions before we have it all out with the addict, in order to counsel us on what to expect, and, you know, buck up our strength and resolve.”

“I’m plenty strong and resolved,” said Drew.

“I told him that,” Dr. Bob said, still holding the cell phone’s mute button. “Normally, he likes to be at the intervention himself, to give encouragement and, you know, break up any fistfights
or whatnot. But he agrees we must strike right now while the iron is hot, as it were. And we have you here now, Max, and we are resolved to intervene, so I persuaded him to lead this intervention by phone, as it were. At his usual fee plus fifty percent, of course.”

“Right now?” I was suddenly frightened. I had yet to come up with one good addiction, and soon—well, tonight in fact—I was to be locked down or whatever they do to really messed-up addicts. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait until—”

“Mom, stay focused,” said my completely calm daughter, taking charge. “Dr. Bob, what does he say we should do first?”

Dr. Bob listened to the man on the phone, then said to me, using the exact tone of voice I use to talk Killer into walking into the vet’s office, “Okay. Maxine. Listen to us. Recovery from addiction is possible. There is hope. There is life beyond the pain.”

I nodded.

Dr. Bob listened to his phone some more, then repeated, “Do you realize that you are addicted to…uh…your substance?”

I said, “Sure.”

Dr. Bob said into the phone, “She realizes it.” He listened, then looked up at us, holding his hand over the mouthpiece. “You’re supposed to resist us,” he hissed. “It’s not realistic.”

“Oh, come on.” I picked up my sixth cup of tea and noticed it was too cold.

Dr. Bob shook his head and said, “Look, Max. This is the number-three celebrity interventionist on the West Coast. If he wants you in Wonders, he gets you in Wonders. Now resist us, please, or we’ll lose him.”

I couldn’t believe this.

“
Resist us,
Mother,” Drew ordered. “For God’s sake. Like that
isn’t your modus operandi for everything I’ve ever asked of you in my entire twenty-five years?”

“Oh, good grief. I have to resist?” I asked Dr. Bob.

“Look,” he said, still covering the mouthpiece and talking fast, “the number one and two guys are out of town at some sort of health expo in Vegas, and celebrity interventionists don’t grow on trees. Nobody else may have the juice to get you into the rehab clinic of your dreams tonight.”

I raised my voice, “Damn it! I don’t have any problem at all!”

The couple in the booth next to ours looked over. I met the eyes of a well-padded woman dressed in a cream-colored St. John suit from several seasons back whom I immediately recognized as a do-gooder mother volunteer from Drew’s old prep school, a woman who had headed up all the fund-raisers. I particularly recall her phoning us each year asking us to donate to the school’s annual fund, and if I may say, we donated plenty. Her name was Mrs. Harmony and she seemed delighted to recognize me and smiled.

“Resist harder,” Drew begged.

I cleared my throat. “Oh, this is terrible. I can’t believe the shame!”

“That’s it,” whispered Dr. Bob in encouragement.

He spoke into the phone for another moment, and I added an impromptu “The shame! The terrible shame!” Then I upped the decibels and shouted, “I can’t bear the burden!”

Before I realized it, the hostess had hurried over to our booth. “Is there something wrong, Ms. Taylor?”

Our waiter arrived immediately, bringing a fresh pot of hot water. “I’m so sorry.”

Drew smiled up at them all, including Mrs. and Mr. Har
mony, who were craning their necks from their booth to see what the fuss was about. “Not to worry,” Drew said. “We’re just holding a little substance-abuse intervention here. Please go on about your business. Shouldn’t take too much longer, I hope.”

The hostess melted away. The waiter left the pot of water. The Harmonys looked shocked.

“Let’s hurry this up,” I suggested.

Dr. Bob covered the phone again and said, “Here’s the hang-up. He said there are three things that we can use to pressure the addict into confronting her truth: facing jail time, the imminent possibility of losing a spouse, or a comatose career.”

We looked at each other. No jail cell was on the horizon since I had not committed any crime, unless participating in a fake intervention was against the law. I had no spouse to leave me. So that left the career.

“Sorry, Max,” said Dr. Bob, then he began to tell me just how my career was at this very minute tumbling over a cliff and going straight to hell, and if I didn’t give up abusing my “substance,” I could very well be next year’s pathetic has-been, not even fit to open a car wash on the good side of any town. Ouch.

“Don’t destroy your career, Mother,” Drew said, her voice quavering. “You are so talented. You have so many wonderful years ahead. You are so damned funny, Mother. And to throw all that you’ve built up—all your fans and all your brilliance—away, not to mention the money you are earning, over that horrible…
substance
! It’s just such a waste. You are a star, Mother. You are a talented and strong woman. And soon, you will be reduced by your horrible, disgusting substance to absolutely nothing! Oh, Mom,” Drew said, her voice a little too loud. “We have to help you.”

In the next booth over, Mrs. Harmony clutched at Mr. Harmony’s sleeve. In the dim distance, I thought I might have seen the momentary rustling of hands reaching for cell phones all across the room.

I hung my head and muttered, “You are right. I can see that now.”