Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (14 page)

I froze, trying to hear the almost-impossible-to-hear bars of music. Just then, Malulu returned to the back of the limo and, with the ears of a hunting dog, cocked her head to the side and asked, “What’s dat tune?”

“A cell phone,” Drew whispered.

“Dat’s not from in here,” Malulu said, pointing to our passenger cabin. “It’s from up there.” She pointed to the front of the limo. Just as I had imagined! Barry, that old liar, had Halsey’s Prada cell phone somewhere up by him. Was it coming from his pocket? But by then the music had gone quiet.

In the little parking lot that our Hummer limo had dominated all day long, hogging three spaces, a patient Volvo wagon with two Weimaraners in the back was waiting for a spot. A Benz with a Siamese in a carry-case had just pulled out, and the Volvo was inching into the tight spot. Before we knew it, Barry was
clambering out of the driver’s seat, and the three of us, Drew, Malulu, and me, were barreling out of the back.

“Ms. Taylor,” he said as the Weimaraners cut behind him, and we blocked his path forward.

“So,” I said, “you don’t know where Halsey’s phone is?”

“Me?” he asked, doubling his dimples.

I turned to Drew. “Hit call again, sweetie.”

Drew pulled out her phone, and in a few seconds we heard the sound of Rihanna singing “Shut Up and Drive,” this time a little more distinctly, but not actually coming from anywhere on Barry’s person.

I looked at Barry closely. “Open the glove box, please.”

Barry could drive naughty starlets to grand events with the girls wearing nothing more than their undies. He could handle drinkers and druggies, I supposed, and even celebs on their hands and knees in the back of his limo searching for God knew what. But Barry had had enough. He looked left and right, then jumped over the Weimaraners in the parking lot and took off running as hard as he could.

Malulu Vai, with some ancestral instinct for the chase, saw the quarry run, and there was no stopping her. As Barry bounded up the street heading toward Wilshire, Malulu Vai loped after him and picked up her pace.

I saw that Barry had left the keys in the ignition. I grabbed them. Sure enough, a tiny key was most likely to fit into the lock on the glove compartment. I handed it to Drew, who fit it into the lock, and voilà! As Barry the driver zigged left and sped out of sight; as Malulu Vai zigged left and raced west on Wilshire; as the lady with the Weimaraners untangled the leashes of her barking dogs; Drew turned the key in the lock, and the door on the Hum
mer’s glove compartment popped open. Inside were a handful of crumpled papers and other random trash, a Thomas Bros. book of road maps, and a slim, gem-bespeckled Prada phone, from which Rihanna was still singing “Shut Up.”

“He had it all the time,” I said. A phone like this one—the jewels and the star’s private phone numbers—could be worth twice his annual salary driving a limo. And this particular one, from a mysteriously dead celeb, more than five times what the guy made, including superstar tips. Pure greed had taken over.

Drew looked at the other rubbish in the glove box: the gum wrappers, the empty Voss bottle, the note cards that had been torn in two. “Mom, I think this stuff was all from Halsey.” She picked up one of the cards. “Oh, Mom…”

I grabbed it and read, “‘I would like to thank the Academy of Motion Picture…’” I looked up at Drew. “So sad.”

She nodded.

“Victory!” came a familiar voice. “Victory, Mrs. L!”

Outside, running back toward our limo, was a triumphant Malulu Vai.

I was impressed. “You caught Barry?”

“No, Mrs., I let that scumbag go. Good riddance to that one. I got better news!” She opened a large metallic shoulder bag and pulled out the prize.

Killer said woof.

U
ntil that very moment, I never knew that my bodyguard was licensed in the state of California to drive a limo. What luck! As Malulu pointed the enormous white SUV, finally, eastward toward my fate in Pasadena, her foot heavy on the Hummer’s gas pedal, I poured chilled designer water into a small cup for parched little Killer, the naughty boy who had, we found out, been living the high life in Barneys New York on Wilshire while we had been scared witless about his safety. At the luxury department store, two attentive girls working the Fendi handbag boutique on the main floor had temporarily adopted him when he suddenly appeared in their midst before lunchtime. According to Malulu, they fed him smoked oysters from their own lunches and hid him from the handbag
manager, hoping a distressed owner might eventually turn up to retrieve the little doll and, in gratitude at how well he’d been looked after, maybe fall in love with a little-over-$1,000 something at the Fendi counter. After all, the girls there work on commission. Malulu, taking their hint, had dutifully put this season’s large tote in metallic gold on my account and thanked the girls profusely. So it goes. And to think it was only because Barry had skidded through the doors of that particular department store in his attempt to shake Malulu that we came to be reunited with our dear, always pampered Killer. Isn’t fate something else?

And after all of Malulu’s tireless dashing around that day, searching for my wayward pup and chasing after a double-crossing chauffeur, I was certain a golden Fendi reward was in Malulu’s future.

Now, in the back of the limo, Killer collapsed in a tired heap while Drew’s cell phone and my BlackBerry didn’t stop jumping. I took a series of calls, from Ian, who had irrationally begun to go all he-man protective after my fake confession of an itty-bitty weakness (No, don’t jump on British Air. I’m fine.); from Cindy Chow, who had heroically tracked down Unja, finally finding him wrapped in cowhide in a leather bar on La Cienega (Quick, meet me at Wonders with Unja’s camcorder. All is forgiven.); and from dear Dr. Bob with the latest news (Holy shit! The cops just arrested Burke Norris in connection with the drugging death of Halsey Hamilton!).

I put down my BlackBerry as the limo came to a gentle stop, and Drew received a new text message. I could tell exactly what news she was reading by the tears that leapt into her eyes. “Mom. They’ve arrested him. He was the last one to see Halsey right before she got into the limo. So it was his Audi the driver saw there.
All her stylists said so. And the police say they have some evidence he was involved with drugs at one point. I don’t know anything about that. But I know he didn’t kill anyone, Mom.”

“Oh, Drew.” What could I say.

“You’ve got to find something at Wonders. Some really strong evidence. Something that will clear Burke’s name.”

From the front seat Malulu called out, “We here, Mrs. L,” and before we could react, the door to the limo flew open and a chorus greeted us. Literally.

A welcome committee of therapists and former addicts who made up the professional staff at Wonders swarmed the limo, pulling me out, and, accompanied by a pretty young lady playing a ukulele, sang me their welcome song. They were all dressed in pale yellow, and they swayed to the music. The words
morning, steps,
and
rejoice
figured prominently.

Oh dear Lord. I’m in hell.

Drew jumped down from the limo and called out to them, “Wait. Something terrible has just happened. Seriously. I need a few minutes to talk with my mother in private.”

“Ah, Miss Taylor,” said a tanned man in his midthirties, stepping between Drew and me. “We don’t ever point fingers in anger or use accusing words like
enabler
around here. We wouldn’t do that. But we’d like to gently suggest with love that this time at Wonders is strictly for your mother, isn’t it?”

Malulu, taking no chances, had locked Killer inside the limo for the few minutes it took to unload my luggage, and I turned to the man whose name tag read
HUCK
. “No, really. That’s my daughter. That’s fine.”

“It will be soon, Max,” he said with a friendly smile. “Soon.”

I looked back at Drew as I was gently pulled toward the large
Mediterranean-style mansion on the Arroyo by the singing yellow people. I knew what was upsetting her, of course. Burke Norris had been arrested for murder. I strongly suspected they had arrested the right man—I mean the police had all those CSI labs and fingerprints and tests. But Drew was in shock. Shouldn’t a mother really be with her daughter for such news? “I am here for you, honey.”

The man named Huck shook his head with a little smile. “Well, someday you will be. But for now, Max, don’t you think you need to be
here for you
?”

“Huh?”

The chorus of happy singers began a round of some new song that centered on the words
here for yourself
.

I didn’t often lose my temper, but this group of singing counselors had gotten on my last nerve. “Hold on to your hats, people,” I said, simmering. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Drew angrily brushed at her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Mother,” she called, halting my explosion. “Remember why you are checking into Wonders? Remember our plan? It’s more important now than it ever was.”

Huck smiled as the little group of welcome staff applauded Drew. “That’s much better,” he commended my devastated daughter, her tears falling as I hadn’t seen them do since her father died. “We feel all sorts of emotions when we come to Wonders. We let the pain out, Max.”

Oh, brother.

No time for hugs and good-byes, I was told, it was instead time for beginnings, and so I was hustled off, my luggage handled by one of the staff members, to the receiving center on the main
floor without so much as another backward glance at Malulu, Killer, or my dear daughter, Drew.

Well, I was here to do a job, so I would try to do it. Either I would discover some solid fact that might help Burke defend himself, or I wouldn’t. I figured I’d give it a day, meet anyone who had been close to Halsey, get a facial or whatever might be the treatment du jour, then check out.

The interior of the main building in the Wonders complex looked like a boutique hotel, and I was led into a nicely furnished Country French office where guests were processed in. Huck, who was handling my entrance to Wonders, sadly noted that Dr. Deiter
himself
had been looking forward to greeting me, but that he had expected me earlier in the morning and was, alas, unavailable this afternoon. In his place, Huck was happy to tell me all the official paperwork had been completed before I arrived—the diagnosis documents had duly been faxed by Dr. Bob, my interventionist had called in with the proper referral, and the bill for $35,000 plus tips for the thirty-day rehab package was awaiting my credit card—Visa or MasterCard?

I knew I’d only be there a day or two, at most, so I handed over the plastic, looked over the evening’s gourmet menu and made a few selections, and was offered a complimentary upgrade in rooms. Music was playing softly from the courtyard, where, I was told, Jocelyn, the ukulele artist, was having a small concert for whomever wanted to listen. I signed whatever forms Huck put in front of me and leaned back in the high-backed chair. Perhaps I had been a bit tense these past few weeks. Well, more than a bit. Who among us rush-rush-rush type As couldn’t appreciate such a lovely place to relax, where the world couldn’t hunt you down? I
could see the appeal of it for a girl like Halsey, who couldn’t go buy toothpaste without the picture of her and her new tube of Aquafresh Triple Protection showing up on the cover of some rag.

Huck stood as a woman in her late thirties entered the admissions office. “You’re in good hands,” he said, turning me over to the lady in, of course, yellow. “Our counselors here at Wonders are the best.”

The woman, dressed in her flowing, pale yellow dress, had a freckled, clean-scrubbed look and feathered, pale yellow hair to match. She was holding a package and a clipboard and beckoned me to follow her. As we left the office, she wheeled a shiny, brass luggage cart, the kind they have at the Ritz-Carlton.

“Hi, I’m Jonnie, and I’m an alcoholic and a cocaine addict.” She smiled at me brightly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hello.”

“And you are Max, right? We just received a package for you. Delivered by messenger.” She put the small shoe-box-size package on top of my neatly stacked Louis Vuitton luggage. I noticed the word
URGENT
stamped on the front, and the return address was marked
Cindy Chow
.

Redeemed! Cindy had pulled an impossible get out of thin air at the last minute. She’d delivered Unja’s camcorder, judging by the size of the package. As soon as I was alone, I planned to watch all of Unja’s up-close and personal red carpet footage. He might have caught something Halsey was doing or saying Sunday that I had missed in my jumble of performance duties and adrenaline.

Pushing the loaded cart over beautiful, old Mexican pavers, Jonnie led me down a hallway and into a room that had been
outfitted as a doctor’s office. She left the brass cart in the hall and suggested I take a seat in one of those chairs that have a blood-pressure cuff attached.

While the machine was compressing and decompressing, Jonnie said with a warm smile, “So, Max, what is your drug of choice?”

I guess we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

Jonnie kept her happy smile. “With the truth? We don’t bite.”

“Maybe later,” I said, retrieving my hand from the cuff.

“Now then,” Jonnie said, staring down at a clipboard. “When was your last drink, Max?”

I thought about it. I had water in the limo. Then I remembered where I was. “You mean liquor?”

She nodded and pulled out what looked like a small digital device from a drawer.

“Last night,” I said, recalling the blood-orange martinis.

“How many drinks, do you recall?”

“Two.” Then, under Jonnie’s further stare, I made an amendment. “Three.”

“Right. Get light-headed? Pass out?”

“No, of course not. Three drinks with dinner. I was visiting with…”

Jonnie motioned with the digital thing. “This is a Breathalyzer. Ever been Breathalyzed before?”

“No, of course not.” What a question! “I don’t have a problem with alcohol, for your information.”

Jonnie smiled. “Okay.” She reached into the drawer and pulled out a new mouthpiece and began fitting it on the hand
sized unit. “So, I just need to double-check to make sure—you haven’t had any alcohol in the past fifteen minutes?”

“Gee, no.”

“That’s good. Because it can really mess with the test results.” She held the Breathalyzer up about four inches from my mouth. “Please take a deep breath, Max, and then breathe out nice and steady for five seconds, if you can.”

This was all so wrong. But Drew had asked for my help, and I was here for her, wasn’t I? I thought about Halsey and finding out the truth. She certainly deserved that. I thought about the secrets that might be whispered to me down these protected corridors. I thought about Steve, my manager, arranging all sorts of news specials and tell-all books for me, and I just had to sigh.

All this drama made me want a drink.