Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (16 page)

E
verything about being here is pretty horrible,” said Katie, “except the food.”

We were seated in a candlelit dining room located off the main Wonders courtyard. Three of us from small group were seated at a table for four: Katie, the perky kindergarten teacher; Magdalene, the rocker chick; and me. Dusty, the soccer mom, had an appointment with the clinic’s leader, Dr. Deiter, and would join us soon. Stella the pharmacist had wandered off somewhere, a little vacant of eye, and Cherish didn’t receive an invitation to join our table, which I took to be a longstanding snub. I watched Cherish from the corner of my eye, sitting at a small table alone, and I felt sorry that she had carved out a space for herself as the loner, angry American Indian lady.

Dipping a spoon into the Peruvian seviche, a bowl of tender mahimahi that had been marinated with lime, ginger, and aji amarillo chili, according to the waiter who set it down in front of us, I had to admit the food here was pretty spectacular for a place that wasn’t in any Zagat guide.

I looked up and saw Katie and Magdalene staring at me. I stopped eating.

Katie said, “Max, we have to know. I’m sorry to bring up something that might be painful for you.”

Oh, here it came. My addiction. Of course they would insist on knowing what I was in for. Damn. I hadn’t minded the idea of lying to go undercover at Wonders, but the reality of now telling some outlandish story to these nice women who were suffering…

Magdalene broke into my thoughts. “It’s Halsey. She left two days ago and hasn’t come back. And now they let you move into her room.”

I blinked. Halsey? These women didn’t know about Halsey?

Magdalene ran a hand through her spiky pink hair and said, “Max, here’s the thing. They don’t let us watch the television. We can’t listen to the news. We don’t get the newspaper, and they confiscated our telephones.”

Katie, lowering her voice in un-cheerleader-like gravity, asked, “What we want to know is, is Halsey really dead? That’s what Cherish says, but we don’t know.”

In the only place, outside of
Sesame Street,
that hadn’t been bombarded with the headlines of Halsey’s passing, I got to deliver the sad news about their rehab friend: “Yes. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. It’s true.”

Magdalene, who was usually so jovial and optimistic, lost her
smile. “Shit, man. Cherish was telling the truth? Must be the first time, ever.”

Katie looked stricken. “Halsey had been so healthy. What happened?”

I put down my spoon. “I’m not sure of the details. But she may have overdosed. Are you sure she wasn’t still using?”

Magdalene nodded. “I just don’t get it. She had already put in eighty-six days. Nobody has a slip with only four more days to go, do they?”

They told me about the 12-step program and how proud Halsey was that she would be getting a ninety-day chip. But I was beginning to wonder how Cherish, the least social one in the group, had come to know that Halsey had died. Wasn’t that suspicious in itself, considering no one here could know that fact? I asked casually, “So Cherish knew all about Halsey?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Katie, still preoccupied. “She told us, but we thought she made it up to upset us. Like she always makes stuff up.”

Magdalene added, “But not this time. Weird.”

I asked, “But how did Cherish know?”

Katie lowered her voice to a whisper. “She has a cell phone.”

I looked shocked. “But they take our—”

Katie shook her head, still miserable with the news of Halsey. “Cherish knows all the tricks. You think this is her first time in rehab? Please. She’s been in like five times already. So when they checked her in for this go-round, she was smart enough to hide a phone, and they never found it.”

I was such an idiot. Why didn’t I sneak in a phone?

Magdalene said, “You know we’re allowed to make one or two calls on the house phone on Sundays, right? During calling
hour. We have to split up the time between everyone on our floor. It’s stupid. There are always fights. So Cherish makes extra money with her cell.”

I looked up. “Black market?”

Katie nodded. “Yep. It’s one hundred dollars for five minutes. Bitch.”

Magdalene gave a rueful smile. “That’s why none of us turn her in. We need her.”

My, my, my. So Cherish had a phone and was in touch with the outside world. Well, that explained how she knew about Halsey. But this was intriguing. Had she also maybe sold phone time to Halsey when she was staying here? And did Cherish, perhaps, know who Halsey called? I’d have to find out.

Katie and Magdalene were subdued at the thought that Halsey had suffered a relapse so soon after she left Wonders.

Katie said softly, “I’ve only got another week here, and I can’t wait to get out. They’re holding my kindergarten class for me, so I want to get back to all my kids.” She shook her head, and her long, blond hair shimmered. “But now…if I get out and can’t stay straight? I mean, what if I can’t?”

Magdalene put her hand on Katie’s shoulder. “Don’t say that. Of course you can. Look how great you’re doing.”

“But it’s easy in here,” Katie said. “We don’t have the temptations, and we’re so sure we can get better. I mean, look what happened to Halsey. She was here longer than any of us, and now she’s…” Katie pulled a few tissues from her pocket and dabbed at her face.

I took another tiny taste of the seviche. “You know, this isn’t bad.”

Just then, Dusty from the suburbs pulled out a chair and
joined us. She hardly noticed the weird vibe at the table, so absorbed was she with her own fresh aura of gloom. “Shit,” she said, pulling her chair up to the white tablecloth. “I can’t believe it.” The candlelight picked up the tracks of tears, which Dusty hadn’t bothered to wipe.

Magdalene watched her closely and guessed, “Halsey?”

Dusty hardly heard the question, so intent was she on her own troubles. “I just got out of my private session with Dr. Deiter. He told me I wasn’t ready.” Her lower lip trembled.

I didn’t follow. “Not ready for what, honey?”

Magdalene answered, “After two weeks at Wonders we get to meet with the good doc who runs the place. All the counselors meet about our progress, and then Dr. Deiter sits down and tells us how it’s going. It’s a no-bullshit session, I’ll tell you. No one gets away unscathed.”

Dusty said, “I have to stay here for ninety days. That’s what he said.”

I asked, “How long did you sign up for?”

“Thirty,” she said, exhaling hard. “Thirty fucking days. And even that’s so horrible I don’t know if I can stand it. Thirty days is more time than I’ve ever been away from my kids in fifteen years. I thought, okay. I’ll do this thing for them. I won’t wimp out. I’ll get healthy and come home in a month. But, Jesus, ninety days. I’ll just…” The tears appeared.

Katie said, “It’s okay, Dusty. It’ll all be okay. Just tell them no. That’s what I did. Dr. Deiter told me I had to stay longer, but my insurance doesn’t pay anymore. I told him that. He pretty much left me alone after that.”

So the guy who runs Wonders was storm-trooping up business? What the hell?

“You’re lucky,” Dusty told Katie. “Deiter knows we can pay. That asshole already called Brett and told him I have to stay here. Here I am, working so hard to get better and make my family proud of me, and Deiter tells them I’m still in terrible trouble.”

Magdalene said, “He just means the odds are better for any of us the longer we stay in rehab. Not you in particular, Dusty. You’re working real hard here. You’ll do great on the outside.”

I looked at Magdalene and asked, “How long are you here for?”

“Hell,” she said, “I signed up for the full ninety the day I checked in. That’s what they recommended. Hey, I figured I’ve been stoned since I was thirteen. I’m up for it.”

Dusty continued, “Dr. Deiter said, ‘It’s the gold standard. The longer you’re in treatment, the greater your odds for success.’” Her hazel eyes had the puffy look of someone who isn’t used to crying in public. “You finally admit you’re sick, and then this guy comes along and says, no, you’re really way sicker than you think you are. And Brett won’t listen to me. Deiter already called him. He told him if I want to come home, I’m only hurting myself in the end. And Brett wants me to get well. I just hate this so much.”

We all looked down in silence as the waiters came to our table, removed the seviche bowls, and delivered the main course. The head waiter announced, “Barbecued, boneless beef short ribs with creamy polenta, Bloomsdale spinach, corn salsa, and truffle essence.”

Katie looked at my face and laughed. “Max, you are so cute. You look starved.”

Dusty smiled too. “Hey, don’t you worry about me. We all
have these little breakdowns now and then. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Aren’t you glad you checked in?”

We all laughed at that. Dusty told me, “You’ll get used to it. Go ahead. Eat. The food is the best thing going here.”

So that’s what we did. Between the ups and the downs of rehab, there was always the food. Magdalene and I went ahead and tried the beef. It was magical.

Katie smiled and handed Dusty some tissues. “No matter how many great chefs they bring in here to create the menu—”

Dusty nodded, wiping her face, explaining, “This is Susan Finnegan’s recipe.”

Katie continued, “—or nail appointments and personal trainers they get for you, this place is, no kidding, the scariest place I’ve ever been to in my life.”

Dusty’s lip trembled. “I don’t know if I can even stand it one more day.”

A stir of movement caught our attention, and we watched as a group counselor from a different part of our residential floor, a woman in her late sixties in a flowing, yellow muumuu, walked toward the table on the far wall where Cherish sat alone. They spoke for a minute, then the older woman hurried out of the dining room.

“That counselor is Linda,” Magdalene told me.

“What was that all about?” Katie wondered.

We watched as Cherish stood up, stretched, and caught us looking over at her.

“Please,” said Dusty, looking down quickly at her untouched plate, “don’t come over here, Cherish. I am not ready to put up with you right now.”

But, as if called by the sort of high-frequency whistles only dogs can hear, that’s exactly what Cherish did, and she headed straight for Dusty.

Cherish slouched next to Dusty’s chair and said in a louder voice than was necessary, “Wow, you look like shit, honey. Did Dr. Deiter lay down the law?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Dusty said. “Thanks for asking, though.”

Cherish snickered. “None of my concern? Babycakes, we’re in small group together. You are my concern, and I am your concern. Aren’t you all concerned about poor Cherish?”

Magdalene ran a hand through her pink spikes. “I’m so concerned about you, Cherish, I may have to write a song about you. How would it go…? I know.” Magdalene strummed an air guitar and sang, “‘Back off.’” She stared Cherish down.

Cherish looked straight at me. “I don’t know, Max. Was that little slam supposed to be funny, do you think?”

Since I’d been addressed, I took the opportunity to change the subject. “What was going on over there, Cherish, when Linda came over? She looked so upset.”

Cherish nodded. “Oh, that. Yeah. Linda was concerned about my buddy. My new buddy. You know how it works here, Max? We are all assigned our own little buddies. Like kindergarten, right, Katie?” Cherish snorted. “First I was assigned to look after Halsey Hamilton, the big movie star. I did a good job too. Halsey was doing just great until she went home. She took one look at me and thought, ‘Oh, no! I can’t end up like poor Cherish!’ Now, of course, she’s dead.”

“Cherish,” said Katie in a stern but kindly kindergarten-teacher voice. “Please.”

“Sorry, sorry,” said Cherish, not sorry at all. She had a gleam in her eye as she tried to get a rise out of each of the women at our table. “Did I hit a nerve?”

I asked, “So who is your new buddy, the one Linda was talking about?”

Cherish shook her head. “Damn if I don’t get the worst luck ever. It’s only been like two days, but my new buddy hasn’t worked out too well.”

Dusty looked up. “Stella? Didn’t they assign you to be Stella’s buddy?”

Stella was the spacey pharmacist I’d met back in small group. “Is Stella all right?”

Cherish mocked me, “‘Is Stella all right?’ Well, look how the new girl jumps right into the tank of sick sharks. Excellent.”

I might have minded her tone more, but I actually liked that she called me a “girl.”

Katie asked, “Where’s Stella?”

Cherish swung her long, dark hair over one shoulder in a practiced move. “Oh, she’s in detox again. Fell off the wagon big-time. Can you believe that? She already holds the world’s freaking record in detox here, but three weeks wasn’t enough for that gal.”

“How can that be?” asked Magdalene. “Where could Stella get any drugs around here?”

I turned to Cherish, waiting for the answer. Perhaps there was a black market for pills, just as in secret phone calls. Could it be that Cherish was selling drugs right here? And if so, did she sell Halsey whatever she took that proved to be a deadly dose?

Cherish laughed. “Well, you will all be surprised to learn that I had nothing to do with it. That’s right. My ‘buddy’ Stella found
her own fun juice. While we were all here at dinner, Stella entered each of our rooms.”

“What?” Katie sounded shocked.

“No keys, little one,” said Cherish. “Anyone can walk in or out.”

I noticed the diners at several of the tables around us had now begun to openly eavesdrop on Cherish as she crossed her arms and shifted her weight, slinging an insolent slender hip out as she stood by our table. Cherish realized she had built up quite an audience and raised her voice accordingly. “So Stella went into every single bathroom in every single room, and you know what she took?”

We just looked at her and waited.

“She took the Purell. Isn’t that funny? She took all of the hand sanitizer in those plastic pump bottles.”

Katie asked, “Why?”

“Because she wanted to mix it all up with orange juice and make herself sick on one very fucked-up screwdriver.”