Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (24 page)

Even ten years ago, when the paparazzi weren’t half as bad, and when most stars received less attention than someone like Halsey Hamilton, the story of my ex-husband’s death had rocked the tabloids. We had divorced two years earlier, but his suicide was big, ugly news, and I was followed wherever I went. “Honey, Uncle Richard didn’t want me there. He begged me not to show up. They were afraid that the press would make your father’s funeral a circus. So I snuck in. I was the green bush next to that massive oak.”

“What?” asked Drew, looking up at me. “I never heard that.”

“You were young, sweetie. You’d just lost your wonderful father. Who wanted to burden you with all the stress? Uncle Richard wanted me to stay away. It was his brother who died. He had a right to ask it. Richard wanted me nowhere near that service. And neither did Aunt Julie. So I hid. Of course I was there.”

“But I stood there, all alone,” Drew said, her tears still falling.

“I made a deal with the rabbi,” I said, smoothing her hair as I talked. “He let me come to the mortuary very early, before anyone in the press arrived outside. I came and I sat with your father that day. And we talked, honey.”

“Oh, Mom.”

“And I told him I was sorry, sweetie. Not that he wasn’t totally responsible for our divorce. But I wanted him to know I wished we had made it work out. For you.” I opened my bag, pulled out a tissue, and handed it to Drew. “I’m sorry, Drew. For everything I couldn’t make right.”

As she patted under her eyes to save her makeup, I thought I saw the beginning of a smile. “But you are such a control freak, Mom, that you do. You make it right all the time.”

I think there was a compliment in there, somewhere, and I hugged her again.

Drew said, “I’m glad I’m standing here crying, I really am. Believe me, I have plenty to cry about. I had a lot of things I never got to say to Halsey, Mom. It’s a lesson. We have to say we’re sorry when we have the chance.”

I looked up. “Drew, I never told you the thing Halsey said to me, when she was so sick and…dying. Remember I was upset, and she had been rambling?”

Drew looked at me. “Sure. What did she say?”

“She said I should tell you she didn’t blame you. I thought she was confused, honey. Why should Halsey blame you? But now, I just realized…”

“Burke,” Drew said. Then she smiled at me, wiping more tears as they fell. “She finally forgave me for Burke.” Then she turned her head. “Glam-TV, approaching on your left.”

I turned and watched Nicholas Milo, the movie-star handsome young president of Glam, approach us.

“Max and Drew,” he said, “I’m glad I found you together.”

“Hi, Nick,” Drew said.

He gave us each a kiss on the cheek. “You okay, Max?” he asked, noticing my non-outfit.

“Deconstruction, Nick. It’s what they’ll all be wearing to funerals for years to come.”

He nodded, perhaps making mental notes to tell his girlfriend to rip a seam. “Look, you were terrific this year. Just terrific. Our overnights were amazing, and we owe it to you two.”

A job well done. We both beamed.

“This isn’t the time or place to start a big negotiation, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’ve been in contact with Steve. We want you two to do the Emmys this fall. Think about it.”

Think? I was dizzy with joy. “If we’re available,” I said with a friendly twinkle.

Nick left us, and we hugged. Drew said, “The Emmys! We booked the Emmys.”

“If we don’t get a better offer from a network.” When the full story emerged about Halsey and Devon, who knew?

“Look out,” Drew warned, and I pulled back to see the gang had arrived. Malulu had hooked up with Sir Ian and Dr. Bob and Sheree. In their gaggle were also the missing Unja, along with my makeup girl, Allie, and Cindy Chow.

To Malulu, I asked, concerned, “Where’s Killer?” Several signs at the cemetery warned
NO PETS ALLOWED
.

She put a thick finger in front of her lips and looked nervous. Malulu hated to break a rule, any rule. And she had clearly stuffed dear Killer into the new Fendi tote she was carrying.

Unja said, “Sorry, Max. I was a very bad boy.” He giggled. “But I had the time of my life. Hollywood. I love it here.” He snapped his fingers and made a sweeping circle gesture with his arm that, unfortunately, encompassed a field of headstones.

“It’s okay,” I said. While my starstruck hairdresser’s camcorder
hadn’t recorded any incriminating evidence in Halsey’s murder, it sure came in handy when Devon was bragging about it.

“All forgiven?” Cindy Chow asked hopefully. “We still your number one team?”

Drew said, “Tell them, Mother.”

I asked, “What are you all doing in September?”

“The Emmys?” squealed Allie.

“The Emmys?” echoed Unja, his eyes aglow.

“Me too?” asked Cindy, her voice low and serious.

“All of you, yes,” I said.

Just then, the wind picked up, and Dr. Bob’s wife, Sheree, had two blond hair extensions blow off her perfectly tumbled mane and flap away. She barely noticed and said, “You all have so much fun.”

Ian put his protective arm over my shoulders and drew me away from the group. “My dear, we have hardly had two minutes to speak. It’s all well and good for you to run around for days on end, but I’m sure we could both do with a bit of time to settle down, actually, and get a grip. Yes?”

“It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Agreed. And I’m quite sure,” he continued, blue eyes twinkling, “that properly motivated, I could think of
something
to make you happy, certainly.”

I did have something in mind, but not what he was thinking of. I pulled the little velvet bag out of my tote. It can be such a comfort to have a diamond trader about.

He took the bag, curious, and poured the diamonds out into his palm. “Little beauties?”

Our friends oohed and aahed. I think Sheree even managed to blink.

Sir Ian said, “Shall we sell the little beauties or get them set?”

Drew and I said in unison, “Set them.”

“Very well,” said Ian, professionally putting them back into the pouch and placing the pouch in an inner jacket pocket. “And that reminds me, Max. I have a little something I brought for you.” He pulled a small black velvet case from his outer pocket. “You have been through quite a lot these last few days. The death of that young girl. The…substance issues. Whatnot. And, well, watching you deal with it all, so brave…facing your demons and all that…Well, I guess it reminded me of just what sort of woman you are, my dear.”

“Why, Ian!” I hardly knew what to say. The group looked on as I opened the case.

A perfect emerald, which is to say an enormous one, was held in a platinum mount. Just the sort of extravagant ring one might wear with a new outfit. I felt a bout of shopping coming on. “It’s magnificent,” I said.

He said, “Nothing too showy. Just a token of support as you step upon the difficult road to recovery, that’s all.”

Throughout history, women have received baubles based upon much greater misunderstandings. Naturally, I was too polite to correct this particular misunderstanding in public. I don’t know what got into me—the adrenaline that had kicked in a few days ago when Halsey collapsed and that had kicked into higher gear when Devon attacked me was still pumping. I kissed Ian right there in front of the gravestones, the hell with his British sense of reserve.

“How sweet that you came to help me,” I said.

He smiled. “Now, now. Let’s not get carried away.”

Just then, a waitress walked by holding a tray filled with cham
pagne flutes. I reached for one and murmured, “Thank God. I need this.”

At which Ian raised an eyebrow and gently removed it from my hand just as it was raised to my parched lips. “My dear, so soon after leaving rehab? I think not.”

At that moment Killer popped his head out of Malulu’s tote bag and started to howl.

I knew exactly how he felt.

From Joan Rivers

In Hollywood, the only thing larger than a red carpet arrival is Queen Latifah’s thong…and I, of all people, should know, since I’ve been covering the extravagant, bigger-than-life affairs for more years than I can even remember. Let’s just say that when I first started interviewing Tinseltown’s elite on the red carpet, Michael Jackson liked girls! Paris Hilton was a hotel in France. Lindsay Lohan wore panties! Oh, where have all the years gone, besides to Tommy Lee Jones’s face?

But seriously, what a great job it is to be interviewing the stars as they arrive at award shows, highlighting the jewels and the fashions, pointing out the celebrity dieters who went too far—and those who didn’t, frankly, go far enough. People have said that my daughter, Melissa, and I have turned walking into a building into an internationally televised event.

But what happens backstage? You think the night of the Academy Awards is all congratulations and swag bags, all eye-lifts and romance, all Botox and Jimmy Choos? Hah. Celebrities get tense. Tears are shed. Cell phones are tossed. Even I, a woman of notoriously sweet temper, have felt the pressure as I smiled at yet another glittering fashion train wreck.

Two hours with a mike in my hand takes its toll. At times, I won’t lie, I honestly felt like killing several impossibly thin cue-card girls and the gal who invented Spanx—that sadist. But if working the red carpet could provoke even
me
to contemplate murder, imagine how Björk must have felt wearing that
shmatte
with the swan around her neck. If the girl had come to her senses and pecked her designer to death in front of 50 million people with that wretched beak, would anyone have had the heart to convict her? In Hollywood? Don’t make me laugh.

But that certainly doesn’t make it right. When comedy turns to tragedy, we all must care. An unnatural death cries out for closure: the killer must be caught. It’s the essence of every great mystery novel and, even in Hollywood, a life and death matter. (Sort of.)

So what would happen if…into this awards-frenzied cesspool of glamour and anxiety we dropped a little murder? Say there was a sexy, crazy, outrageous death at Tinseltown’s biggest event. And say that no one—certainly not the police—could figure out whodunit. To whom would our poor, frazzled world turn for justice? That’s right. To me—Joan Rivers. Or in this case, my slightly younger, slightly blonder, extremely fictional literary counterpart, Maxine (Max) Taylor.

Max and her also extremely fictional daughter, Drew, can investigate and solve a celebrity murder at a red carpet event faster than you can say
after-party.

Leave it to me—the Red Carpet Murder Mysteries are a fictional spin on my life, and while they are truly works of fiction, they are based on my own experiences and observations. The world depicted in these books could not be any more authentic, raw, and filled with peril—and that’s just the stuff of my online experiments with JDate.com.

Even though the idea to write these mysteries was right under my nose, it took acclaimed film producer and mastermind book packager, Larry Thompson, to bring it to my attention. Before he even finished pitching me the idea of the Red Carpet Murder Mysteries, I said, “Oh, yeah. I’m in. There are so many people in show biz that I would love to kill.” I am so grateful to Larry not only for his ideas and creative talents but also for his passion and belief in me. He’s drop-dead smart and a real keeper.

After Larry lit the match, he and his most efficient head of development, Robert G. Endara II, discovered the mystery-writing talents of my cowriter, bestselling novelist, and new friend, Jerrilyn Farmer. Her Madeline Bean mystery series has been at number one on the
L.A. Times
bestseller list multiple times, won a host of awards including two Lefties, given to the Funniest Mystery Novel of the Year, and spent weeks on Amazon’s Hot 100 list. Jerrilyn is also a TV writer who has written comedy for Dana Carvey and Jon Lovitz and now teaches mystery writing at UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. With the good taste and encouragement of Jerrilyn’s son, Nick, and the help of her ace literary agent, Evan Marshall, our partnership clicked. The two of us are like the mystery/comedy dream team—I like to kill audiences and she likes to kill fictional characters that remind her oh so much of the people who bug her in real life. We’ve laughed together. We’ve walked down Madison Avenue together. We’ve hung out in
L.A. together. We’ve puzzled over what makes people tick together. Thank you so much, Jerrilyn.

Next, the literary agency Dupree-Miller & Associates joined our team. They deserve a big kiss. Jan Miller, a star maker and superstar herself, with her ever-vigilant and enthusiastic paisan, Nena Madonia, went immediately to Simon & Schuster and threatened, “We have an offer you can’t refuse.”

And then it was real.

With much enthusiasm, I want to thank everyone at Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster who rolled out the red carpet for me. First, my love, love, love goes to my glorious and talented editor, Mitchell Ivers, who listened to Larry and me at lunch, got it, laughed, and has escorted us every step of the way down the publishing red carpet. Also at Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster, big hugs and no small thanks to Deputy Publisher Anthony Ziccardi, and Publisher Louise Burke, who at that lovefest lunch also laughed and said yes. I think they all ordered the salmon.

I hasten to say thanks to my constant traveling companion, personal manager, and cheerleader, Billy Sammeth; my theatrical agent, Joel Dean; my entertainment lawyer, Kenneth Browning; my business manager, Michael Karlin; my indefatigable personal assistant, Jocelyn Pickett; and my longtime publicist, Judy Katz. With that payroll, you know why I work my ass off.

On a serious note, I would like to thank the Academy (I’ve always wanted to say that), especially, my pussycats, Gil Cates, the quintessential producer of the Academy Awards telecasts, and Sid Ganis, who is president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, for granting us permission to use the Academy’s registered trademarks Academy Awards
^®
and Oscars
^®
in our title
and first book of our series. I am so appreciative. They love me…they really love me.

I also want to thank every star I have ever interviewed on the red carpet. Whether you won that night or lost, you are all winners to me.

And lastly, a huge thank-you to my one and only, darling daughter, Melissa, and her adorable son, Cooper, for allowing me to embark on yet another creative effort that robs us of our precious time together. To Melissa, who calls me by the most beautiful name in the world, Mom, and to my grandson, Cooper, who refers to me after each of my beauty enhancements as Nana New Face, I want to say, “Thank you for everything, and I love you very much. You both really do ‘complete me.’”

So, enjoy
Murder at the Academy Awards
^®
and the sequels that will be coming soon. And since I won’t be asking you my proverbial red carpet question, “Who are you wearing?” but instead, “Whodunit?” feel free to wear anything you wish while helping Max solve these mysteries, knowing that I will not comment to the media on your appearance or sense of fashion. In fact, simply having you read while lounging comfortably in flannel pajamas adorned with delicious chocolate ice-cream stains will make me appreciate and love you even more.

From Jerrilyn Farmer

This book was a joy to work on, and with deep gratitude I wish to thank the following for their help and encouragement:

My friendship with Lee Goldberg has seen us through some
excellent times, sitting side by side at so many book signings in our mystery-writing community, but I will always owe him a debt of gratitude for introducing me to Larry Thompson, one of the most brilliant and enthusiastic book packagers and film producers I’ve had the pleasure to work with. In turn, I must thank Larry for bringing me into this lovely partnership and introducing me to a woman I so admire for her talent, graciousness, and legendary wit—Joan Rivers.

Thanks most warmly go to Joan, the shining star with her daughter, Melissa, of this and every red carpet, whose friendship means so much, for sharing her incredible life and point of view, and so generously throwing herself fully into this project.

I’m also beholden to our fabulous editor, Mitchell Ivers, whose devilish wit rose to every occasion, and my dear literary agent, Evan Marshall, who again saw me happily through another wonderful endeavor. I owe much to others as well.

I must thank Michelle Dewey and the impressive writing students I work with from the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. Thanks to the wonderful Robert G. Endara II and the incredible Jocelyn Pickett for helping facilitate the complex logistics of a merry troupe who worked together on this book on several continents, most notably our wonderful Joan, who seemed never to be in the same city for two nights in a row.

My sweetest thanks go to my dear family, who have always cheered me on as I embark on each new journey. In particular, my talented son, Nick, who urged me to find time for this project, amid a sea of plans and school forms that had passed their deadlines. With the help of my darling husband, Chris, and my wonderfully capable oldest son, Sam, our world made room for a project I truly loved taking on.

Not everyone gets the chance to wear the fur coat of a superstar and walk a mile in her Manolos. Thanks to the brilliant Joan Rivers, I got that chance. It was like a Fantasy Camp for Fashionistas. Thank you, again, Joan for welcoming me into your world.