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

by Joan Rivers

  “How are you feeling, Max?” Dr. Bob asked, his voice heavy with concern.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Sort of numb. This could be a great time to get a little liposuction.” I looked, and Malulu returned to her crouched Limalama martial arts stance, weaving and bobbing and waiting for Peter and Dr. Deiter to make one false move. From her furious concern at letting me down, I could tell she was ready to whup anyone who so much as breathed funny. Dr. Bob was checking my vital signs, looking into my eyes, and taking my pulse. Cherish was slouching near the overturned lamp, smirking.

  Dr. Deiter spoke up in a terribly irritated tone, “I don’t know what movie you all think you are in, but you are in an amazing amount of trouble.”

  Dr. Bob spoke first. “We’re in trouble? I beg to differ! For what godly reason did you inject Maxine Taylor against her will in the middle of the night? Of course, we’ll be calling the police and filing charges.” As he spoke, Malulu opened her cell phone and began to dial.

  Deiter suddenly gave up the irritated voice, and said, “Calm down and think about whether you truly want to bring the police into this matter. I’m sure discretion is just as important to Max as it is to our clinic.”

  He had a point. Malulu stopped in mid-dial.

  Deiter continued, “Your patient, Dr. Hopeman, was agitated and violent. She attacked my assistant with a weapon, as you yourself can see. In fact, despite what you think may have occurred, every single action I took was medically justified.”

  Suddenly with a woozy start, I realized how all this might appear if spun the wrong way.

  Cherish looked at me with respect. “You cut the big dude?”

  Deiter said, “Ms. Taylor signed our standard consent-to-treatment agreement when she entered Wonders. We have the authority to use any medical methods we deem appropriate to help her—”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I said, stopping his maddeningly logical spiel. “Let’s move on. For the record, I am not an addict.”

  “Really?” Deiter said, settling himself into the ultraexpensive ergonomic chair behind his desk. “Your doctor made a diagnosis and signed our form.”

  Dr. Bob cleared his throat and took up the story. “Max has been here undercover. Her intention has been to investigate the death of Halsey Hamilton, a close family friend.”

  “And so you falsified that document?”

  I stepped in. “Not falsified so much as creatively interpreted. After all, no substance was specifically named.” I smiled, filled with a happy glow. “Perhaps we had all better relax and get reasonable.”

  Deiter looked around the room, from Malulu swaying in her ready stance, to my most reputable friend, Dr. Bob, standing next to me, to the grinning Cherish, amused as always, to his assistant with his wrist now wrapped in his Wonders jacket.

  “So,” Deiter said, finally looking straight at me. “You really are not an addict?”

  “No, no, no. Unless you call my admitted reliance on Sweet’n Low, a hunger for large, filled Hermès shopping bags, or my need to help the people I care about…addictions?”

  Deiter had the decency to give me a tight smile. “Those are all fairly benign.”

  “So,” I said. “It appears what we have here is a standoff. I say, you let me go, and I’ll let you go.”

  “What?”

  “Look. I don’t know that I like the way you operate, with the lockdowns and the head trips, and the dicey way you get patients to recommit themselves for longer treatment. And I suppose, on second thought, that my investigation here at Wonders was a little…overenthusiastic. But the point is, I think you really did help Halsey. And a lot of the others I met here. Your clinic seems to work. So here’s what I propose. You officially release me, give me my walking papers, and refund all of my money.”

  “Excuse me?” He sat up straighter.

  “And I’ll forget all about the nasty scene with the needle.”

  Hey, I might be marvelously relaxed, but I wasn’t about to let thirty-five grand go traipsing away.

  Deiter said, “I hardly think you are in any position to make such a demand. All your money refunded? Impossible. You signed a contract.”

  I smiled. “After the horrible press you are already getting over Halsey’s death, can you really afford having a big celebrity out there bad-mouthing Wonders?”

  He looked at us all one more time. “Get out of here.”

  “And the money?”

  “You’ll get your refund.”

  Yes. It’s not every day a woman breaks herself out of rehab. And considering the stated purpose of the Wonders clinic, I suspected I was the only inmate that ever left the place higher than when she had arrived.

  24

  Best Funeral

  At three o’clock in the afternoon that same Wednesday, Drew and I were dropped off outside the Kodak Theatre by Malulu, who was going off to valet-park. Only three days earlier, this had been the site of our Glam-TV red carpet preshow and, I should also probably mention, the Academy Awards. Just as the last time we had been here, the bleachers were set up and filled with fans, only this time they were dressed mostly in black, except for those who had bought the HALSEY HAMILTON REST IN PEACE commemorative T-shirts from the stand on the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Jimmy Hamilton had a piece of the action.

  I was wearing a simple black Chanel suit with black Louboutin shoes whose red bottoms added just a glimpse of glamour and picked up the red in my M•A•C lipstick. Drew had on an understated, gray Armani suit. His clothes are always so simply cut, they work for a party or a funeral—a great way to amortize the cost.

  “Oh, dear,” Drew said.

  “Unbelievable!” I agreed. We both had spotted the white velvet ropes draped between Plexiglas stands that surrounded the very spot on the red carpet where Halsey had collapsed during our interview. A shrine.

  “Should we go in?” Drew whispered to me as we stood on the red carpet once again.

  “Just give me a minute,” I said. Over on the far curb, Matt Lauer was covering the event for NBC, and I noticed ABC had sent George Stephanopoulos. Even Devon Jones, from ET, wearing a red dress that showed off her cleavage, for crying out loud, was covering the funeral. “I want to absorb this scene of vulgarity a few moments longer. So I’ll get all the details right when planning my own funeral.”

  Drew shot me a look, not entirely sure if I was kidding. I was. I’d never invite Devon Jones.

  Gigantic banners showed blowups from all of Halsey’s movies. She’d made fifteen in her nine years in Hollywood. Quite a legacy for such a young lady who had started working in movies at the age of ten. Rickey Minor and the Band were playing at the entrance, and American Idol winner David Cook was singing “Stairway to Heaven.” I noticed the arriving guests were subdued as they marched past the press corps and into the Kodak, barely stopping to pose for more than two or three of the paparazzi. This is a town that knows how to respect tragedy.

  We’d heard that Bono had written a special song for the ceremony. And Halsey’s good friend Miley Cyrus was rumored to be performing it and another song later on.

  Drew whispered, “Did you hear they asked Nigel Lythgoe to produce?”

  I looked at her, surprised. “The funeral?”

  See what happens? You go to Pasadena for one lousy day, and you are instantly out of the loop.

  “And Oprah’s people are furious,” Drew said. “She wanted to get an exclusive. Do an entire week on funerals.”

  I tsk-tsked. Still, I saw that Oprah’s cameras were there amidst the throng. Gotta love Halsey’s dad for selling the rights to each camera location.

  We walked ahead as the stop-and-go line of mourners slowly moved forward. A little ahead of us, I saw the Jonas Brothers chatting with Little Richard.

  My head began to spin—call it celebrity whiplash or the last remnants of my early-morning sedative cocktail. Only nine hours earlier (had it been only nine hours?) I’d been in a whole other world.

  Back at Wonders in Pasad
ena, after our delicate agreement with Deiter, Dr. Bob had had to leave us almost immediately; he was due back home and had to dash. Dear Dr. Bob.

  Malulu went to fetch my suitcases, and, on my way out of Wonders, I found a private moment to speak to Cherish, just as the clinic was waking up.

  “I wanted to thank you, Cherish. You may be a pain in the ass, but you’re a good girl. You rode to the rescue.”

  She smiled and flicked back her thick, black hair.

  “Like the cavalry,” I added.

  Cherish looked suddenly nauseous.

  I smiled at her. “What a night, huh?”

  “Life’s a bitch,” she said. “But I guess every once in a while a fish wiggles free from the hook. Take care you don’t end up like one of us, Max.”

  “Look, Cherish. Deiter might be a little power-mad, true, but maybe that’s what it takes to wrestle you hardheaded types to the floor. Just because you hate authority, my dear, doesn’t mean rehab itself is a joke. Why don’t you get smart? You’ve got a little boy to think about.”

  “Yeah, maybe so.”

  “You’ve still got time to straighten yourself out. Don’t throw away your chance. Make the collage. Sing the freaking songs. Get better.”

  “Max, if you try to hug me, I’ll kill you.”

  I laughed. As if.

  I hoped she could hear me, though. A child is the one thing worth all the suffering. Take it from a mother.

  Cherish went off with what I hoped was a more thoughtful expression than I’d yet seen on her strong-featured face, while Malulu came back with my luggage. As we walked out the front door of Wonders, I found my darling Killer waiting patiently in the back of the Hummer. What could be better? Finally finally free.

  On the ride back to the Hotel Bel-Air, I pulled my thoughts together as the sedative wore off. It was my first chance to really examine my stash of clues since they’d been taken from me the day before. I began by scrolling through the entries on Halsey’s Prada phone. On the day in question, I noticed Burke Norris had called. And so had Rojo Bernstein. She had taken both calls. But in the Missed Calls list, at least a dozen calls from her father’s phone were unanswered. In addition, there was a 310 number that didn’t have a name attached: 310-555-2520.

  The area code was for L.A.’s Westside, and I had tried calling it right then on our ride back to the hotel, but a generic, male answering-machine voice was on the other end. I didn’t leave a message.

  As for Sent Texts, I noticed Halsey had sent only one that day: to Drew. The heads-up that she would be coming to the Oscars after all.

  While Malulu drove westward across L.A., rattling cheerfully on about how much Killer had missed me, and as Killer himself curled into a ball of fluff and settled into my lap for a nap, I finally had a chance to review Unja’s private red carpet footage. Would it reveal some great secret?

  I fiddled with the buttons, cursing up a storm and, by cleverly hitting the tiny button marked PLAYBACK, eventually figured out how to watch the tape.

  First I rewound it to the spot where Halsey made her wobbly entrance. On the videocam’s small screen, the tape played on, and Halsey’s scantily clad body and slurred comments were pretty much exactly as I remembered.

  I pressed STOP, and with a little more swearing, I managed to back up the tape so I could watch the show all the way through, from my first on-air guests, the amazingly handsome Aaron Eck-hart and dear Michael Caine, who, in a certain light, resembles my own Sir Ian. It was, I had to admit, a wonderful interview, filled with their good spirits and high hopes over the huge number of nominations for Dark Knight.

  The replay showed nothing new in regard to Halsey. Then, I watched Halsey’s interview one more time. Unja’s tape had caught it all, every second that was broadcast by Glam-TV and the sad minutes after that idiot Will Beckerman pulled the plug. There was Cindy dragging Halsey, the poor thing, forward. Her drunken stagger. Our descent to the red carpet. And her breathy final words.

  When I had asked her point-blank why she had been drinking, she said, “I would never take a drink. Never. I swear.” I was sure, now, that she had been telling me the truth. At the time, I figured she hadn’t meant to slip, but someone must have tempted her. On the tape I watched her say, “Don’t blame Burkie.” It had seemed a clear indictment of Burke Norris, but was it? Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I watched the tape play on, then got the most damning jolt, just as I remembered it. Halsey said, “Tell Drew…I don’t blame her.”

  Nothing added up. I sighed. Eventually, we pulled up to the Hotel Bel-Air. With Malulu carting the bags and me tugging Killer gently by his leash, we finally returned home. Only when I got back to my Herb Garden Suite, after I’d changed out of my prowling clothes and into the tailored black Chanel suit, and stepped out of the croc sport shoes and into my Louboutin pumps, did things become clear.

  Malulu asked, “Have you finished looking at Unja’s video, Mrs. L?”

  “It’s all so sad,” I said. “That poor kid.”

  “So if you don’t mind, could I take a look?”

  I stared at Malulu. This was the first time she had ever expressed curiosity. “You want to see Halsey’s final minutes?”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. I was hoping I could see if I am on the video. You know, when we first got to the theater before your big show.”

  Until that very second, I hadn’t thought to start the tape all the way back at the very beginning before we went on-air, so Malulu helped me plug the small camcorder into the Garden Suite’s large, plasma-screen monitor, and this time I started Unja’s videotape from the top.

  He had begun taping when we first arrived, about an hour before the Glam-TV special began airing. At the beginning, you could see a lot of the broadcasters setting up on their marks and hear snatches of conversation of the backup crew. Unja was zooming in and out, grabbing shots of Jillian Reynolds, a local on-camera host who was doing a rival broadcast, the Sullivan brothers from MTV, and anyone else he could find that he recognized.

  Malulu said, “There is no shot of me, Mrs.”

  “Just wait a second, Malulu. I think—”

  “Oh, Mrs. L!” Malulu gasped as she saw what had just happened on the large screen. Devon Jones, the entertainment reporter who might, so they say, be losing her gig over at ET, and her crew were setting up their equipment right next to us. When my back was turned, Devon stuck her tongue out at me. Oh, ho! She must have had no idea that Unja had her in his shot. I laughed it off. Rivals. But Malulu was not amused.

  The phone rang, and I picked up the call myself. It was my dear friend and attorney, Sol Epstein, with the latest news about Burke and his arrest. I listened intently to his update, thankful that Burke Norris seemed to be cooperating with the federal authorities.

  My brain buzzing, I let the videotape play on as I walked across the living room to my bedroom, where I kept my jewel case. For the afternoon’s funeral, I thought I’d perhaps wear one of the pieces my late husband had given me. I had collected some fine Fabergé jewelry, and now I selected a large, gold, antique, crescent-shaped brooch, made circa 1890, about two and a half inches in length and covered with sixty-five old-mine diamonds. Well, sometimes one has to show one’s respect, and I hoped Halsey, who had always loved sparkly things, would approve.

  I was just walking back to the living room, pinning the brooch to the lapel of my jacket, praying it wouldn’t leave holes in the Chanel, when I heard a familiar voice coming from the videotaped recording. Looking up, I saw that Unja had focused the camera across the red carpet where, much farther down the row, he’d spied Shia LaBeouf. But the voice that was picked up so distinctly on Unja’s microphone belonged to Jimmy Hamilton, in the foreground.

  I sat down, riveted to what I was hearing. Jimmy’s image was slightly out of focus, and he was talking to someone off-camera. He said, “No. She won’t answer. I swear she’s so stubborn sometimes, I think she isn’t fit to live.”

  Oh, my heavens. Was he talking about Hal
sey? Well, who else could it be?

  Jimmy continued talking, unaware that all he said was being recorded by my hairstylist, Unja, only a few feet away, starstruck by the sudden LaBeouf sighting farther down the walkway. Jimmy said, “I told her, if she wasn’t gonna do it the way we all planned it, then she better just stay home. Know what I mean? Who was forcing her to come? And those tears she puts on, let me tell you—they are just waterworks she turns on and turns off. So I made sure she wouldn’t come here and embarrass her mother and me.”

  In what way did he think Halsey would embarrass him? Had she been drinking at home, and he didn’t want the press to see her?

  A man’s voice that I didn’t recognize came from off-camera: “So what did you do?”

  Unja’s camera, focused as it was on a distant Shia LaBeouf as he walked down the carpet, drifted away from Jimmy’s image altogether, but I could still hear his voice loud and clear on the tape: “I took her gown, right? She was walking around the damned house in her bra and panties all afternoon. So I took the gown and threw it in the oven and turned it up to five hundred. This is after the stylist has already left, and there isn’t another thing for her to wear in the whole place, right?”

  “She must have been mad,” said the second guy.

  Jimmy’s voice sounded petulant. “Hell, yeah. But now I just got word that she’s gone and left the house anyway. In that limo. Damn her. She can’t show up here, that’s for damned sure, or I’m out a hundred and fifty grand.”

  I was mesmerized. Neither man was on-camera at the moment, and I silently prayed that Unja would unzoom on Shia and at least give me one quick view of the two men talking.

  That’s when the other guy answered, “Let me fix this up for you, Jimmy. Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure your little girl doesn’t ruin all your plans.”

  What, what, what? I couldn’t believe it. I cried out, “Malulu, did you hear that? Did you hear that man? He is talking about Halsey. Oh, my stars.”

  Malulu just grunted, unsure what I was raving about, but looking sympathetic.