Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (15 page)

T
he Breathalyzer beckoned.

To break into the inner sanctum at Wonders, to find out all I could about Halsey and Burke, I was probably going to have to do a lot worse things than simply breathe into a tube. I was a woman on an undercover mission, after all. What would Cinnamon Carter from
Mission: Impossible
do? I bent over the tube and blew.

Jonnie looked at the readout. “You blew a .00 BAC. Nice,” she chirped.

Damned right.

“High on anything else now, Max?” she asked, putting away the equipment.

“No, Jonnie.”

“Good, then we can skip the detox clinic and take you right to in-residence care. You’ll be on my floor, which is awesome. We’re called Butterfly Wing, and we have a group song, which is great. You’ll learn it tonight.”

Oh, joy.

“Our daily schedule is posted in your room. Every minute is accounted for. It may seem that there’s a lot to learn—but don’t worry. You’ll be staying with us a nice, long time, and pretty soon you’ll get the hang of it. You’re on your way, girlfriend.”

All this cheeriness was bringing a slight case of nausea. But I was undercover now. I needed to get into character. I said, “Thanks, girlfriend,” and met her waiting high five. Oh, Lord. This might just kill me.

Down the hall again, we turned at the main lobby and walked toward the back patio, where the ukulele music had just ended. No one was outside in the courtyard or farther down the lawn, near the pool. Jonnie pushed the brass luggage cart and said, “It’s quiet time. Soon we’ll have small groups. You will get so much out of group, Max.” Then she gestured for me to step inside a doorway at the end of the original building’s new wing.

Inside, she announced, “And here we are: Butterfly Wing. Your new home. Isn’t it nice?”

We stepped down the hallway, and Jonnie turned the doorknob to room 122. “No locks,” she said as the door swung open. “We don’t need them here. All is safe and trusting at Butterfly.”

“But the main doors? To the outside world? Locked?”

A tiny furrow appeared in Jonnie’s forehead. “Well, of course.”

The new construction of Butterfly Wing was meant to evoke a bit of the old-time glamour of the main house, but didn’t quite make it. The floor tiles had an even, manufactured appearance,
their uniform, dark-red color not quite the gracious, worn terra-cotta of the pavers in the mansion. Room 122 was large and sunny, though. Two beds were made up in yellow sheets and fluffy, white damask duvets.

Jonnie gestured to the window. “View of the Arroyo. Upgrade to private bath. Nice, huh?”

“Very nice.” It looked like an upscale bed-and-breakfast, with a sliding French door that led onto a small patch of patio. I tried this exterior door. It didn’t budge.

“I’ll get security, if you like, to unlock that for you,” Jonnie offered, watching me jiggle the handle. “But of course, they do lock it up at night.”

“Right.”

Jonnie pulled the cart with my luggage into the room and said, “I don’t want to make you feel bad, but I’m going to go through your things.”

As I stood there in shock, Jonnie put one of my bags up on the bed and began to sift through everything I had packed, her hands quickly dipping into every pocket, sliding along every hem. “Any necessary prescribed medications—blood pressure, allergy—need to be checked in with us. We keep them locked up in the medical clinic, and we’ll dispense them to you as prescribed, so no worries. Any unauthorized pills, narcotics, alcohol, or other substances will be taken for your own protection, as I’m sure you are aware since you just signed the authorization form.”

I did? I hadn’t taken the time to read every line.

She neatly stacked my lavender, satin Christian Lacroix robe and pajamas on the bed. “We can work together, if you like. When I’m done with things, just go on ahead and put them in the drawers. We’ll be done in no time.”

I stared. “This is absolutely necessary?”

Jonnie had finished with the first bag and was opening the second. “We want to make certain that everyone who enters Wonders is safe.”

As she worked through my clothes, I meticulously refolded every item and placed each one back in the original suitcase. I was not staying long.

As I zipped up the first suitcase and moved it next to the closet, Jonnie put my third valise up on the bed and smiled. “So far you’re doing great,” she said. But I noticed she had begun to collect an assortment of items.

“What have you got there?” I asked, refolding a pale green Tory Burch cashmere sweater and placing it back into my second bag.

“A few books.” Jonnie smiled up at me. “You know the rules. No reading material that isn’t focused on recovery.”

It’s a sad world when a person going through the pain of learning to live without his or her addiction is also forcibly kept from reading Mary Higgins Clark. “Where is the harm?” I asked politely, still trying to be the perfect prisoner.

“Lifestyles.” Jonnie sighed. “We don’t want to glamorize certain lifestyles, not while we’re here working so hard. And books can offer an escape from our troubles.” She smiled. “That may be good for us in our home life, but not here, where we need to face our troubles and concentrate on getting well.”

“This place is tough.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jonnie said seriously. “Now, would you please open up your handbag, Max?”

I did as she requested. Jonnie took many of the items out and scrutinized them. The tiny silver pillbox filled with antihista
mines was the first thing she grabbed. My tiny spray bottle of Opium perfume.

“The name?” I asked, watching her stow it with the other contraband.

“The alcohol. You wouldn’t believe how many of our girls in Butterfly drink their perfume.”

I thought that one over, then, before I could stop her, she palmed my cell phone.

“No, no, no. I need that. I’m in the middle of a very tricky negotiation. Networks are involved, you understand? And my manager is out of the country.”

“The concerns of the outside world are not our concerns,” Jonnie said in the tone of voice I imagine a mother superior uses when talking to naughty nuns. “We are here, Max, for one purpose only. To help you heal yourself. You must focus on that. And cell phones are only a distraction. Ah, I see you have a second phone.” She pulled out Halsey’s pavé-diamond Prada phone. “While you are here at Wonders, you must be truly
here.
”

“Here,” I parroted, showing what a good student I planned to be, because this sunny drug counselor, the one who was psycho-babbling me into a coma, might have been Halsey’s counselor too for all I knew. And I had to behave.

I still had no clear idea of how the staff at Wonders were organized, but I planned to find out. I had noticed two wings off the main building, with signs in the lobby pointing one way to Butterfly Wing and the other way to Dragonfly Wing, where, presumably, they stashed the men on the opposite side of the complex. As one of the counselors in Butterfly Wing, Jonnie was my first contact with someone who might have the inside scoop on Halsey and any of her visitors.

Jonnie continued talking while I faded off a bit, plotting my big plans. When I came back to the present, she was finishing up her well-meaning spiel: “Don’t you see? This is the best time of your life, Max. This stay at Wonders is all about you.”

No, actually, this stay was all about Halsey Hamilton and whatever she was doing in the days before her death. I nodded as if suddenly enlightened. “So true.” I sat down on the empty bed and dropped my voice. “I don’t know if I can make it here, Jonnie. I’m so unsure.”

Jonnie stopped looking through my change purse and came over to me, concern on her face. “Of course you are going to make it. You can do it, Max.”

“I don’t like my odds right now,” I said, shaking my head. “Look what happened to Halsey.” I kept my head shaking. “Poor sweet Halsey. She was a close friend to my family, you know.”

Jonnie froze. Her words suddenly became measured. “We are all so disappointed in that.”

“Yes.” I turned to Jonnie. “Halsey’s relapse into using all that crap she was on and her terrible death…it may be a message. Maybe Wonders isn’t really a safe place for me after all. What do you think?”

She looked at me, worried, as if it was all suddenly sinking in. “Is that why you wouldn’t even unpack?”

“I’m seeing things more clearly now,” I said, improvising. “It might make more sense for me to try a different rehab clinic that has a—how can I put this gently?—a better track record. Less deaths. No offense. But I’m getting a sudden strong feeling that I should take my…um,
addiction
to a more successful center. Betty Ford. Promises. Maybe that place on the Big Island…”

“Oh, Max,” Jonnie said, sounding stung, “Wonders is an
amazing place. Miracles happen here every single day. Dr. Deiter is amazing. I don’t think you need to worry.”

I was giving the performance of the season. Befuddled. Wary. Vulnerable. Substance-recovering. Shy. “Then please,” I begged, “can you explain it to me? Halsey lived here for months. Months. And now…she’s gone. You must have known her well, right?”

“I was her personal counselor,” Jonnie said quietly.

I nodded. Bingo. “After all the good work you must have done with her, what on earth would make her go back to using?”

“I shouldn’t talk. Privacy is everything to all of us at Wonders.”

“I really want to stay here and get better,” I lied. “And now that I think about it, I’m sure my successful recovery here could help Dr. Deiter when it comes to convincing other celebrities to believe in Wonders again.”

Jonnie bit her lip.

“I mean, after your—let’s face it—disastrous failure to help Halsey, anyone would ask what I’m asking. You must tell me what went wrong with Halsey’s treatment so I can believe the same tragic ending won’t happen to me.”

“I know it seems bad, but when you learn more about recovery, you’ll know that anyone can have a slip. We love our clients, but we cannot walk their road for them. We say it all the time around here: Addiction isn’t a party that goes on too long. Addiction leads to death.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“Max, I’m only telling you what you will learn in rehab no matter where you choose to stay to recover. Most slips, fortunately, don’t lead to such a terrible conclusion. But it is always possible, and I’ve seen it happen too many times.”

“But Halsey stayed here at Wonders with you guys such a long time.” I looked at the empty bed I was sitting on. “This must hurt business.”

Jonnie looked upset. “I knew we’d feel the backlash. Halsey’s relapse. Halsey’s death. Those headlines are not going to die down for months.”

“Years.”

“It’s just not fair. We help a thousand people find sobriety and lead them back to the wonderful lives they had lost through addiction, but then just one famous person has a slip in public…”

“Tell me what happened to her.” I sat down next to Jonnie. “I need to know. Maybe if I understood how such a thing could have happened to Halsey, I’ll be better prepared to face my own demons. Perhaps I won’t have to leave here after all.”

Jonnie looked as if she wanted to tell me, but she shut her mouth and shook her head no.

“Let’s take a hypothetical patient named Hope,” I said. “Tell me about why Hope would leave Wonders in the morning, all sober and excited, and end up dead on a hypothetical red carpet by nightfall.”

“I don’t believe she ever intended to take another Soma for the rest of her life,” Jonnie whispered. “I truly don’t. I have known a lot of addicts, Max. Hell, I’m a recovering addict myself. I know the lies, and I know the denial, okay? But Hals…Hope was as clean as they come while she was here. She didn’t ever want to go back to being out of control. I would have bet my life she’d never use again.”

“But we addicts can fool you,” I said, commiserating.

“Or someone gave her a pill, and she didn’t know what she was taking. One pill, one sip of alcohol…when you have a
chemical dependency, it only takes one, and then you can’t stop. If someone gave her that first drink…”

“You said she was taking Soma?” I had heard the name of that drug before, but couldn’t remember where. Had that been the prescription my manager, Steve, was given for his bad back?

“It’s a muscle relaxant,” Jonnie said. “Do you take it?”

I shook my head. Ah, ever the substance-abuse counselor.

“It’s really a horrible problem these days. Very popular with the young kids. They get their hands on the pills and mix it with alcohol and down out, you know? And it’s crazy hard to kick, that stuff is so addictive. Sometimes takes them weeks in detox.”

“So Hope’s doctor prescribed them for her? How stupid.”

“No. Oh, no. She had her own supplier. She didn’t need to get her name written up on a prescription. Celebrities can get anything, can’t they? They’ve got people to get it for them. And Soma is available down in Mexico without a prescription. They buy it in bulk. Her so-called friends ran down to Mexico all the time and picked the pills up by the hundreds.”

I opened my mouth but no words came.

Burke and Drew had taken trips down to Mexico. All those last-minute romantic trips he sprang on her. Just a little business to take care of, he’d told her. Then the rest of the time for the two of them. How happy she had been.

Jonnie shook her head, her pale yellow hair fluttering against her cheeks, and looked at me. “Poor choice of friends.”

Poor Halsey. Poor Drew.

O
h, gosh,” Jonnie said, looking at her watch. “Look at the time. We only have ten minutes until small group, and we can’t be late.”

“Right,” I said, still reeling from the shock that my daughter, dear Drew with her big sympathetic heart, might actually now be seen by the police as an accessory
before
the fact—accompanying a drug runner across the border—as well as
after
the fact—helping a guy she believed could have nothing to do with Halsey’s death. How could this be happening? It seemed the harder I worked to dig Drew out from under this mess, I only managed to dig her in deeper.

Would the police believe that she had no idea what Burke was up to when they crossed the border with, I now suspected, cases of
illegal Soma in his trunk? Or would they just see a pretty and successful young star and rush to lump her into Halsey’s category, another girl living in the fast lane who’d skidded off the road? My Drew! The good girl! They wouldn’t even want to understand. And neither would the wolves dressed in paparazzi clothing.

“Now, Max, we’re almost ready.” Jonnie gathered up the stash of items she’d confiscated: my vial of perfume, all the Madeline Bean mysteries I’d wanted to reread, my sainted BlackBerry, Halsey’s blinged-out Prada phone. “Could you please open your package?” Jonnie handed me the box that had come by messenger from Cindy Chow.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just a little something I asked my associate to find for me.”

Jonnie smiled but shook her head. “We have to check everything. We wouldn’t want our guests to send themselves little goody bags filled with death.”

Nice way with words. I silently took the box and opened it, taking care not to break a nail. Inside the outer wrap was, indeed, a shoebox. When I lifted the cover, I saw, nestled in pink, glitter tissue paper, Unja’s camcorder—the same high-definition Sony Handycam he’d had strapped to his forehead all night long at the Oscar preshow. “See?”

“I’m afraid I do. I have to take it. No cameras allowed.”

“What?”

“For the privacy of all our guests. It was clearly marked as a prohibited item on the intake document you signed. I’m sure you understand, Max. If our most famous patients were ever to feel victimized…” Jonnie held out her hand.

What could I do? Though it killed me to hand it over, that’s exactly what I did. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn.

“I’m sure you can tell that’s a valuable camera,” I said. “And how do I know it will be kept in a safe place?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s kept in Dr. Deiter’s office. You have no idea how many people think they can bring their laptops to rehab. We have dozens of them.”

“No Internet?” I was stunned. No digital camera. No cell phone. No Google. No drugs. No wine. Why, it was almost like my mother’s house in 1972. “So you keep our valuables?”

“Don’t worry, all your belongings will be waiting for you when you leave us to go out into the real world next month.”

What could I do? “Fine, good,” I said, forcing my voice to sound reasonably compliant.

Jonnie beamed at me. “Time for small group now.” Then she put my possessions down on the bed and held out her arms.

I looked at her. A hug? No, no, please. Tell me I was not standing in a rehab clinic in the middle of freaking Pasadena being hugged by a woman in a long, yellow dress.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Jonnie. You’re a very nice girl. Really. I’m just not a hugger.”

She put her arms down and tilted her head a little to the side. “Maybe not now, Max. But give us time. You will be!”

God. Save me.

From outside in the hallway I heard new sounds of activity. Jonnie led me out, and several women were closing their doors along the hall.

“Ready, girls?” Jonnie said to the group, raising her voice. “Let’s show Max what Butterfly Wing can really do.” She pulled out a pitch pipe and blew a note.

Oh, dear me. More songs.

In the sort of singsong cadence that is used in marine recruit
ing videos, when the troop of buff young men go running in the muck in their combat boots, handsome faces smiling, and chanting a rhythmic one-two-let’s-go sort of rhyme, I now heard half a dozen women join forces and sing:

Could I make this stuff up?

As the ladies burst into applause at their own efforts, Jonnie opened the outside door, and the group filed out. She told me, “We sing our hall song at the start of every small-group meeting. But I thought you’d love to hear it right away.”

“Thanks. Lovely.”

In the main house, I walked along with the flow of women until we entered a plush meeting room, furnished in upholstered pieces in burnt-sienna leather and soft, moss green velvet. The carpet on the tiles was a lustrous Oriental featuring the same mellow tones. Here I was, then, in this tastefully decorated chamber—the fraud of Butterfly Hall about to meet my fellow inmates. As the group took seats, I waited until they settled. Clearly they had their favorite spots. I had learned from Jonnie on the stroll to the main house that the small groups in Wonders comprised just six recovering addicts from each floor, who were led by their own personal counselor. I counted on the fact that each of the women in this group had known Halsey well. I could only hope not all of them had the stickler scruples of Jonnie about confidentiality. I’d have to play it carefully. I needed to make friends.

As everyone took her seat, I found an open spot on a leather sofa next to a girl who looked as if she’d been a beauty queen or the president of her college sorority. “Hi,” I said, and she whispered back, “Get ready for hell.”

Ah, nice welcome.

Around the circle of faces, I saw women of various ages, from the twentysomething blonde sitting beside me to a woman about my age across the way. All of them looked at me: fresh blood in small group. Some had open, friendly looks—fans perhaps? Some were harder to read. And one deeply tanned young woman kept shaking her head as if she couldn’t get over how funny it all was. Open scorn, that’s what I saw in her eyes.

“Let’s get started,” said Jonnie, standing before us and smoothing her yellow dress. “I would like to welcome our newest arrival here, Max. It’s her first day, and she didn’t need to go to detox.”

There was a smattering of applause, and I felt rather proud.

Jonnie said, “We sometimes have famous people at Wonders but confidentiality is of the utmost. We’re all working out our problems here, so we should treat everyone as equals.”

“Like Halsey?” blurted the scornful woman to my right.

“Cherish,” Jonnie said. “We will speak about Halsey at another, more appropriate time. Now, let’s each introduce ourselves. Name and occupation, okay? Katie, would you begin?”

The pep-squad leader wearing the red-and-white gingham headband sitting on the sofa beside me bounced up. “Hi. I’m Katie. I’m a crack cocaine addict. I teach kindergarten.”

In unison, everyone in the group said, “Hi, Katie.”

Next, the woman who looked to be about my age—or so I imagine, since she hadn’t had anything lifted or tucked that I could tell—stood up. A trim woman, she had short hair and a dull
quality behind her brown eyes. “Hi, everyone. I’m Stella. I’m an alcoholic and narcotics abuser.”

“Hi, Stella,” chanted the group.

“I’m a pharmacist. Oh, and I’d just like to say I am a huge fan of Ms. Taylor’s. That’s all.” She sat down.

Katie whispered to me, “Stella just joined our group this week. She’s been in detox three weeks straight. Some people say it’s a record. Any longer than two weeks in detox around here and they either send you to the hospital or bury you.”

I looked at my fan Stella with newfound concern.

The next woman around the circle stood up. A tall woman in her early thirties with pink hair, she was wearing blue leather pants and a halter top that revealed a gallery of tattoos. “Hi. My name is Magdalene, and I’m an alcoholic and also became addicted to my pain meds. Yeah.”

“Hi, Magdalene.”

“Hi back, you fierce women. Welcome to the group, Max. Oh, and I play keyboards with Wink 22.”

Drew would be so impressed. She had bought every one of that band’s CDs. She and Burke had even gone to a Wink 22 concert at the Nokia Center last year. Damn that Burke with his magical access to every big event in town. He was probably delivering pills and who-knew-what to all the druggies in town, so of course he could get passes backstage. It had all become so horribly clear.

Magdalene was barefoot and sat back down on an overstuffed chair, tucking one long leg under while the next woman stood. This one wore a thin, black cotton sweater over a white T-shirt with khakis, and her shoulder-length, highlighted hair was well cut.

“Hi, everyone,” she said, smiling. “I’m Dusty. I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Dusty.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Max. I’m probably the only person here who isn’t famous.”

Several of the women protested.

Dusty continued, “Okay. But I’m the only one without a job. I’m a housewife and mom. That’s about it.”

She sat down, and we all looked to the last woman in the room, the one to my right. She didn’t budge. Wearing baggy board shorts and rubber flip-flops, she was hardly dressed up. Her long, black hair, however, looked well combed.

Jonnie, our leader, spoke up. “Won’t you please stand and introduce yourself, Cherish?”

Slowly Cherish stood. “I’m Cherish, and I’m here because my tribe is gonna cut off my money if I don’t stay in.”

Jonnie said patiently, “Cherish. Please start again.”

“I’m Cherish, and I’m addicted to crystal meth. Is that better?”

I joined the wary and not terribly amused chorus and said, “Hi, Cherish.”

“So, like I was saying, I don’t have to work. I get my checks from the casino every month. My allowance. But unless I stay inside this prison for six months this time, I am shit out of luck. My people, my own compassionate people, are looking for any excuse to cut me out of my share that I’m due, okay? That way there is more for them, okay? Is that honest enough for group?”

Jonnie said mildly, “Thank you for sharing that, Cherish. Although, to be truly honest, you might ask yourself if you have
done anything to show you can take care of yourself. If not, if you have shown you are only interested in self-destructing, then, no matter what their motives may be, I wonder if they are being cruel or kind to require you to be in rehab? Perhaps you should consult your higher power?”

Cherish said, “Fuck that,” and sat down.

“Okay, then,” said Jonnie, trying to move it along and turned to me.

My turn. Terrific.

“Well, Max. You’ve heard how it’s done. Would you please stand up and address our group?”

I stood, and all eyes were on me. Friendly eyes, and not so friendly. Not a problem, since I’ve been working cold houses since I was sixteen and did my first open-mike night at Carolines nightclub on Broadway. “Hi, group members. I’m Max.”

“Hi, Max,” they said in unison.

Jonnie prompted, “And I’m a…”

I tried a few out in my mind…Diet Pepsi addict? Sweet’n Low abuser? Chocoholic? What could I say?

I started again, “I’m Max and I’m…not quite ready to burden the group with my little problems.” I looked over at Jonnie, hoping it was enough.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jonnie said, not perturbed. “The longer it takes to face the truth, however, the longer your road to recovery.”

Katie whispered, “They always getcha,” and I took a deep breath.

I continued, “I’m happy to be here with you. I hope you’ll accept me into your wonderful group. I’m grateful to be in recov
ery. And if anyone knows what I can do with forty minutes of killer material that starts, ‘A man walks into a bar…’” I waited for the guffaws.

Silence. Cold, cold crowd.

Then Dusty, the alcoholic housewife from the Valley, began to chuckle. And so did Magdalene. And so did Katie.

I even saw the beginnings of a smile from superstraight Jonnie.

Dusty said, “You’re just what we girls need here, Max. You’ve got to sit with us at dinner.”

And just like that, I had the perfect source of info on Halsey all lined up.

Jonnie looked at the clock on the wall and called out, “Look at that. Our time is up. Group hug, everybody.”

Mercy.