Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery (23 page)

“I misjudged you,” I told Devon. “I used to think that soon you’d be out of the public eye for good. But no such luck. This tape. Your trial. Your sentencing.” I pushed open the restroom door. “Your walk to the electric chair.”

I rushed into the darkened hallway that ran behind the Kodak Theatre stage, escaping Devon’s madness. Around me backstage were several ten-foot-tall, golden Oscar statues, stored back here after the awards show but not yet loaded into trucks, apparently. They stood silent guard around me as the disembodied voice of Simon Cowell could be heard coming from in front of the cyclorama, the thin curtain that separated this backstage area from the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present Prince.”

All along the taut, gauzy curtain, the lighting changed, each cluster of primary-colored lamps fading and brightening. Right beside me the orange backdrop changed to a pale purple. It was eerie to be standing just ten feet behind the band, unseen behind the cyc. Then, just as the musicians played their first, loud electric chord, I was flying forward, the cement floor rushing up at me.

In an instant, I had to choose: it was either me, my fabulous bag, or the precious camcorder that would take the brunt of my fall. I clutched the Sony and hit the floor hard. With Prince wailing his heart out, no one could hear the noise.

The sharp toe of Devon’s knockoff Manolos struck my shoulder, and I had no choice but to put my hands up to protect my head and face. Pain shot through my arm and side as she kicked again and again. In an instant, the camcorder had shaken loose and was pried from my hands, but as Devon reached down, I tried to swing at her with my bag. Pissed, Devon couldn’t resist giving me one more ferocious kick.

I blocked the brunt of it by putting my beloved Birkin in front of my chest, and as she drew back her foot, I grabbed her ankle, and she almost went down on top of me.

A full gospel choir must have entered the stage from the wings because we could hear a hundred breathtakingly beautiful voices swell on the chorus of “Purple Rain.”

By the time I got to my feet, shaken and bruised, Devon had taken off toward a rear exit. I followed right after her, screaming her name, but against the amplified swell of the chorus nearby, it was as if I hadn’t uttered a sound.

I got close just as Devon realized the door she was pulling on,
not an exit after all but to a storeroom, was locked, and I almost caught up to her as she ran into an open elevator, one used for moving large stage pieces.

I looked right and left, hoping to spot a stagehand or assistant director, but no one worked back here during the performance. They were in the wings most likely, running the show.

My heart was racing. All I could think was she was getting away. And she was going to smear my name and Drew’s. The best proof I had that Devon had poisoned Halsey was on that camcorder inside that elevator car. Damn it. The large metal doors on the backstage lift began to close.

What could I do? I kicked off my Louboutin shoes, set down my Birkin, and threw myself inside.

Devon, shocked at my sudden entrance, started to laugh. “You poor idiot,” she said between laughs. She held the camcorder high and away from me by its strap.

The freight elevator began to slowly lurch upward, its chain-link sides padded with huge, beige blankets. The elevator’s control panel displayed buttons for five levels. The stage was level three, and we were rising.

“What are you doing?” she screamed above the loud music. “You think I’m going to hand this over to you?”

“Be smart!” I yelled. Right. It would be the first time in her life.

She said something and made a bitter face, but I couldn’t hear her. I looked at her thin frame, her toned arms. She might not weigh much, but she looked as if she worked out. Well, so did I. I only had to get the camcorder away from her and back down to safety. It was all on that tape.

The elevator passed the fourth level and kept climbing until it jogged to a stop, and we could go no higher. Here, about thirty feet above stage level, the rear cyclorama curtain was fixed to a pipe spanning the sixty-foot-wide stage. The large elevator doors opened onto a metal catwalk, a flimsy suspended walkway without sides. It was primarily meant for the lighting and stage crew when they set up a show, and I felt dizzy looking down to the purple-lit stage so far below. Only a narrow pipe railing ran the length of the catwalk, supported about every eight feet by thin, metal uprights. The entire thing could have been constructed by a kid with an old Erector set.

Devon backed out of the elevator. Holding out her hand, she dangled the camcorder over the edge of the railing high above the stage. “Want it?” I had to read her lips over the swelling notes from Prince’s band.

Now, strictly speaking, I am not a wimp. Hospitals don’t scare me; I can face surgery without batting an eye. I regularly drive on Los Angeles freeways. I even go into the ocean—the hell with sharks. But I do not care for extreme heights. At all. I looked down. The top of Prince’s well-coiffed head was quite far away. From this extraordinary angle, I noticed the cut of his suit jacket. Custom-made.

But never mind. I took a tentative step out onto the catwalk, keeping my eyes on Devon’s wrist, from which hung Unja’s precious camcorder.

“I can see you like heights,” she screamed at me, and in that split second my eyes, against my will, swept downward over the railing, and the sensation of phantom falling rose in my stomach. She lunged at me, swiping at me with her free hand. I screamed,
falling back away from her and slamming into the pipe railing, but who could hear me? She grabbed me by my hair and yanked hard.

Hell. Not the hair. I need every damn strand. I fell to my knees on the metal flooring and felt them burn with pain.

She yelled, “Glad you’re along for the ride, Max. You deserve this. You owe me.”

Five hundred mourners were sitting in the auditorium below. It was maddening. No one could hear us. Too many decibels. No one could see us. The catwalk was masked, of course, by the proscenium arch of the grand theatre.

My eyes were transfixed on the videocam dangling from Devon’s wrist, and I tried to gauge how hard I could hit her without also causing that camera to fall.

She looked at me as if I were the enemy—not just now, but always. “I did all the dirty work, but who got the story of the decade?”

Me. The career paranoia and desperation were now aimed at me.

Sitting high up on the catwalk, I slowly wrapped my arm around the support pipe. From there, it was easy to see my advantage. I was balanced and stable, while Devon was tottering on one broken heel. I could almost reach the dangling camcorder, but the strap was wrapped around her wrist.

Devon looked over the railing. “The song is almost over, Max. Damn it. I love Prince.” She focused back on me, sitting on the catwalk near her feet. “So let’s get this finished.” She unwrapped the strap and held the camcorder out toward the rail to which an array of Fresnel lights had been fixed, all pointing downward. A roar of applause came from below, the kind of subdued and re
spectful applause that a memorial service would warrant, but it went on for a long time. Just as it died down, and just before she could completely untangle the camcorder strap from her wrist so she could let the evidence against her drop, there was finally silence.

And in that sudden silence, we both heard a most ferocious yip.

Devon’s head snapped back toward the elevator shaft, and in the opening door, there stood Killer. All Yorkie rage. Alongside him was an agitated Malulu Vai.

In that instant, I pulled my knees up to my chest and kicked them out as hard as I could, hitting Devon’s shins and knees. The push had made her swing her arms inward. A lucky swing. When the camcorder flew from her hand, it fell onto the metal walkway between us. Killer was there before any of us, standing over the camera and baring quite a few sharp and pointy teeth.

Devon screamed in frustration. I unwrapped my arms from the metal pipe and reached for the camera. But Devon was furious, and just as I had the camcorder in my hands, she realized that I was no longer secured to the post and lunged for me.

In less than a flash, I clutched the camera for dear life and rolled onto my side to avoid the attack.

And just as the first note of the next piece was struck, Devon Jones in her bright red dress sailed right past us on the catwalk. She plunged over the railing, soaring ten feet out in front of the cyclorama, and down thirty feet onto the floor of the stage below.

She must have been so startled, she forgot to scream, but her perfectly made-up lips flew open, and I could see her wide eyes staring up at me all the way down until the moment her body landed right in front of the drum rig, center stage.

Whether the guests in the auditorium had half-expected Prince would present quite a show, I can’t say. But aside from a few aahs and oohs, no immediate concern was expressed at the sight of the red-dressed body slamming to the stage floor.

Until, that is, Prince’s brilliant rock drummer missed a beat.

A woman falling to her death right in front of your eyes will do that to you.

I
arrived at the cemetery, late, to the roar of wild applause.

No, not for me.

Halsey’s friend and favorite teen-rock superstar, Miley Cyrus, was just finishing her Hannah Montana hit song “The Best of Both Worlds.” How ironically appropriate, I thought. She and her backup dancers were performing on a temporary stage beside a field of headstones. Not your grandmother’s burial.

Only two hours earlier, the coroner’s truck had left the Kodak with Devon’s body. And just one hour earlier, her flailing body had slammed into the stage, landing in a position so twisted it defied nature. No matter what one felt about Devon, the sight was profoundly disturbing. Dr. Bob later told me that from the way she was splayed out, he’d guess fractured back, fractured neck,
fractured arms and legs. From the dark blood pooled under Devon’s sunny blond hair, we all suspected she’d fractured her skull as well. The story spread, which I hoped was true, that Devon’s death had been instantaneous. I could still see her image in my mind’s eye: that cartoon face, as it flew past me, suddenly a blank slate of panic.

The auditorium had quickly been cleared of attendees, their reactions ranging from horrified to numb and uncomprehending. Devon’s terrible plunge cut the planned three-hour memorial extravaganza for Halsey down quite a bit, and that caused a standoff between Jimmy Hamilton and the EMTs. But at some point the big promoter had to throw his hands up and let the LAPD take over.

The guests were asked to wait outside, with nothing to do but mill around while Devon’s body was cleared and the forensics team investigated. In a town that thrives on gossip, someone soon started the rumor that Devon Jones had been Halsey’s secret lover and had leapt to her death to “be with” Halsey again. Someone else figured that Devon had been stalking Prince and had become despondent when an interview never materialized. If those tales were interesting, just wait until they heard the real story.

Of course, after Devon fell off the catwalk, I hurried down to the stage, and told the stage manager what had occurred. In what seemed like only a few minutes, Malulu, Killer, and I were standing in the wings, talking to two detectives from the LAPD, and I turned over Unja’s digital video camera, which contained, I prayed, Devon’s taped confession.

It was all there. Thank goodness the sound quality was decent. Devon’s clearly recognizable voice admitted to killing Halsey and then tried to intimidate me with threats. The detec
tives listened to it a few times, and after hearing Malulu substantiate my account of what happened up on the catwalk, they agreed Devon’s death would be classified accidental until further investigations could be conducted.

The cops released the crowd but asked Malulu and I to stick around and make an official statement. We saw everyone leave the theatre plaza and depart for the nearby Hollywood Forever Cemetery, where the pageantry would continue. As we sat in the back of a detective’s unmarked Chrysler, writing out our accounts of the events in longhand on two legal pads, I explained again why Devon had poisoned a teenaged megastar to hike up her ratings. The noise of a helicopter’s rotors distracted us for a moment, and I looked up to see Halsey’s body lifted in the air and flown away. In the end, the detectives had us sign our statements and told us we could leave, that they’d get in touch with us later.

At the cemetery, Malulu dropped me off and went off to find parking. I walked quickly past a few small temples and a mausoleum, tugging straight the ripped sleeve of my black Chanel jacket. I stopped for a moment, removed the diamond brooch from the lapel, and used it to reattach the almost completely torn pocket. With my torn hem hanging slightly asymmetrically, I might just get by with making a radically chic deconstructionist statement.

In the pinkish pre-twilight glow, the cemetery’s stone obelisk cast a long shadow, and, seeking out Drew and Sir Ian, I scanned the crowd of mourners milling around the buffet tables on the lawn. A hand touched my sleeve.

I turned and looked up into the angular, beard-shadowed face of Burke Norris, lately arrested on charges of illegal distribution of prescription drugs and, apparently, just now released on bail.

“Hi, Max,” he said softly. “I wanted to stop and say thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“You know,” he said, meeting my eyes with his cloudy, hazel gaze. “For taking up my case. For hiring me your lawyer, who is the bomb. And…well…for believing in me, I guess. You believed in me when you had every reason not to.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t say
you’re welcome,
could I? Especially since none of what he thought was true. I had suspected him of murder. I really had. And why? Doesn’t everyone deserve our presumption of innocence? Oh, those founding fathers. They got it right, damn them. Just because a man could break your daughter’s heart doesn’t mean he’s bad. Just bad for
her
.

He reached for my hand, as if he were going to shake it, then held on to it gently and looked down at me. “Maybe we never got along as well as we could have. Maybe you wished Drew was dating someone else. But I always thought Drew was the luckiest person I knew. I was kinda envious.”

In that moment, I almost liked him.

He continued, “Guess I wished I had a grandmother like you.”

All my hate returned.

He said, “I might not have made such a mess of my life if I’d had someone who was watching out for me.”

It killed me, but I felt a little weak in the knees. He was so good-looking, and so sincere, and so…

“Max, I’ll do better. I have a lot to make up for, but, anyway…don’t worry about Drew. She never knew anything about that business in Mexico. Nothing. I’ve worked out a deal with the DA, and her name will never be mentioned.”

Drew in the clear? My heart began to sing. And not one of
those stupid rap tunes, something more like a Broadway show-stopper.

“Are you going to prison?”

“Naw. We’ve worked out a deal with the feds. I’m providing some information they want on how certain controlled substances can be brought over from Mexico. So it’s all good.”

For whom? My heart sank. I don’t mean to be cruel, but where the hell was justice? They weren’t going to lock him up? What about consequences and paying for mistakes? It was infuriating, “Burke, I want to tell you, and I mean this from my heart, you are a total shit.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I hear that a lot.”

“Okay,” I said, figuring that justice being what it was, I couldn’t hold my breath until this guy was behind bars. His kind wiggles free. Karma would catch this rat in another trap. “The diamonds. The ones you gave to Drew to pay for a lawyer. They came from Halsey, didn’t they? From her Academy Award bra?”

He ducked his head again, in his boyish way. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“And she gave them to you on the afternoon of the awards? I know you called her that day and went over to her house.”

“See, here’s the thing, Max. Halsey and I had been like a couple. Long story. Anyway, back when Halsey and I were together, she got kind of ticked off when we broke up.”

I nodded. “You broke up with Halsey to date Drew, is that correct?”

“Right. Sort of blew Halsey away, which it shouldn’t have. I mean, I had a history as a player, right? And she did too. But I guess she hadn’t had anyone leave her that way, and it was rough at first. So anyway, she wanted to let me know she was, like, pissed,
and she took my car and ran it into a tree. Basically totaled my Lamborghini. Yeah. So that was like a two-hundred-grand loss right there.”

“Ouch.”

“I know, right? Anyway, since Drew and I split up this last time, I’ve been cleaning up my act, right? Only, without my former cash stream, you know, it’s been pretty tough. So, anyway, I had been back in touch with Halsey, and she was doing great in rehab.” He paused, then his eyes went suddenly glassy, struck as we all can be at unexpected times, with the shock of loss. “You should have seen her, Max. She was so happy and centered.”

I felt a momentary rush of tears too, but with effort kept them down. “I’m glad she was getting her life in order,” I whispered. “Good for her.”

“I know,” said Burke, no tears shed, the moment passing. “And now that she was sober, she was totally sorry about killing my car. Anyway, I called her. You know, to see how she was doing. And she said come on over to the house, and she’d give me something to make up for the Lamborghini.”

I patted at the corner of my eye. “The diamonds.”

“Right. Like her dad kept all her money locked up in investments or whatever and was giving her a real hard time about paying me back. And this bra was a gift, right? So he didn’t even realize they were real diamonds yet, she said. Turns out her stylist took the diamonds off the bra that afternoon, so Halsey could wear the bra under her gown, and Halsey just handed them over. Like we’re even. Like it was one of the twelve steps she was working on, she said.”

“I see. So they really are yours.”

“No.” He pulled a little velvet bag out of his jacket pocket.
The diamonds. “Drew said she got them from the hotel safe this morning. She gave them back to me at Halsey’s service. But I want you to keep them.” He handed me the bag. “To pay you back for the lawyer’s retainer fee and everything.”

I felt the weight of so many small stones inside the bag. “Well, you’re going to need money. Sol was able to negotiate you out of an international-drug-running rap. It’ll cost you a hell of a lot more than that retainer. On the other hand…” I thought of the pain and suffering he’d caused us. “Perhaps I’ll just keep them.”

“Okay, Max. Like I said, thanks.”

“And one more thing, what I heard, you were selling your story to Devon Jones.”

“That? Nothing important. A week ago, maybe two. I was looking for ways to raise cash. Legitimate ways. So when
Entertainment Tonight
was doing a piece on the hottest clubs in town and beyond, I signed on for one. Why not? They gave me five thou. Nothing too drastic.”

I knew how this worked. Devon had lucked into that little featurette, a filler piece, and the video interview it provided her with. With Burke’s past connection to Halsey, that innocuous footage of Burke talking about clubs and vacations of the young, rich, and famous could be rejiggered and maybe spun into gold. It didn’t matter what he had really said or what questions he had answered, a creative editor could make it sound as if he were responding to new questions about the death of Halsey.

“Did she ask about Drew?” I asked, checking my theory.

“I think so. Yeah. I mean, of course, she knew we had been engaged. She asked about all the friends in our group, really. Halsey too. Where we all liked to play, hang out, things like that.”

“And Mexico?”

“Drew and me hanging out in Cabo, sure,” he said, his face suddenly starting to cloud. “Why?”

After hearing gossip on the Hollywood circuit for years about Burke and Halsey and the trouble these kids had with booze and muscle relaxants, Devon must have done some decent guessing about where they got their recreational drugs. Mix in Halsey’s overdose on Soma, a death that she herself had orchestrated, and there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, a little thing we laughingly call “the news.”

“Devon Jones was a liar and much worse,” I said. “Why would you tell anyone
on-camera
about your trips to Mexico? You have to think first, Burke.”

He looked more upset. “I only talked about the discos and beaches.”

“Look, there are a lot of things you’re going to learn about dealing with Hollywood sharks. But let me give you a lesson right now. The only crazy bitch I ever want to hear you’ve sold a story to again…is me.”

He crossed his heart over the polo-player logo on his jacket. “It’s a deal.”

He drifted away, and I kept my eye out for my own tight, little circle of friends. So far, no sight at all of Dr. Bob and Sheree, or of Sir Ian, or Drew. Perhaps they hadn’t waited around for the dinner? Nah. They must be here.

I walked past the memorial wall that separated the cemetery from the Paramount Studios lot to the north, a long, blank wall upon which was projected scenes from all of Halsey’s movies. Now, a close-up of Halsey, tantalizingly alive, her long, dark hair
whipped back in the wind. Such beauty. I couldn’t hear the sound, but I recognized her Oscar-nominated performance from
The Bones of War
.

“Mother? Is that you?”

I turned to see Drew. “Darling.”

“What on earth happened to you?” She looked at me closely, upset.

“The suit was an old Chanel, anyway. The shoes are another story…”

“Not your clothes, Mother,” Drew said, exasperated. “You.”

“Me? Nothing. Nothing at all. I had a little business that came up and—”

But before I could drop the big bomb, Drew, quite remarkably, was the one to explode. “You! You are
always late
. Aren’t you? I waited. But I knew what was happening.”

I shook my head, stunned. “What are you talking about, honey? I was—”

But she never let me explain. Instead, my girl, who never cries, began weeping. “You’re so busy with your clothes and your appearance, you even let me go to the funeral. All alone. You came late.”

And I suddenly realized Drew was not talking about this funeral. Nor was she crying entirely about Halsey. I was stricken. “Your father?”

“My father was a wonderful man,” she said, her voice harsh and gravelly. “He deserved more from you. He…” Her sobs had taken her over.

“Oh my God, Drew,” I said, shocked at her pain. “I
did
go to your father’s funeral.”

“Liar!” She kept crying. “I was there, Mother. There were only three of us. Just Auntie Julie and Uncle Richard and me. You came late. You didn’t even stand with us.”

“Shhh,” I said, pulling her close to me. She didn’t resist, so I held her tight. “Drew. Shhh. I was there just behind a tree. I was wearing my Cavalli camouflage dress.” It had been ten years, but it was like yesterday. “You know how much publicity follows me everywhere. It’s a fact of life, of course.”