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

by Joan Rivers

  By this point, even I was excited about what was to come, but scanning the now thinning crowd, I noticed with a weary eye that Halsey had not yet appeared. Damn! I listened to my earpiece and followed Will’s on-the-fly advice. “But first,” I said brightly to the camera, “Drew has both Colin Farrell and Will Ferrell. Take it away, Drew.”

  The camera light went off and all hell broke loose around me. Danny, my bald lug of a cameraman who was dressed in Teamster chic—a baseball cap and dirty jeans topped by the required formal dinner jacket—was the first to speak. “Hey, Max. No shit. Halsey is talking to us exclusive?”

  “Yes. So listen up.” My troops—Allie, Unja, Danny, Cindy, and Malulu, holding an alert Killer—gathered. “Look around chickadees. The news has broken.” Actually, I myself had just announced Halsey’s surprise arrival, but now every news director from here to Uzbekistan had heard me and alerted the media. Damn.

  The buzz was working its way around the red carpet. I saw Ryan Seacrest practically drooling and making a run for the open drop-off spot at the curb. MTV’s coolest entertainment reporters, those hot young Sullivan brothers, Matt and Kevin, thought nothing of knocking Ryan aside. Mary Hart, Lisa Rinna, Sam Rubin, Devon Jones, and Al Langer were grabbing their portable mikes and heading over. Even Charlie Gibson looked longingly at the curb. Of the thousand other photographers standing by, several hundred were craning their necks to see if Halsey was arriving. We had to get this right.

  “Now, look,” I said, “Cindy…”

  My wrangler, tall and gorgeous in her strapless gown, shiny black hair pulled back, looked alert. “I’m on this, Max.”

  “No excuses, no regrets. Halsey is mine. Understand me? Mine! Do not let this one get away or you’ll be floating facedown on the Yangtze River!”

  “I’m on this,” Cindy repeated, a strained smile on her face. She lifted her beaded gown and ran off. That girl ran like a gazelle.

  Allie powdered my forehead, but I shooed her away. “Can you see Cindy? Did she get to Halsey?” The curb was only about fifteen feet away, but even up on my four-inch-high, gold-and-Swarovski-crystal Manolo sandals I couldn’t see over the crowd.

  “Look,” Danny said. At six feet four he had the best view. “Halsey’s limo has arrived, but the door hasn’t opened. She isn’t coming out. Hey, it’s a feeding frenzy near that limo.”

  Despite my Michael Kors and my diamonds, I realized this was not the time for ladylike. I was off-camera, and as long as Drew kept one of her Farrell-Ferrells joking and the other one smoldering—not such an easy task—my mike was not “hot.” Stepping up onto a packing crate, which the faithful Malulu miraculously procured, I screamed out, “Cindy! Halsey is ours. Exclusive. Go and get her!”

  The circus of reporters and cameramen with handhelds crowding close at Cindy’s heels, pressing hard against Halsey’s limo, heard me too. For that matter, who, even as far away as Santa Monica, hadn’t?

  Cindy saluted me, then, shoving the crowd back, she knocked hard on the window of the long, white stretch Hummer. With no apparent response, she opened the rear door and looked inside. Whatever she saw inside Halsey’s limo, Cindy threw her hands up to her mouth and didn’t make a move.

  What? What could Cindy possibly be thinking? Ticktock, ticktock. We were minutes from the end of a live telecast. If Halsey had become momentarily shy of the press—that would be a first, but after four months stashed away at rehab, who could blame her?—Cindy just had to gently urge her along.

  On the small television monitor that showed the live feed of our program, I could see the right-this-second live version of our show as it was being broadcast to all of America. Drew was wrapping up her segment, having both laughed at Will Ferrell and drooled at Colin. She was now ready to throw the show back to me.

  “Cindy,” I yelled to my girl at the curb, just nanoseconds before my mike would go live again. “Just grab her! Bring her! Get her now!”

  It was a battle. The crowd of reporters and cameramen with handhelds didn’t give an inch, but Cindy knew what was at stake. She slivered herself into the open limo door and disappeared.

  Minutes seemed to chug by. Hours. Days. Then Cindy’s Vera Wang–covered butt backed out into view.

  “Are you getting this, Danny?” I called to my cameraman as he worked the lens to focus a close-up on Halsey Hamilton emerging from the Hummer. From my earpiece I heard the end of Drew’s “…so back to you, Mom. And say hi to Halsey for me!”

  “Yes, Drew. I will!” I said into my suddenly hot mike. Just a few feet away at the curb, Cindy, having pulled Halsey onto the red carpet, cautiously kept her hand locked on Halsey’s wrist. But Cindy stepped out of the way and allowed the world to welcome this returning princess.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” whispered Allie with a hushed giggle.

  “What is she wearing?” demanded Unja in his stiff British accent, from behind his little personal camcorder, aghast. “Do you like her gown?”

  “Dat not funny,” added Malulu, holding a well-behaved Killer.

  Halsey Hamilton, the nineteen-year-old beauty with the head of shining auburn tresses, was now standing in full view of the screaming fans, amid dozens of flashbulb-popping paparazzi and the entire international press corps.

  Did I like her gown?

  What gown?

  Tall, slender, stunning Halsey was standing on the red carpet.

  She’d remembered to do her hair.

  She’d remembered to do her makeup.

  She’d forgotten to put on her clothes.

  2

  Best Performance by a Supporting…Corpse?

  Those long legs. That tiny waist. Those enormous boobs.

  “There she is!” I said into my mike. “Halsey Hamilton, wearing nothing more than a black strapless bra and a hot-pink”—what should I call that piece of string and a postage stamp?—“thong.”

  She stood there, the paparazzi going mad, smiling and waving to the screaming fans.

  I kept talking to the camera. “One thing I have to say about the four missing months that Halsey has been away from her public, that girl has been working out. All-over toned. All-over tanned. All-over fabulous. Hey, when you’re nineteen years old and look like that, who needs clothes?” I scanned Halsey’s smooth skin and minimal black bra and had to admit—the effect was simple yet elegant. “Mark my words, next season we’ll all be showing up at formal parties in nothing but push-up bras and a smile,” I joked into the mike. And then I thought, note to self: call Dr. Bob for fashion-necessitated boob lift.

  Cindy, gripping Halsey tightly by the upper arm, practically dragged her right up to me. Along the short walk, a dozen reporters crowded around shouting, “Halsey!” and “Where’s your dress?” and even, to Cindy, “I’ll give you two grand if you bring her here!” Not an easy few yards of red carpet. As Cindy steered Halsey along, the gorgeous young star wobbled on her high heels. I sighed. Post-rehab wobbling was never a good sign. I hoped Drew wouldn’t be too disappointed.

  “Here’s Halsey Hamilton,” I was saying to my camera, just as the dark-haired beauty was delivered to my side, “wearing possibly the boldest Academy Awards fashion statement since that girl wore a dress made out of AmEx cards. Halsey, honey. I gotta ask. Who are you wearing—18 Hour or Cross Your Heart?”

  Halsey, smiling a sleepy smile at me and not entirely making eye contact, slurred, “Wha…Bajja…Hiya, Max!”

  Cindy tried to back out of our camera shot, slowly releasing her grip, but Halsey grabbed on to my tall star-wrangler and wouldn’t let go.

  “Halsey, sweetheart!” I said, sizing up the situation. The girl was drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

  “Mama Maxo,” Halsey slurred. “I made it. I’m at the Ossars!”

  “So we can see.” My camera guy, Danny, was focusing closer on Halsey’s midsection as I continued, “Every part of you. Viewers have gotta know. Arriving here at the Academy Awards without a dress, are you making a political statement? Is it a stab at global warming�
��that we don’t need clothes? Did Al Gore put you up to this?”

  Halsey began to laugh, and my gal Cindy shook free and quickly stepped away. Standing alone in her pink satin thong and jet-black bra, Halsey put both hands on top of her head as she tried to complete one coherent thought, but the effort was too much. She almost swooned.

  In my earpiece, I heard Will’s tense warning: “Max, get to it already. Get her talking!”

  With Hasley in this condition, I knew the viewers would be stunned. This was huge. We should turn this into its own one-hour special!

  “Move it,” he said urgently.

  Live TV is a bitch, but what we had here was the mother of all interviews with a clearly altered nominee, and no one, not even my ridiculously inexperienced director, could miss that.

  “Halsey,” I asked quickly. “Are you drinking again?”

  “No!” she yelled, then smiled at me sweetly. “I would never take a drink. Never. I swear.” Halsey Hamilton, princess of the silver screen, reached out and put a dangling arm around my shoulder. She could barely stand up. Steadying herself against me, she leaned on me harder, soon hanging on me with all her weight. I’d lifted grocery bags that weighed more, but still, the unexpected burden made me list in an unattractive way to the left. There I was, dressed in my floor-length golden ball gown, wrapped in the tight embrace of a half-naked girl. I don’t care what your views are on same-sex couples, we made an alarming family-viewing-hour pair.

  From behind the camera, I heard Allie giggle softly with nervous energy. Both Malulu and Killer looked shocked. And Unja, mouth open in alarm, still had his camcorder rolling.

  What was the world coming to? This was tragic. I knew these girls seemed to exist on nothing but a cocktail of fame and pills, and I suspected this party-till-they-dropped lifestyle was never going to stop until they crashed into something cold and hard. As a mother, it disturbed me to see these talented children throw away their lives just to see their faces splashed across one more cover of People. I had half a minute of airtime left. It was tough-love time.

  “Halsey, you’re a beautiful, talented girl. You acted your heart out in The Bones of War, and don’t play it down, your part took raw courage and heart. They don’t give away Oscar nominations like party favors. You earned it. But, sweetie, something is not right. Look at you. Not only did you make a risky fashion decision today, but now you are clearly impaired.”

  “Shhhh. Maxooo. Pleassse, don’t tell the whole wide world.”

  Will’s voice jabbered in my ear, “Ten seconds, ten seconds, ten…”

  I put my hand to my ear, gently tugging the infernal earpiece out and said on air through a tight smile, “Keep rolling,” begging for more time. And then directly to Halsey, I said, “With all the cameras rolling here, I’ve got news for you, honey. It is no longer just Victoria’s Secret. Can you tell your fans what prompted you, a young and talented actress, on the night of your greatest professional achievement, to make a mockery—”

  “Mockingbird?” she asked me, confused. She had become unable to hold herself up and, frankly, neither could I. We leaned more heavily to the left.

  “Halsey, I was told you were in rehab for the last four months.”

  She nodded. “I hate rehab. Wait. I mean, I love it. Or…”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  “I sipped,” she said, then laughed loudly. “I mean, no, I mean I slipped. He said…”

  I waited to hear more, but she began to cough. This was outrageous. Had some horrible guy given Halsey alcohol after all she’d been through?

  I pressed forward with the interview. “Who did it, Halsey? Who gave you the first drink?”

  Okay, isn’t this what everyone wants to know? What kind of heartless monster would undermine a girl with such a gifted future? And who was protecting her from these jerks? No one in Halsey’s family seemed to be in charge. I took a quick look around to see if Jimmy and Dakota Hamilton were standing by to support their daughter tonight, but they must already have entered the auditorium. Almost the entire crowd had been herded inside by the ushers. I hurried to ask again, “Who did this to you? I want to go out and wring his neck.”

  Halsey had a pained look. Her smooth brow scrunched. “Don’t blame Burkie,” she said, her eyes glazing.

  Burkie? My head spun. Could Halsey possibly mean my Drew’s idiot ex-fiancé, Burke Norris? Of course I had nothing but contempt for Burke, the self-absorbed lunk, but the idea that he might have offered booze or drugs to this poor kid was dense, even for him.

  “He…” Halsey put her hand up to her mouth just in time.

  Great. This was just what I needed. My fabulous Michael Kors was about to be covered with celebrity puke.

  I tried not to shudder on-camera. I suppose if one must be vomited upon, it might as well be by of one of the most photographed young women in America. I could probably get a fortune for it on eBay. What was I thinking? That clip would live on YouTube in slow motion forever. That would be on my final tribute—not Maxine Delilah Taylor, Tony-winning actress and red carpet fashionista, but Max Taylor, the poor schmuck upon whom teen queen Halsey Hamilton whoopsed her cookies. With my sad obituary flashing before my eyes, and in fear of imminent disaster, I carefully let go my hold on Halsey and watched worriedly as she slid down to one knee.

  I put all thoughts of Burke out of my mind for the moment and turned to my task at hand. It was still my interview, damn it, and I had never before let a celebrity slip away. I got down onto one knee, and now eye to eye once more, I asked, “There are lots of teenage girls who look up to you, young lady. For God’s sake, what were you thinking?” I held out my microphone, disappointed in her fall from grace. But just like the rest of America, I was also fascinated. Despite the slurred speech and the drool, this was one beautiful and talented girl. Such a waste.

  “I wassen thinking, Maxo…,” she whispered. A tear leapt into the corner of Halsey’s clear green eye, appearing so quickly that I marveled at either the pureness of her regret or the acting talent it had taken to produce it. “I want them to take me serrus…seriously.” Her other knee collapsed and she was sitting on the red carpet, leaning on one tan and slender arm. Not a dimple of cellulite anywhere on that magnificent body, I couldn’t help but notice, and made a quick mental note to call Dr. Bob to ask him about the latest arm procedures. Just then, Halsey gasped up at me, “Help me, Max. I hurt. I hurt bad.”

  We were now the only story in town. With the entire invited Academy Awards audience seated inside behind the closed doors to the Kodak, the dozens of abandoned preshow camera crews, reporters, and a daze of photographers from all over the world pushed and crowded close around us to gawk. From farther down the red carpet, cameras from several film crews were trained on us, using telephoto lenses. Even the crowds of fans in the bleachers were riveted, gasping at the scene, pointing at Halsey, craning their necks in our direction, snapping cell phone cameras at us, calling, “Halsey!” and “We love you!”

  So I plunked my derriere down on the red carpet right next to Halsey, bringing my mike again to her level. “Of course I’ll help you. You could use a good doctor, and my best friend in all the world is a doctor.” Okay, Dr. Bob specialized in lifting behinds and Botoxing foreheads, but he would be sure to know the right referral. I made a signal that only a transfixed Doberman could have detected and saw, from the corner of my eye, that Malulu was hurrying off with her cell phone to make the call for help. In the background, the final auditorium announcements were blaring: “Doors closing. No one will be admitted once the doors are closed.”

  I tried again with Halsey. “Let me get you out of here. You’re beautiful, yes, but you’re not looking so hot.” Damn. What happened to my fun, upbeat pre-Oscars interview with Halsey Hamilton, the shining star of the moment? Instead, I had been somehow cornered into giving an impromptu AA intervention on live television.

  Halsey’s eyes began closing, and she leaned down on one forearm, curling up on the ground. I
couldn’t help but notice that the ebony color of Halsey’s slinky little bra did work rather well against the crimson color of the carpet. The hot-pink micro-thong, not so much. I made a mental note: if there was the least chance of winding up stripped down to a bra and panties outside of an awards show, basic black was never a mistake. Celebrity is a cruel mistress, and in our line of work these things must not be left to chance.

  “Maxo,” she whispered. “Come closer.”

  I looked back up at Danny, who was tilting the camera down, trying to keep the two of us together in the shot, but Halsey’s new laid-out, prone position was making it tough. I knew Danny would never deviate from a camera angle that featured overample cleavage tumbling out of tight, strapless cups.

  Quickly, I did what I had to. I lay down on the red carpet next to Halsey. Part of me, of course, was aware that the viewers at home would sure have something juicy to talk about tomorrow, all right, and wasn’t that really the point of my job? But a much bigger part of me was getting alarmed. I was struck by just how unwell Halsey looked. Her skin, beneath the perfect tan, was clammy.

  She struggled to talk. “Tell, Derrr…tell Dereww…I don’t blame her, Maxo. I don’t blame her.”

  “Drew?” Why would Halsey, this poor sick kid, bring up my daughter? Drew had done everything she could to help Halsey, hadn’t she? What’s to blame?

  I was becoming more concerned about Halsey. I made another almost imperceptible gesture with my nonmike hand and saw, out of the corner of my eye, Malulu making another off-camera phone call. If she’d read my mind right, and in the four years she had been working for me she always did—that witch—she was calling the paramedics.

  “Halsey?” I tried again. The girl’s eyes closed. “Last thoughts? Predictions of who’s gonna win? I don’t suppose you have written an acceptance speech? Where would you keep it?” I held the mike up in front of her slackened jaw. Nothing but drool. And maybe a soft snore. Telejournalism isn’t always pretty, folks.