Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery Read Online Free PDF

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