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

note to call Dr. Bob to ask himabout 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 oneforearm, 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 fouryears 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.
    Okay, on occasion I have done a few dull interviews.