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

drink?”
    “I’m an interviewer, not a caterer. Look, I just asked her about her acceptance spee—”
    Another guy looked down at me. “Did you remove her dress or something?” He looked from the barely covered, motionless body of Halsey over to me, concerned.
    “It’s a long story.”
    With words like “dehydration” (hah!) and “exhaustion” (right!) called out by designer-shoes guy, the handsome one wearing the only tux in the crowd that didn’t look rented, I watched several of the team lift Halsey’s inert body onto the gurney. My heart sank. I couldn’t see her breathing. Exhaustion. Right. Why, I wondered, weren’t the medical techs the ones calling out the diagnoses?
    Finally, glaring at anyone who might try to stop me, I stood up. I pulled off my earrings and stepped out of my shoes, my usual ritual when the preshow telecast is wrapped. Two hours of grueling smiles usually ends in a break, but apparently not this year. I called out to the nearest guy, “Enough with the BS. What really happened to her?”
    “How’d you know her?” asked the thick-chested EMT. Was he kidding? Didn’t he recognize her or me? Don’t tell me theyhired the only person in America who doesn’t read Star magazine to work this event. “You related to her or something?”
    Was this guy serious? “Yes,” I lied.
    “You family?” he asked, sounding at last concerned.
    “Even closer. We’re celebrities,” I corrected.
    The handsome security guy in the good tux intervened. “Don’t worry, Ms. Taylor. Everything will be fine.”
    Sure it would. The poor girl hadn’t moved a pinkie in five minutes. I smelled the unmistakable perfume of public relations.
    As they efficiently tended to Halsey, covering her bare limbs with a blanket, talking to her softly, no one paid me the least bit of attention. Halsey, of course, was the one in desperate need of attention. That was obvious. By all means, have twenty young men hover in attendance. But, then, what was I? Chopped liver?
    By now, a curtained-off corridor had been erected all the way to the curb. But inside our private cocoon, I could hear the screams of a frustrated press. The white fabric panels popped with a strobe-light effect as the photographers outside the perimeter went mad. A line of uniformed officers stood outside our barricade, shouting down the rabid paparazzi. I glanced at the flimsy walls, then looked back just in time to scoot quickly to the right. “Hey,” I yelled as I barely avoided getting trampled by the nasty wheels of the gurney, as the large response crew trundled the body of Halsey away to an awaiting ambulance.
    As the emergency-response team hurried off, my dear Killer, who had been a pent-up ball of furry rage in Malulu’s arms throughout all the excitement, let out a ferocious yip of teacup-guard-dog fury. As they slammed the rear doors to the ambulance, I heard Drew’s voice from behind the security curtain: “What doyou mean? Let me in there, you goons. It’s my mother!” My Drew charged her way back to us, her face drawn and ashen, as she looked at me standing barefoot and earringless on the red carpet. “Mother!”
    I gave Drew a brave smile. The serene effect was spoiled as the last ambulance attendant tripped over my ankle in his attempt to catch up with his departing mates.
    My team had had enough. Allie stood en garde with her longest contour brush, while Malulu carefully handed Killer over to Drew and, with arms flying up and splayed fingers stiffened like weapons, instantly assumed the fighting stance for the secret Samoan martial art of Limalama, shifting and swaying at the ready in her bright, lime-green pantsuit, as she eyed the departing attendant.
    “How dare they!” huffed Allie, waving her sable-hair makeup brush in agitation. “Max, you must sit down and rest.” She gestured to the canvas chair Malulu had set up for me.
    “This is no good,” Malulu grunted.
    “Mom, you’re filthy,” Drew moaned.
    Where had