Read Online Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery by Joan Rivers, Jerrilyn Farmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Rivers, Jerrilyn Farmer
Tags: Mystery
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numbers. I’ll get Todd and make sure that he meets you for your interview! You won’t have to wait long.”
Was that a less-than-trusting gleam I saw in his eye?
5
Best Villain
W e’re in,” said Drew, amazed. “You did it.”
Before I could respond, Drew and I were swept up among partygoers, crushed in the loud and merry mix of close friends and close enemies.
“Drew!” came a British-accented call from the crush.
With one heavily jeweled hand I held tight to Drew’s wrist as her cheek was kissed by the beautiful Anne Hathaway, so pale in her deep-red Versace gown, and my other hand was quickly grabbed up by the handsome Pierce Brosnan, who was wearing a hand-tailored Armani tux but would have looked heavenly even wearing off-the-rack.
“Max, you look marvelous.”
Hand? I pulled him down to my level for a kiss. Hey, with half the hunks in Hollywood filled with expensive champagne, I was not about to pass up the opportunities available to a dead-sober single lady. In fact, it was like any other glittering Hollywood affair, except better, because Drew and I had felt the thrill of sneaking in, and that adrenaline high was keeping us pumped.
“Yes, hi, hello!” I waved at the various and beautiful, as I pulled Drew closer and ordered, “Now go find Burke.” Who knew how long we’d be allowed to mingle before our butts would be tossed? We had no time to waste.
A black-vested waiter passed, holding a platter of bent spoons.
“I’m starving,” Drew said, following the waiter. Upon each silver spoon, its handle bent all the way back around and under, was a sliver of cured fish with a pinch of garnish. We each helped ourselves, but it would take a dozen more tiny such Craft morsels to satisfy us. I grabbed the last spoon, and Drew slapped my hand and took it. Receiving a concerned look from the waiter, we backed off.
“First Burke, then food,” I said, pushing Drew along.
“Mother!”
Inside the vast, ten-thousand-square-foot interior, track-lighting-style filament bulbs dangled over the fawn-colored banquettes, lending the gold and beige space a warm amber glow. Along the back, a wall display showed off neatly arranged rows of backlit wine bottles in custom floor-to-ceiling cases. Around us, about three hundred celebrities and industry giants were now laughing and flirting and landing their next films, while at least a hundred more were schmoozing outside on the patio. For this special evening, several giant-screen plasma televisions had been installed around the space, each projecting the live after-party news coverage so we could all check ourselves out on-screen. Not a bad idea in this crowd.
As we pushed gently through the throng, I nodded to Clive Owen, thin and fabulous in a white dinner jacket, while Drew got a quick hug from Penelope Cruz in a shimmering silver Dolce gown, and I scanned the room for any sign of Drew’s evil ex-boyfriend. I have an eagle—if nearsighted—eye, and for just a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of Burke Norris’s broad shoulders from behind a beehive hairdo that made the beautiful Heidi Klum look as if someone had left a bleached squirrel on her head. But, no, it wasn’t Burke after all.
“Heidi! Nice hair,” I called out, then whispered to Drew, “Do me a favor. If I ever leave the house looking like that, shoot me or hand me a bag of nuts.”
“Max!”
I looked up to see Diana Bates, the third woman I’ve known to be married to the head of Interscope Pictures, in her backless, teal-colored Dior, waving to me.
“Great dress, Diana.”
“Thanks, Max. You look gorgeous.”
“Don’t start.”
“What happened to Halsey?” Diana asked. “She really must be desperate for attention. I mean, she makes that crazy last-second grand entrance to the Oscars? Come on. Guess it wasn’t enough for her to be one of five nominees, was it?”
I looked at Diana, stunned. “Halsey? I don’t know what you mean. She was sick. I mean, she collapsed
Was that a less-than-trusting gleam I saw in his eye?
5
Best Villain
W e’re in,” said Drew, amazed. “You did it.”
Before I could respond, Drew and I were swept up among partygoers, crushed in the loud and merry mix of close friends and close enemies.
“Drew!” came a British-accented call from the crush.
With one heavily jeweled hand I held tight to Drew’s wrist as her cheek was kissed by the beautiful Anne Hathaway, so pale in her deep-red Versace gown, and my other hand was quickly grabbed up by the handsome Pierce Brosnan, who was wearing a hand-tailored Armani tux but would have looked heavenly even wearing off-the-rack.
“Max, you look marvelous.”
Hand? I pulled him down to my level for a kiss. Hey, with half the hunks in Hollywood filled with expensive champagne, I was not about to pass up the opportunities available to a dead-sober single lady. In fact, it was like any other glittering Hollywood affair, except better, because Drew and I had felt the thrill of sneaking in, and that adrenaline high was keeping us pumped.
“Yes, hi, hello!” I waved at the various and beautiful, as I pulled Drew closer and ordered, “Now go find Burke.” Who knew how long we’d be allowed to mingle before our butts would be tossed? We had no time to waste.
A black-vested waiter passed, holding a platter of bent spoons.
“I’m starving,” Drew said, following the waiter. Upon each silver spoon, its handle bent all the way back around and under, was a sliver of cured fish with a pinch of garnish. We each helped ourselves, but it would take a dozen more tiny such Craft morsels to satisfy us. I grabbed the last spoon, and Drew slapped my hand and took it. Receiving a concerned look from the waiter, we backed off.
“First Burke, then food,” I said, pushing Drew along.
“Mother!”
Inside the vast, ten-thousand-square-foot interior, track-lighting-style filament bulbs dangled over the fawn-colored banquettes, lending the gold and beige space a warm amber glow. Along the back, a wall display showed off neatly arranged rows of backlit wine bottles in custom floor-to-ceiling cases. Around us, about three hundred celebrities and industry giants were now laughing and flirting and landing their next films, while at least a hundred more were schmoozing outside on the patio. For this special evening, several giant-screen plasma televisions had been installed around the space, each projecting the live after-party news coverage so we could all check ourselves out on-screen. Not a bad idea in this crowd.
As we pushed gently through the throng, I nodded to Clive Owen, thin and fabulous in a white dinner jacket, while Drew got a quick hug from Penelope Cruz in a shimmering silver Dolce gown, and I scanned the room for any sign of Drew’s evil ex-boyfriend. I have an eagle—if nearsighted—eye, and for just a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of Burke Norris’s broad shoulders from behind a beehive hairdo that made the beautiful Heidi Klum look as if someone had left a bleached squirrel on her head. But, no, it wasn’t Burke after all.
“Heidi! Nice hair,” I called out, then whispered to Drew, “Do me a favor. If I ever leave the house looking like that, shoot me or hand me a bag of nuts.”
“Max!”
I looked up to see Diana Bates, the third woman I’ve known to be married to the head of Interscope Pictures, in her backless, teal-colored Dior, waving to me.
“Great dress, Diana.”
“Thanks, Max. You look gorgeous.”
“Don’t start.”
“What happened to Halsey?” Diana asked. “She really must be desperate for attention. I mean, she makes that crazy last-second grand entrance to the Oscars? Come on. Guess it wasn’t enough for her to be one of five nominees, was it?”
I looked at Diana, stunned. “Halsey? I don’t know what you mean. She was sick. I mean, she collapsed
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