A high-profile journalist, a career headed for rock bottom⊠and the Hollywood murder mystery that could fix it all.
After she gets a story catastrophically wrong, celebrity columnist, Katherine âKatâ Alley is shipped off to Los Angeles and given one last chance. Her brief? A simple retrospective on Xander Hillâlong-dead movie star and the victim of one of Hollywoodâs most enduring murder mysteries.
Kat has a better ideaâsolve the fifty-year-old cold case and resurrect her reputation. But digging up the past unearths the last witness she expectsâor wants. A witness who makes her question everything she believes about her job, herself, and the invisible line that separates this life and the nextâand who is more attractive than he has any right to be.
The more Kat uncovers, the more she realises that everyone in Hollywood has a secret and nothing is what it seems. Can she solve the mystery of who killed Xander Hill before time runs out?
As thrilling as it is funny, and with more twists than a curly straw, Dead Famous will have you falling in love with your new favourite amateur detective quicker than you can say âAnd, the Oscar goes toâŠâ
A high-profile journalist, a career headed for rock bottom⊠and the Hollywood murder mystery that could fix it all.
After she gets a story catastrophically wrong, celebrity columnist, Katherine âKatâ Alley is shipped off to Los Angeles and given one last chance. Her brief? A simple retrospective on Xander Hillâlong-dead movie star and the victim of one of Hollywoodâs most enduring murder mysteries.
Kat has a better ideaâsolve the fifty-year-old cold case and resurrect her reputation. But digging up the past unearths the last witness she expectsâor wants. A witness who makes her question everything she believes about her job, herself, and the invisible line that separates this life and the nextâand who is more attractive than he has any right to be.
The more Kat uncovers, the more she realises that everyone in Hollywood has a secret and nothing is what it seems. Can she solve the mystery of who killed Xander Hill before time runs out?
As thrilling as it is funny, and with more twists than a curly straw, Dead Famous will have you falling in love with your new favourite amateur detective quicker than you can say âAnd, the Oscar goes toâŠâ
There was a good reason why I was standing in Mitchâs office wearing my pyjamas. Unfortunately, they werenât even nice pyjamas. Not that the situation would have been made better if Iâd been wearing Peter Alexanderâyou know, the fancy ones that presumably have magic sleep-inducing properties, otherwise why would you pay so much for sleep-wear? No, mine were baggy-arsed, threadbare, and covered in crazy monkeys and ripe bananas. Speaking of ripe, Iâd been wearing them for approximately eight days.Â
I had really messed up. And I donât mean something small. I mean epic. Weâre not talking getting drunk at the office Christmas party and kissing your boss. Weâre not even talking about walking out of TK Maxx without paying for a pair of sunglassesânot that I would ever do that. Except for that one time when I did, but it was honestly a complete accident.
My head was on the chopping block because I was singlehandedly responsible for the near death of a national icon. The entire country was baying for my blood and Iâm not being over-dramatic. It was categorically the biggest fuck up of my entire life and I felt like the worst person in the entire world. Even Charles Manson would have shaken his head at me.
Pyjamas aside, a couple of concessions to basic decency had been made before leaving the house. My shoes were at least on the right feet, Iâd thrown a stylish satin trench over my monkey pants and Iâd attempted to brush the Cheezel crumbs out of my hairâit might have been dried Weetbix, Iâm not quite sure to be honest with you.
Looking back, I could have tried to pass the look off as effortlessly shabby chic but to be fair I looked like Iâd escaped from a commune somewhere and was still high. The dodgy outfit made dodging the paparazzi a little bit harder, but somehow Iâd managed. After all, I knew how their brains worked. On any other day, you couldâve called me their fearless leader.
I wasnât fit to be out in public really. Iâd been hiding underneath my bedcovers for more than a week andâwithout my usual access to Channel Fiveâs make-up department and the office fashion cupboardâI was a mess.
But Mitchâs phone message had been unmistakable.
âKat. My office. Today.â Clunk.
Mitch was the editor-in-chief of MeridianCorpâs entire stable of magazines, both print and digital. She was also my boss, which meant I didnât have a choice. Personally, I would have preferred a dark room and a truckload of Tim Tams to Mitchâs office and the imminent threat of unemployment but ignoring the summons would have been a fatal mistake, and I didnât fancy dying that day or any other.
STAR NOW, Australiaâs highest circulation gossip magazine and my home away from home, took up the entire top floor of a big pink building on Sydneyâs North Shore. The sprawling office was a maze of cubicles; the occupantsâ crowded pin boards and screensavers a clear indication of who was hot or notâsomething that changed by the week, the day or even by the hour. Over the years the walls had witnessed Kylie and Jason, Brangelina, too many Kardashians to mention, the handing of the boy-band âtraitorâ baton from Robbie to Harry and, more recently, everything Hadid and Delevingne.
The hush enveloping the space as Iâd shuffled towards Mitchâs closed office door that morning was eerily reminiscent of that awkward scene in Jerry Maguireâthe one where Tom Cruise has a conniption and adopts the office fish and Renee Zellweger.
A single kind person behind meâI think it might have been Dawn, our eager-to-please intern, with a penchant for socks-n-Birkenstocks and a teeny-tiny crush on meâsquawked a self-conscious good luck. She was shushed with an audible elbow jab, right before Iâd stepped through Mitchâs door. It had swung shut behind me with a hostile, metallic clunk. I now stood in front of her gigantic wooden desk like a wayward primary school kid, called up to the principalâs office for sticking chewing gum on the rungs of the monkey bars.
When I say in front of her gigantic desk, I mean in front of the yawning space in front of her gigantic desk. The room itself took up the entire corner of the building. All floor to ceiling glass and neutral paint, with the gargantuan desk the only real furniture, the room screamed success. Meanwhile, the sun bouncing off Sydney Harbour screamed through the banks of glistening windows to pierce my red and swollen eyeballs. I blinked painfully as my eyes adjusted to the glare and wondered momentarily whether eyeballs could actually explode.
Mitch sat at her desk, glowering at me from behind bony fingers, which were steepled sharply together like she wanted to stab me with them. With my stinky pyjamas and food-filled hair, I must have looked like a mucky blot on the shining ecru plush pile. Her carefully made-up eyes travelled slowly down to my fidgeting feet and back up again. She twitched one artfully-tweezed eyebrow.
âWow, Kat, you look like shit.â She waved a hand at me. âIs this some kind of disguise to try to outwit the paps or have you finally lost your marbles?â
At the mention of the paparazzi, I hiccupped. And then hiccupped again. Over the past week, the stress had reactivated my teenaged nervous ticâchronic hiccups that broke out like a cuckoo clock on helium as soon as my heart rate went up.
âThere was a photographerâhicâhiding underneath my car this morning. I nearlyâhicâran him over, for Christâs sake.â I took a gulp of air and held my breath as Mitch pursed her lips.
âIâm glad you didnât. We donât need another law suit, courtesy of the great Katherine Alley.â Her deceptively soothing voice was loaded with disapproval. âItâs not much fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it?â I shook my head, still holding my breath in my best impression of a miserable puffer fish. âCardinal rule of gossip, darling,â she continued. âNever become the story. Kelly is going to be fine, by the way, thanks for asking. Theyâll release her from hospital tomorrow morning. Her agent called me.â
I exhaled with a rush and paused, waiting for a hiccup and hoping the breath holding had worked because the next step was standing on my head to drink water and I had a feeling that wouldnât go down well. No hiccups were forthcoming so I risked squeaking a question.
âAre you going to fire me?âÂ
Mitch was silent as she drummed her fingers on her desk. I waited, staring at the floor and cringing on the inside, until the silence became awkward. I peeked at her from beneath lowered and somewhat crusty eyelashes. She was studying me. Calculating. Maybe she wanted me to beg. âMitch, please. You canât fire me.â
âActually, KatâI can,â she snapped, before pausing and folding her spindly arms. âBut luckily for you, Iâm not going to.â
I was stunned.Â
âWhat?â After the public backlash from my three-pronged and ultimately unfounded exposĂ© of pop-star, Kelly Craig, I was certain getting fired would be a fait accompli. Mitch motioned for me to sit and I did, my legs shaking with relief. Mitch eyed me like a hawk eyes a mouse before swooping in for the kill.
âThe fact is you make me too much money and youâve got too many contacts for me to lose you.â Wow, so heartfelt. âBut⊠Kelly Craig is Australiaâs darling. Everybody loves her. The fucking Prime Minister loves her. Christ, even that horrible radio jock who hates everyone thinks sheâs Madonna incarnate and by that I donât mean like a virgin. The fact is, Kellyâs in hospital because of you. Personally, I couldnât give a shit. Circulation went through the roof last weekâsuicides are always massive sellers.â She shrugged. âEven if they donât take.â
Ugh. I grimaced. I might have fucked up but at least I had the common decency to know how heinous that statement was. The horrid truth of the matter though, was she was right. Whenever anything like this happenedâand it seemed to be happening more and more oftenâthe public couldnât get enough.
Celebrity death was big business; memorial covers, special editions, pages and pages of the life and times of, complete with insider stories from every person who ever loved them or simply did their dry-cleaning that one time. Not to mention the scores of secret offspring who would suddenly emerge from the woodwork.
And, if the death was self-inflicted? The morbid fascination ramped up a notch. Was it disbelief that a celebrity could have anything truly bad to worry about? Or was it the realisation that being rich and famous didnât preclude you from having a shitty life? Either way, people wanted to know what had gone wrong. Maybe it made them feel better about their own lives, who knew.
âOf course, the public want your head on a platter. Hypocrites.â Mitch snorted and then echoed my thoughts, unnerving me slightly because Mitch is the last person you want inside your head. âSure, thereâs plenty of noise being made about how horrible you are, but that doesnât stop them buying the magazine or watching the show or feeding into the whole bloody machine, does it?â
I still wasnât quite sure where her train of thought was going. I wiggled my head, a confused cross between a nod and a shake, to cover all bases. âLook, I have to show that Iâm doing something, otherwise thereâll be a fucking backlash and I need that like Donald Trump needs a spray tan.â She sighed heavily. âBut Iâm not going to fire you. Okay?â A loaded pause. âSo? What do you have to say for yourself? Any explanation at all?â
I stared at her, caught off guard, then scrambled for words.
âMitch, I swear I had no idea that guy was her psychiatrist. Honestly, they seemed way too friendly. Like get a room friendly. How was I to know she was so close to the edge; that sheâd do something soââ I hesitated, grappling for the right word ââ stupid?â
âSo, sheâs stupid now as well as being suicidal and a home wrecker?â Nope, definitely not the right word. âYouâre on fire, Kat.â
âI didnât mean that.â I backtracked rapidly. âExtreme. How was I to know sheâd do something so extreme?â
âHereâs a start. Maybe you should have verified your story before you accused her of having an affair with a married man on your blog, in my magazine and on national television.â She glared at me. âMental health issues, depression, theyâre hot topics right now. We come out of this like heartless bastards. Channel Five is extremely embarrassed. So embarrassed in fact that theyâve dumped you from your Rise and Shine, Oz segment. Theyâve replaced you with that agreeable little blonde girl that used to do Funniest Home Videos.â
âWhat? But The Katâs Whispers is mine,â I squeaked, outraged. âI built that segment. How can they have The Katâs Whispers without a Kat?â
Mitch shrugged.
âSorry, they own it. I suppose theyâll change the name. Besides, you brought this on yourself, you need to take responsibility. Be thankful theyâre not suing us. Two law suits would be, letâs just say unmanageable.â
I shrank.
âTwo?â
âMm-hmm. Kellyâs people are in talks with legal as we speak. That one shouldnât be too bad. Like I said, circulation was way up and it counter-balances what we have to pay out. Itâs a trade-off, everybody does it, you know how this works. Youâve been here long enough. If we end up in the black itâs worth running the story.â
I hugged myself tight, hands tucked into my sleeves like a little kid, and nodded at her. It might be worth running the story to her but for the first time in a long while it left a really bad taste in my mouth. How the hell did I end up here? I must have looked wretched because Mitchâs flinty countenance softened for once.
âKat, I know youâve been struggling since your Dad died, and I feel for you, I do. I had a lot of professional respect for your father.â A wry smile crossed her lips. âEven if it wasnât exactly reciprocated. He was an exceptional journalist.â
âYeah thanks, Mitch,â I muttered. âCan I have some tequila and lemon with that salt? It rubs into the wound better.â Sarcasm never went down well with Mitch and she straightened, her face assuming its regular stone-like visage.
The mention of my Dad stung like a Portuguese man-o-war but I wasnât about to open up to her about that awful last conversation Iâd had with him. The one that proved her words were on point. How could I tell her I was almost glad he wasnât around to witness my spectacular fall from grace, being that it would have simply consolidated what I knew he already thought of me? I couldnât tell her I had no doubt heâd be mortified, and more than a little pissed off that Mum had given me his two Walkley Awards in a fit of misguided sentimentality?
Like Oscars for Aussie journalists, Walkleys were only given to the bestânot journalists like me. War crimes in Rwanda and shonky politiciansâmy Dadâs raison d'ĂȘtreâoutranked celebrity sex tapes every time. The pointy metal trophies had been sitting in a box in my apartment since his funeral, like shiny, stabby reminders of how tarnished my personal interpretation of the word âjournalistâ had become.
It hadnât always been the case. When I first started out as a cadet on the Bayside Sun, I did everything by the book. Armed with a truckload of gleaming idealism, I knew my media law inside out. I was an ethical powerhouse. I would check and double check facts and sources; nothing was committed to paper that I didnât know was absolutely true. Plus, I had great instincts. The award for my hard-hitting piece exposing the widespread bribery of the jam judges at the Benbridge Fete was still a high-point in my career.
Dad had always said my thirst for incontrovertible proof started when I was six and lost my first tooth. Excited to meet the much-lauded tooth fairy, Iâd forced myself to stay awake long past bedtime by licking my fingers and repeatedly poking them in my eyes every time sleep threatened.
Hearing the door open, Iâd lain perfectly still under my Care-Bears doona, feigning sleep and peering sneakily through the tiny gap between my scrunched eyelids and my eyelashes. Long story short, Mum was busted trying to sneak two dollarsâthat was pretty good in 1992âunder my pillow and the jig was well and truly up.
In my six-year-old wisdom, if the tooth fairy wasnât real it stood to reason the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas were a load of crap too. I had to be pulled out of Sunday School because I kept asking the nuns to prove God was real. My Mum was extremely embarrassed but Dad defended me by saying it showed I had an enquiring mind and strength of character. More recently heâd said it was a shame that character so easily went AWOL with the lure of a big pay check and my own fifteen minutes of fame. But to be fair, that wasnât entirely correct.
I had fallen into celebrity gossip quite by accident, after an investigative piece Iâd been working on went horribly pear-shaped. Iâd been convinced that a particular high-profile lawyer was taking bribes and had been staking him out for weeks. My gut told me it was going to make my career, be my first really big break as a journalist. Unfortunately, my gut was wrongâvery wrongâand to make it worse the lawyer accused me of stalking. Iâd missed a key bit of info, something that apparently everybody knew. Except me, clearly. The oversight made me a laughing stock at the paper.
Iâd thought my dad would be supportive â people make mistakes, donât they? But I had overheard him in conversation with a colleague who was going on about the importance of procedure, of not running on instinct. He was a stuffy-looking bald man who wrote about real estate, and heâd said pointedly to my dad, âit would be much easier if women stuck to writing about things they know, donât you agree?â.
My dad had made small murmurs of what sounded like agreement as the stuffy man continued, âInvestigative journalism simply takes a particular level of intelligence.â I stood there, silently, waiting for him to stand up for me.
My dad had cleared his throat.
âWell, I think youâre right there, butââ
Iâd turned tail before heâd finished the sentence, mortified. If my dad didnât think I had the brain power for the job, what the hell was I thinking?
Fortunately, a silver lining presented itself soon enough. The photos Iâd taken of the lawyer had also snapped Tim Baileyâa very famous television hostâkissing his long-rumoured mistress in the background. I wouldnât have picked it without the eagle eyes of my editorial coordinatorâwho was so immersed in pop culture she could have told you how many fillings Tom Hardy hadâbut, either way, Hello magazine paid me handsomely for the shots and asked me what else I had.
And the rest, as they say, is history. I discovered unexpectedly that I enjoyed writing about the entertainment industry; it was fun and the perks were fabulous. As a result, I never tried to write anything too serious again. I also never confronted my dad about the conversation I overheard, and things were never quite the same between us.
The more my career as an entertainment journalist took off, the more disappointed Dad seemed. He simply didnât understand why I wanted to write what he called fluffy rubbish. He was never one to pull any punches. As far as I was concerned, I was simply playing to my strengths. Looking back, I think maybe I was also scared. Iâm sure my dad could have told me the difference, but it was too late now, wasnât it? His sudden heart-attack had seen to that.
I dragged myself out of memory lane as Mitch made her way around the desk. She perched on the edge and looked down at me.
âKat, at the end of the day, these kinds of mistakes shouldnât happen and itâs not the first time. Things have been shaky with you for a while. Youâve been so caught up with getting the scoops before anyone elseââ
âBut thatâs my jobââ I protested. She silenced me with a raised hand.
ââfinding bigger scandals, playing celebrity. Youâve been sloppy. Legal is getting twitchy and I canât ignore this one.â
âWhat if I publish an apology on the blog?â I was desperate to make amends.
âPop Vultureâs gone.â Mitch could always be counted on to be blunt. âIâve taken it offline. Iâve also deactivated all of your social media accounts.â
My eyes bugged in horror.
âAll of them?â
âAll of them.â
âEven Instagram? Snapchat?â
Mitch gave a curt nod and I reeled. Holy shit. Even Iâd forgotten what I looked like without a filter.
âNo,â I wailed, âMitch, you canât do that.â
âI can and I have.â
âWhat about Twitter? I hit half a million followers last month, the same on Instagram. Itâs taken me years to build my platform.â A thought struck me. âOh my god, my TikTok.â
âAlso goneâ.
âNO! Mitch, you donât understand. I am an influencer. You canât just delete me. And⊠andâŠâ I floundered in complete panic at the thought of being cut off from my social network.
âOh, for godâs sake, Kat, grow up. You are not an influencer. Youâre a thirty-six-year-old journalist. You do not need to be making stupid voice-over videos like an attention-seeking twenty-two-year-old with too much lip filler and ridiculous eyelash extensions. Your followers are not your friends, Iâm sure theyâll cope. Christ, I rue the day I ever suggested âcross-platformâ to you.â
âBut, what are people going to read if Pop Vultureâs gone?â
Mitchâs icy glare nearly froze my eyeballs in my head.
âI would imagine theyâll read my magazine. You know, the one you write for?â She folded her arms. âYou are not the celebrity here, Kat, despite what you might think. Youâd be wise to start remembering that. Look, itâs temporary. The best thing you can do right now is lay low and wait until this all blows over. The public have very short memories. As soon as the next scandal comes along, youâll be forgotten.â
It came out before I could stop it.
âWhat if I donât want to be forgotten?â
âPardon?â
I should have shut up then and there but for some reason my tongue kept flapping. Stupid tongue.
âI mean, if you think about it, I am sort of a celebrity. Even other famous people know who I am. Some of them are even scared of me. I mean, when I walk into a room people actually whisper that Iâm there and if you ask anyone who the Pop Vulture is, I bet loads of people wouldââ
âAre you listening to yourself?â
I was. And I was disappointed. I sounded like one of those whiny, self-important ex-reality show kids who think they have something special and important to offer the world because theyâd showered nude or performed impressive fellatio on a wine bottle on national television. All they had was bad grammar and a disturbing lack of self-respect. I puffed my chest out a little, defiant. At least I had good grammar.
âYouâre treading a fine line here, Kat. If you would rather be fired, I can certainly oblige, just keep talking the way youâre talking. Iâm offering you a chance because I like you, not because you deserve it. If I were you, I would shut up and take it and learn the lesson.â
âFine,â I still couldnât help sulking a little. âSo, what now? Are you demoting me to the mail room? The switchboard?â
Mitch waved her hand dismissively as she moved back to the other side of her desk. âDonât be so dramatic. Iâm bumping you to staff writer for a while and sending you on assignment. You can get back to your roots.â The last bit was said with a definite smirk. There was no point in arguing so I slumped in my chair and chewed my nails as she reached into her desk drawer.
âLet me guess, youâre going to punish me by shipping me off to Gympie to write a âwhere are they now?â about a soap-star turned llama farmer.â
âWhile that would be amusing⊠not exactly.â Mitch handed me a computer printout and a black and white photograph. The printout was an airline reservation, a return flight to Los Angeles. The photo was of a vaguely familiar face. I stared blankly at them both. âYouâll be writing a story on Xander Hill.â
Now I stared blankly at her.
âHuh?â
Mitch frowned, âXander Hill, the actor.â She spelled it out slowly as if I was extremely thick then took a breath, about to repeat the name again.
âI know who Xander Hill is, Mitch.â I let out a laugh of disbelief as I tossed the photo on to the desk. âI get paid to know this stuff.â I rattled off the bit of trivia I knew. âXander Hill, small-time actor in Hollywood back in the late sixties, early seventies. Died before he really made it big, allegedly slept with a lot of women, high profile affair with a movie star. Mitch, heâs been dead for a long time, heâs not exactly big news.â
She shook her head like you do when you canât believe you are wasting time talking to somebody really dumb. I flushed.
âThe point is, heâs been dead exactly fifty years this week. I want you to write a retrospective, how he got started, who he dated, who he shagged, the usual.â
âBut, why?â
Mitch finally snapped, exasperated.
âOh, for godâs sake Kat, stop arguing with me. He didnât just die, you know that. And you know they never figured out who killed him. Itâs interesting.â
I was still puzzled.
âBut isnât the anniversary of James Deanâs death coming up? Wouldnât people be more interested in a big star rather than some obscure up-and-comer? Why arenât we covering that instead?â
âBecause everyoneâs doing James Dean.â
âWould you like to rephrase that?â I winked at her, attempting a grin, and was rewarded with a withering look. Clearly not the time for double entendre. My face straightened as she continued.
âThereâs nothing new about Dean. Everyone rehashes the same stuff. Weâre going with something different. Think of it like this, Hill is to Dean what Mansfield was to Monroe. Not as big a star but still a fascinating story.â
âYouâre the boss. Are you sure people will be interested enough to buy the magazine though?â
âIf they werenât interested there wouldnât be more than one hundred Facebook groups dedicated to Xander Hill,â she said triumphantly.
âThatâs not saying much, Mitch. There are hundreds of Facebook groups dedicated to âWhich Sesame Street Character Are You?â and the difference between their, there and theyâreâ.
âSmart-arse.â
My chuckle screeched to a halt and I cleared my throat.
âSorry. Look, okay, I get why you want me to write it but I still donât understand why I need to go all the way to LA? Canât I write it from hereâyou know, using the internet?â
She was losing patience with me.
âNo. We have a scoopâan exclusive interview.â
âSo? Surely I can do that by Zoom.â
âIt has to be done in person. Not negotiable. My source is old school. Says he has some sexy new secrets about Xander Hill.â She waved her hands like an overenthusiastic game show host, âNever before revealed,â then dropped them as quickly. âSo, youâre going and thatâs that.â Her eyes were ringing dollar signs like a lit-up pokie machine and I admit my curiosity was piqued.
âSo, who is it?â
âIâll send you the details once youâre there, Iâm still finalising some things. It could take a few days but let me assure you, it is a coup. If he tells us what I have a hunch heâs going to tell us, this could be really big. Kat, youâre lucky Iâm not booting your arse out the door, be thankful this is getting you out of Sydney. Two birds, one stone and all that.â
I retrieved the photo and studied it intently. I couldnât help thinking it was weird that the smiling face in the picture simply didnât exist anymore. My dad came involuntarily to mind again and I squashed the thought. Today was hard enough. I snapped myself back to the present in time to hear Mitch wrapping up.
ââso, the basic whodunit theories, the scandal, but donât get too serious. Itâs the sexy stuff our readers want. Focus on that.â
That, I knew I could do.
âWell, I guess itâs a done deal then. So, when do I leave?â I started to flip to the reservation sheet, mentally calculating how many pairs of shoes I should pack.
âIn three hours. Youâll need to head straight to the airport.â
âWhat?â I stared at the flight time in disbelief then glanced down at my crusty pyjamas. Butââ
Mitch shot me a pointed look.
âMaybe you should have made more of an effort with your appearance today. Hmm?â She patted my hand across the desk. âDonât worry kiddo, I took the liberty of packing you a bag from Sarahâs cupboard over in Style and I raided Mirandaâs beauty trunk.â She nudged a grey hold-all from beside her desk with her foot. âYour passport is kept here anyway, you know that, thereâs a proper camera in thereâSLRâand Iâve booked you a room at the Chateau.â
My eyes widened.
âMarmont?â
She rolled her eyes at me as if to say what other Chateau is there?
âI donât want you going home and I certainly donât want you around when they release Kelly from hospital tomorrow. Clearly the press is still camped out. Itâs best youâre gone and I donât want anyone knowing where youâre going.â With that she plonked an archaic flip-phone on the desk along with a piece of paper. âHereâs your new email address and phone number.â
âHuh? My new what?â I nearly had to peel my eyebrows off the ceiling. This was all happening way too fast.
âThis is all I want you to use. You wonât have your laptop either, you can use an internet cafĂ© to check emails and file your story. Research only. Got it? I want you to stay off social media. Do not try reactivating your accounts. This phone has the main numbers youâll need in it and Iâll send your temporary number to any important contacts for you. In the meantime, Iâd like your iPhone please.â
She held out her hand and I stared at it, incredulous.
âAre you serious?â
âCompletely.â She pushed a pen and notepad at me as I reluctantly put my iPhone on the desk. âItâs not going to kill you to unplug. This is damage control, Kat. Your number is public property, youâre easy to get hold of. You canât tell me you havenât been fielding unwanted calls 24/7 for the past week and a half. This way it all dies down. Nobody can photograph you, call you, talk to you and get some shitty comment out of context. You of all people know how it works. In the meantime, you get to keep your job and I get the story. Simple.â
âAre you sure that phone even works? It looks like it belongs in a museum,â I muttered, imagining answering the thing and copping an earful of dust.
Nausea washed over me as I jotted down a short list of names I wanted out of my contacts list. It was like a scene from a spy movie, your mission, should you choose to accept it, blah blah blah, except I wasnât a spy and âchooseâ was not the word for it. Iâll take ultimatum for a hundred, Alex. Although granted, ultimatums didnât usually involve swanky, iconic hotels.
âAnd the Chateau? Whatâs with that? It doesnât exactly feel like Iâm being punished here,â I was more than a bit mystified.
Mitch made a little moue and hunched her shoulders. âIf I want you in the thick of things, where better? Anyone whoâs anyone stays at the Chateau. Keep your eyes open.â Was she deliberately trying to confuse me?
âBut I thought I was supposed to lay low, steer clear of all that? Learn a lesson?â
The youâre an idiot expression crossed Mitchâs face yet again.
âWe still have a magazine to fill. This is not some kind of intervention, Kat. I simply want you to check your facts. Focus on this story first but if you happen to see anyone of note behaving badly, you know the drill.â
âButââ
âBut nothing. Would you rather I get you a room at the motor inn, downtown?â Images of grotty dumpsters flashed in my mind and I quickly shook my head. âGood.â Mitch stood and moved toward me, arms outstretched. She was definitely not a hugger so the overall impression, with her scrawny arms and emotionless face, was zombie-like and I flinched involuntarily. She stopped and patted me awkwardly on both shoulders instead. âEverything will be fine, Kat. Trust me. Youâre not well-known in LA. Enjoy being a nobody, get the job done and then weâll talk when you get back.â
Being a nobody? Ugh.
Before I could argue any further, she hoisted the hold-all onto my shoulder, shoved my passport, flight reservation and the photo of Xander Hill into my hand and bustled me out of her gleaming office. âIâll email you everything else you need, Okay? Oh, and one final thing, Katââ She shoved me unceremoniously into the lift and pressed the down button.
âWhatâs that?â I raised my eyebrows in query, expecting well wishes for a safe trip, considering my fragile state.
âPlease wash your hair. You smell like Cheezels.â
The lift doors slid shut.
The great Katherine (Kat) Alley is a gossip columnist extraordinaire and the brains behind the blog "Pop Vulture." However, her life has just tanked seriously after she completely botches a story, leading to public backlash and disastrous outcomes. Her boss is furious and decides that the best way to deal with the problem is to send Kat out of the country to work on a story. Kat would much rather be staying in Australia but is instead sent briskly packing to Hollywood to stay at the supposedly haunted Chateau Marmont to follow the trail of a long-dead movie star, Xander Hill, who had been killed there years ago. Jokingly, she imagines that maybe one of the hotel ghosts might help her out and tell her what really happened that night.
Kat starts her journey by visiting with some friends from past visits to Hollywood, which leads her to stumble upon her first clue. One of her friends makes deliveries to a house that could be occupied by a former co-star of Xander Hill who had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. This is enough to pique her interest in the whole story and decide that, hey, she might actually be able to crack the cold case. It's been over 50 years, so Kat has to delve deep to discover what happened. It is a tough job when everyone in Hollywood harbours secrets. Along the way, she also has to take a bit of a hard at her own life.
Dead Famous is an amusing cozy-style mystery that has you chuckling along with Kat. She has a great sense of humour and some witty lines in the novel. There are many twists and turns to the mystery, some surprises I didn't see coming, and a bit of a cliffhanger which makes for an engaging story. I enjoyed reading this book and thought it would also make for a great audiobook! I recommend including it as one of your summer reads.