Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery by Joan Rivers, Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

in Manhattan Beach (ditto). This is not the right time to speak about dear Halsey, I texted, e-mailed, and said in a sotto voce rasp, sadly. Perhaps later. No matter how rabid the dogs of the media could get when they were hot after a story, I could handle mad dogs. I calmly wrapped myself in a cloak of dignified silence. I was sweet. I was respectful. I said, “No.” They had never heard of anything like it. All of them calculated the cost of the story upward.
    “Fun,” I said to Malulu as I disconnected with the president of CNN-TV.
    The doorbell rang, and Malulu ushered in the fourth flower arrangement of the morning, all red roses and white hydrangeas. “Larry King,” Malulu read from the card as she bent over to place the huge vase on the floor next to the fireplace.
    “He’s a smart one,” I noted, admiring how the red roses complimented the deep-red velvet love seat in the living room. “His producer had researched the color scheme of my suite. I love himdearly, but here we are sitting on a million-dollar story, and I can’t give away Halsey’s last words for a measly plant?”
    “It’s da thought dat counts,” Malulu advised me, not getting my joke. Again.
    The doorbell chimed once more, and Malulu rose to answer it. Instead of more sweet-scented bribes, my lovely daughter floated through the door. Killer stood up on my lap and wagged his tail.
    “Drew, I thought you were going to go home and lie down.”
    “I tried.” She threw herself into the deep down cushions of the cherry-red love seat. She had changed out of her early-morning on-camera dress into a pair of jeans and a thin white sweater. “But how could I sleep?”
    “I know what you mean, I’m too amped. And it’s not just the Oscars.” Again, one of the suite’s two phones rang softly in the background. I pointed. “People don’t stop calling.”
    Drew nodded. “Same at my house. I tried to turn my phone off, but then I was waiting to hear from Sol Epstein. He finally called me half an hour ago.”
    “He did?” I looked up.
    “The good news is, he said he’ll work with Burke.”
    “He’s a smart lawyer. Good.”
    Drew still looked strained. “For now . That’s all Mr. Epstein would commit to.”
    “Okay. That’s something.” I always try to stay upbeat. As the kids say, why be a hater? Even though in this case, I had every reason. But I was getting sleepy, and that makes me forgiving.
    Drew shook her head. “And then I kept getting calls from Burke. He wants to know if I sold the diamonds. Mr. Epstein needs a retainer check. Ten thousand dollars. Today.”
    I had just been drifting off for a second. Not napping, but not fully charged. That last comment snapped me back like a triple espresso. If Burke had somehow contributed to the death of Halsey, even if Sol Epstein could prove it had been an accident, Burke certainly wouldn’t be able to claim he just accidentally walked off with thousands of dollars’ worth of Halsey’s diamonds. How had he come to take them? Had she paid him for drugs using her bra jewels? Had he been tempted by all that flash and easy money and somehow simply ripped them off? No matter, when the police found out Burke took the diamonds, he would be in a new world of trouble, and when they learned he gave the Victoria’s Secret diamonds to Drew after Halsey’s death, and that Drew ran out and sold them for cash…My head spun. Would that make my Drew an accessory to something really awful after the fact?
    “No!” I said, then stopped and calmed my voice. “Don’t worry about all that fuss just yet. Let’s stay calm, honey.”
    “But Burke’s defense?” she said, almost near tears. And this is a young lady that doesn’t cry.
    “It’s only money, sweetie.” Let me tell you, that’s not an easy line to deliver and make believable. But I did it. “Why do you think we work so hard? I’ll pay Sol’s retainer. Leave it to Mama.”
    Drew sat up, alert. “You will? Oh, Mom. That’s