they’re homosexual? I’m sure my son, Drew, has a few things to say about that.” She glanced stage right. “Drew?”
Drew Marshall strutted onto the set, wearing a clingy gray crew-neck jersey and pleated black trousers. This was one of the Best Dressed Man’s casual days, and a chance to show off his well-toned body—usually hidden under designer suits. Drew had wavy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones the camera loved. He seemed like the perfect, All-American hunk-hero. Never mind the rumors that a number of women had been paid off to keep quiet about their furtive one-night stands with the eligible bachelor. The stories—though unsubstantiated—went that Drew’s cruelty in bed was matched only by his inadequacies. And the wholesome hunk, so often photographed shirtless while playing football or soccer, was said to be hot-tempered and arrogant on the field; “an incredible asshole,” according to several former classmates at Harvard.
The reports never seemed to hurt Drew’s popularity on the show. He always came across as a perfect gentleman. He stepped up to his mother’s side and put an arm around her.
“Somebody forget to wear a tie today?” Elsie joked.
“Oh, c’mon, Mom,” he said, blushing. “Give me a break.”
The studio audience seemed to laugh on cue.
“Well, did you hear what I was saying?”
“I sure did.” Drew nodded. “Y’know, Mom, I have to admit, I liked Leigh Simone’s music. I have a couple of her albums.”
Elsie rolled her eyes. The studio audience responded with a mild tittering. Elsie moved behind her desk, and Drew sat down in his chair.
“From what I read,” Drew continued, “Leigh Simone was into drugs and had some deep problems having to do with her choice of lifestyle.”
“Yes, indeed,” Elsie said. “If you were listening to your mother instead of combing your hair backstage, you’d have heard what I said about that rally in Portland for homosexuals wanting special rights.”
“I heard you, Mom,” Drew said. He suddenly looked serious. “You know, unfortunate people like Leigh Simone—who promote the homosexual agenda and campaign to restrict our constitutional rights to bear arms— have no regard for American family values. We need to protect our homes, our families, and our impressionable youth. These homosexuals who want to take away our guns and prey on our children, they pose a direct threat to the American family….”
Police had to control the mob of reporters and fans gathered outside the gated community of Malibu Estates. A parade of limos, Mercedeses, and BMWs slowly passed through the guarded entry. Each one carried a film or recording star. None of those famous people gave autographs or talked to reporters. They stayed in their cars—until the guard waved them through to the private cul-de-sac. Photographers still managed to take their pictures, while reporters wrote down what they were wearing and who they were with.
It may as well have been a star-studded film premiere—instead of the site for a memorial service.
Leigh’s will requested a quick cremation and no funeral. Her producer, record mogul Morley Denton, invited a hundred of Leigh’s friends to his beach-front mansion to “celebrate the life” of the late pop diva. Dayle was on the guest list. Morley had also invited some press agents and publicists. In addition to the crowd outside the gate, unwelcome tabloid helicopters hovered over Morley’s house. Dayle’s publicist had alerted the media that Dayle was attending the memorial with her current leading man, John McDunn.
One of the busiest actors in Hollywood, John had snatched up a Best Supporting Oscar three years before. Every one of his forty-six fast-living, hard-drinking years showed on his still-handsome face. Recently divorced, John costarred with Dayle in her new movie. Their steamy love scenes together had already generated some hot prerelease publicity for the film.
In fact, John had been Dayle’s relationship number eight during the finalization of his divorce. She went into the affair knowing he had a roving eye. The romance was short-lived, but they remained friends.
John was the solution to Dayle’s problems. He had no objections to a few publicity dates with her. They looked so right together, it silenced a lot of the whispered rumors about Dayle and Leigh.
Dayle clung onto John’s arm as they stepped into the front hallway—an airy, marble atrium with a waterfall along one wall. She recognized a couple of press agents, staking out the arriving guests. They sized up John and her, then unabashedly scribbled in their notebooks.
“I really appreciate this, Johnny,” she said under her breath. “I know there are a thousand other places you’d rather be right now.”
John shrugged. “The Lakers game, in bed with you…”
Dayle nudged him. “Not anymore, honey. But thanks just the same.”
The helicopters buzzing overhead had driven scores of guests from the terrace into the house. They gathered in Morley’s huge living room, with its panoramic ocean view. Everyone still seemed in shock over Leigh’s untimely death—and the news about her “drug problem.” One of Leigh’s noncelebrity friends confided in Dayle that she refused to believe any of the stories. “And by the way, Dayle,” she said. “You should know, Leigh was so excited about meeting you. Before her Portland trip, that’s all she talked about.”
Dayle felt cheated of a friend.
She spotted Estelle Collier by the hors d’oeuvres table. In only six days, Estelle had gone from
How Estelle could face Leigh’s friends now was beyond comprehension. She looked like a white-trash lottery winner: too much makeup, too much jewelry, and a tacky purple dress that was too tight for her chubby figure. She loaded up her plate with food, and popped a cheese puff in her mouth.
Patting John’s shoulder, Dayle excused herself and started across the room toward Estelle. Leigh’s former assistant saw her coming. She put down her plate and started to turn away. “Estelle, we need to talk,” Dayle said.
Estelle swiveled around with a professionally perky smile. “Why, hello, Dayle. I’ve been meaning to return your calls—”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Dayle said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why did you lie to the police about Leigh?”
Estelle nervously glanced around at the other guests. Frowning, she shook her head at Dayle. “I don’t have to talk to you,” she said.
“You didn’t have to talk to the tabloids either, but that didn’t stop you.”
Estelle’s eyes narrowed. “Be grateful I’ve left you out of it, Dayle. Take my advice and stay out of it.”
“Leigh wasn’t gay,” Dayle whispered. “She didn’t take drugs. And she didn’t commit suicide. She trusted you. How can you betray her like this?”
“Let’s drop it, okay?” Estelle whispered tensely. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. Forget about it. Nothing can bring her back.”
Dayle numbly gazed at her. “You know who killed her, don’t you?”
“Please, leave me alone.”
Dayle took hold of her arm. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk. I want to help. If someone is threatening you—and making you tell these lies—”
“Please!” Estelle wrenched free from her grasp. She glanced around. They had an audience. Estelle cleared her throat. “I know how fond you were of Leigh,” she said calmly. “We all were. There’s nothing we could have done. She had so many problems. We mustn’t blame ourselves.” Estelle slowly shook her head. “Don’t linger on it, Dayle. Let it go.”
Seven
