Everybody Takes The Money (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries) by Diane Patterson Page B

high-seas piracy, perhaps. Came up with a “No” on all of them.
    I was all the way to the possibility of “Nazi art theft” when Roberto said, “Oh good Lord. The look on your face right now.”
    “Be a lot more specific about how I fit into this,” I said.
    “He is having trouble working out the details of a function. A party. You are good at partying. I believe you can help him work out the problems he’s having. And he might be able to help you with a few problems you have.”
    “Let me make certain I understand. I set up a party, and you’re going to pay me for this?”
    My stepfather showed me a real smile. “And you’re going to earn every penny. And by the way, Drusilla? Many happy returns.”
    “It’s March, not New Year’s, Roberto.”
    “March thirty-first, in fact. Happy birthday.”
    My surprise must have shown. “It’s not—” Oh Hera. It was. I was turning twenty-eight years old tomorrow. That much closer to thirty. “Instead of this stupid job you want me to do, you could send me a birthday check and make up for all the years you and Mama missed.”
    “No,” he said, and he switched off his camera.

C HAPTER F IVE

    STEVIE HAD NEVER been to Anne’s house in the Beachwood Canyon area before. For one thing, we lived near the Pacific Ocean, and Anne lived near the Cahuenga Pass, east of Hollywood, off the 101 freeway. In Los Angeles, this was like us living in separate states.  
    Also, Stevie had little need to visit Anne. She was my friend, not my sister’s.
    I drove up Beachwood Drive on autopilot, doing this for the forty-first hundredth time. It took me a while to notice that my sister had launched forward in her seat and was staring rapturously out the windshield.
    “What’s wrong?” I said.
    She pointed before turning to me, the sweetest smile on her face. “The Hollywood sign,” she said.
    “Yeah, Anne lives right near it.”
    She giggled nervously. “There it is.” Her voice was breathy.  
    At that moment I realized we’d been living in Los Angeles for two months and I hadn’t yet taken her to see the Hollywood sign. My sister loves television and movies to an unholy degree. Over the past decade watching TV and movies has been her main way of dealing with humanity. And yet here we were, in the center of the galaxy for TV and movies, and I’d never taken her to see the archetypal symbol for the entire industry.
    I also hadn’t taken her on any studio tours, to any of the theme parks, or to an actual film set.
    On the plus side, however, I had gotten us free room and board with an Oscar-winning film star who was enraptured by Stevie’s cooking. That had to score me some points in her book.
    Eventually it would. After all, anything was possible.
    “It’s no big deal,” I said. “It’s just a stupid sign.”
    “And it’s there. It really looks like that.”  
    I grunted. “Oh, all right. We can drive up closer.”
    She shook her head. “I can see it from here.” Her face was blissful.
    I reminded myself that once I had my inheritance back, I was going to own a significant portion of one of those theme parks and Stevie could go any time she felt like it. Provided I played my cards right and was allowed to keep in contact with her.
    Which meant getting Roger Sabo’s crap under control. And fulfilling Roberto’s little task.  
    Anne’s house sat up one of the many winding, shady side streets that branched off of Beachwood Drive toward the top. It was a tiny, whitewashed, two-story, two-bedroom house that had no garden to speak of but did have a garage, so it was the kind of house that had everything the modern Angeleno needed. Her parents (who, like everyone else in town, worked in film and television production) had helped her buy it a few years before.  
    I parked on the driveway, on the right side. Her white VW convertible, as always, was parked on the left side. She never parked in the garage, because she had already filled her garage with too much junk