In September 1993, from her hospital bed, plugged into oxygen, my elderly mother motioned for her yellow legal pad. In a squiggly hand she slowly scratched out a lede on Heidi Fleiss's new pajama line, another on Liz Taylor's husband's eye job. "Call these in," she told my sister. Those were her last two scoops.
The National Enquirer sent three floral sprays to the funeral. She was their favorite Hollywood stringer. For the last several years, she tried to avoid...
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