“I’m an actress and going back to a film location in three days. You’re the founding executive of a national company. How dare they write us a letter like this?”
“To hell with them.”
“I’m going to make them eat their words. They’re not going to treat us like this, Hershel.”
The lawn party was to begin at five P.M. Rosita and I drove up at five-fifteen. There were no cars parked in front; the only car in the driveway was Hershel’s black Cadillac. We walked around the side of the house. Linda Gail was rearranging chairs in the backyard, her face pinched with anger. Next door a bunch of teenagers were diving in a swimming pool that glowed with a smoky green aura from the underwater lighting. She walked into the bamboo that grew along the fence and snapped her fingers at the swimmers. “Please tell the adult members of the household that I’m sorry they cannot attend our party,” she said. “Also tell them the noisy behavior of their ill-mannered children is not appreciated.”
“This is going to be awful,” Rosita whispered.
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “Talk to her. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Where are you going?”
“Probably firing in the well.”
I went inside and used the phone in the bedroom. The wallpaper and bedclothes and padded furniture were a blend of pale blue and pink and silver that reminded me of a child’s nursery. I dialed Roy Wiseheart’s home number.
“Hello?” he said.
“I need to clear up something,” I said.
“Holland?”
“I’ve been told that Harlan McFey was an employee of your wife.”
“Oh, McFey again. Use your judgment, partner. Why would my wife have anything to do with a man like that?”
“You tell me.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her, if that will make you feel better. Maybe he worked for one of her family’s companies. You know how many people they employ?”
“You said you had no connection to him. Were you lying to me?”
“No, but I’ll tell you what. The next time I see you, I might just punch you in the nose.”
“Save the martial rhetoric. Just answer yes or no. Did you lie to me?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you get an invitation to Linda Gail’s lawn party this evening?”
“If she sent one, I never saw it.”
“Oh, she sent it, all right. You would have been at the top of her list.”
“Well, I didn’t get it, or at least I didn’t see it. So how about giving it a rest?”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Talking to you, which I wish I wasn’t doing. Give me the address. Remind me in the future not to answer my telephone on Saturday afternoon.”
I told him where the house was. Then I said, “You have a lot of friends here’bouts. I bet they’d love to come over.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve got faith in you. You can do it. Make us proud.”
He hung up. At 6:05 his Rolls-Royce pulled into the Pines’ driveway; his wife was not with him. Four couples from the neighborhood arrived; then others, people who drove modest automobiles. In the next hour, I met a golf pro, an accountant, a stockbroker, a social secretary, a cattleman, an Episcopalian minister, a female tennis champion, and an amphibian charter pilot who wore a patch over one eye. All of them seemed overjoyed to be invited to the home of a Hollywood actress who was a friend of Roy Wiseheart’s. Linda Gail was ecstatic. From across the yard, Wiseheart toasted me with his champagne glass.