He’d told them about his privileged life in New York City where his family’s Fifth Avenue apartment overlooked Central Park. He’d hated it. All he wanted to be was a cowboy, out branding cattle, sleeping under the stars. A trip to a dude ranch when he was seven years old reinforced that ardent desire.
His family had tried to placate him by sending him out every Saturday, cowboy hat in place, into the wilds of Central Park with his nanny, who watched him go round and round riding a purple horse on the carousel, firing at her with his pop gun every 360 degrees. But somehow it just wasn’t enough.
He had wanted to go to high school out in Wyoming on a special exchange program. Instead he was sent to a prep school in New Jersey. They didn’t ride herd there, they rode to hounds. It had been a bitter disappointment.
Time slipped away, Preston recounted, and before he knew it he was caught up in the rat race, making money in business, his childhood dream buried but not forgotten. Until now.
He hoped he hadn’t bored the group too much. He’d gone on a little longer than usual and a couple of the guys had lain back in their sleeping bags during his soliloquy, never regaining consciousness for the singing of “Taps,” a ceremony that capped off each evening.
The air at this hour of the morning was fresh and crisp, with a slight nip to it. The occasional sounds of nature gently cut through the stillness, making it a perfect spot to film, say, a cornflakes commercial.
But in one brief moment it all ended. The mules started to bray wildly. Dust started to blow over the campsite. Preston Landers’s peaceful slumber communing with nature in the great outdoors was rudely interrupted by the roar of a helicopter as it settled down in a nearby clearing. With a sinking heart he looked up and saw the Calla-Lily logo on its side and knew that, for whatever reason, his vacation was over.
With much grumbling, Preston pulled on his Levi’s 501 jeans bought especially for the trip and packed up his vagabond stove, buddy burner, multipurpose pocket knife and video camera. He planned to put together a tape of the journey, set it to country music, and sell it to the other campers.
“Did everyone fill out their order forms for High Noon Two!” he asked his fellow ramblers as he rolled up his sleeping bag and tied it with a knot.
Most of them grunted, “Yeah, partner” as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes.
“You can send me your checks and self-addressed stamped envelopes when I’ve got it ready.”
His gear in tow, Preston walked over and patted the heads of the mules. The one he had christened Ruth stared blankly at him and blinked.
“I wish I could take you with me,” Preston whispered. “But where I’m going there’s only room for one Ruth. And you wouldn’t want to be there.”
Preston boarded Calla-Lily I, strapped himself in, and waved good-bye to the Wild West Tour as the helicopter lifted him toward the heavens on his way back to the boardrooms of America.
REGAN WOKE UP to the delicious smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Surprisingly she’d fallen into a heavy sleep and had slept for a solid six hours. She heard Richie puttering around in the kitchen.
“Richie,” she called out.
“Good morning, honey. I’ll be right there.”
Regan sat up in bed and watched as Richie carried in a tray with coffee, juice and bagels.
“What service!” Regan said as she gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. “I’m supposed to be looking after you.”
“Eh,” Richie muttered. “I heated up the bagels because they’re from yesterday. You have to eat them quick before they get hard again.”
Regan laughed. “Thanks. How do you feel this morning?”
“I have a little case of opening-night jitters, but other than that, I’m grateful to be alive.”
The phone rang.
Regan raised an eyebrow. “Here we go.” She sipped her coffee as Richie settled himself in the chair next to the phone.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said to the caller. “Regan, it’s Bridget and Ed . . . huh . . . Regan heard it on the news last night and came to get me at the hospital . . . she stayed over . . . We don’t know who tried to kill me . . . Don’t worry about it . . . I’ll see you later.”
Richie hung up and smiled. “Everybody’s a wreck.”
The phone rang again. “Richie Blossom here,” he answered. “Nora, love. I feel fine. Your daughter is here making sure I don’t get into any more trouble . . . I’ll put you on the speakerphone . . .”
“Regan?” Nora asked.
“Hi, Mom.” Regan leaned back against her propped-up pillow.
“You both are okay?”
“Fine,” they said in unison.
“Well, I’ve got some exciting news.”
Richie leaned into the phone. “What’s that, love?”
“Not only have we gotten a lot more responses from people who want to come to the party, but someone very important and influential and rich called to see if he would be welcome.”
’WHO?” Richie yelled and spilled a few drops of coffee on his bathrobe. “Don’t keep us in suspense!”
“She can’t help it. That’s her business,” Regan remarked.
Nora paused and pronounced his name with emphasis. “Dayton Rotter.”
“Dayton Rotter?” Richie repeated. “Dayton Rotter!”
“Wow!” Regan said. “He’s really coming?”
“Yes,” Nora said with satisfaction. “He heard about it from the models. Your father and I are doing our best to make sure the word spreads that he’ll be there. I have to call the manager, Nick, and let him know.”
“You better hurry up,” Regan advised. “He’s going out this morning on a hunt for a stereo.”
“Dayton Rotter?” Richie said almost to himself. “I guess I’m in the big time now!”
There was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, Nora, I have to answer the door.”
“Sure, Richie. Regan,” Nora asked, “do you want to come to the hotel this morning and we’ll go over to the luncheon together?”
“Yes, but we can’t stay too long,” Regan said.
“We won’t. Why don’t you come by around ten forty-five?”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll see you later.”
Richie, followed by Lucille, hurried to turn off the speakerphone. “Lucille, sit down.”
“Richie, I got so worried when I heard the news this morning. Hi, Regan. Sorry to barge in like this.”
“Not at all. I’ve got to get going, anyway.” Richie had lent her Birdie’s old bathrobe. She went into the other room to get dressed. When she came back out, she folded up the Bernadette Castro Special and picked the cushions off the floor.
“Now, Richie, you do promise to stay here this morning and not go out alone.”
“I promise, Regan.”
“We’re all going to bus up to the Watergreen together for the fashion show early this afternoon. Richie, you’re going to come with us, aren’t you?” Lucille asked.
“The Fourth Quarter contingent will proceed together,” Richie said excitedly.
Regan looked at him. “There’s not going to be a lot of time for me to come back and get you. If you go with them, Richie, please stay with them. I want to get you through today safely.”
“No problem,” Richie smiled.
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Lucille assured her. “I’m very good at that.”
IRVING FRANKLIN STIRRED at his work station. He lifted his head off the Formica countertop where he had been wrestling with the panty hose the night before. The big clock on the wall with the second hand he needed to time certain experiments precisely read eight-seventeen.
Fern should be coming down in a few minutes to check on me, he thought groggily. I can’t believe I fell asleep. I just put my head down to rest my eyes an hour ago. Just before he fell asleep, as a final test he’d added dollops of the ridiculously expensive new cream that his daughter had insisted on buying just yesterday.
Uh, he thought. Th
is place stinks. He walked over to the Crockpot that was really intended for the delicate slow cooking of meats and vegetables, not lingerie. He picked up the lid. Stew au hose. Good enough to drive Ruth crazy.
A quick examination of the specimen in question revealed that, indeed, it was as good as new.
Irving sighed. That’s all, folks, he thought. I’ve done everything I can think of to make this stuff unravel, one way or the other. But it couldn’t be done.
Disgusted, he dropped the hose back in the Crockpot, straightened up the counter, and started up the steps, ignoring the nagging little voice that told him to take one more look. He needed a shower and a change of clothes before he headed over to Ruthy Wuthy to break the bad news.
Thank God she can’t take it out on me, he thought. What a shock it had been when he wandered down to his lab during the company Christmas party and found her experimenting with the gardener, who was calling her Ruthy Wuthy. Ruthy had looked up just as he snapped their picture.
BARNEY FREIZE HAD had a terrible night’s sleep. He was still in shock over Ruth’s message on Danny’s answering machine. To think that those two were involved was bad enough, but what were they up to? Something told him he should not have brought those panty hose to Calla-Lily. And now Richie’s life was in danger, probably thanks to him.
He paced around his little house. The best thing he could do was just to go and talk to Danny. That’s it. Danny had never returned Barney’s call but he probably got home late. The question was, from where? And God knew, that machine of his couldn’t be depended upon to deliver the messages. At least not to Danny.
Barney grabbed his car keys and hurried out the door. It took him exactly eight minutes to reach Danny’s neighborhood. He pulled his sedan into the driveway and turned off the car. It was still early, but he couldn’t wait. Charging up to the door, he rang the bell and waited.
A few minutes later, a sleepy-looking Danny answered the door.
“Uncle Barney, what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Come on in.”
Barney followed him into the kitchen. He cringed when he saw a can of turpentine on the counter.
“I tried to call you last night.”
“I didn’t get the message. My answering machine is screwing up a little bit.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Let’s just say I thought I had reached the hallway outside a newborn nursery, scootchie-ootchie.”
Danny’s face reddened. “That’s none of your business.”
“What did you do last night?” Barney asked.
“I painted a friend’s apartment. Why are you asking me these questions?” Danny asked, annoyed.
“What’s the turpentine doing here?”
“To get the paint off my hands. What do you think?”
“You know, Danny, in Florida people can go to jail for a long time for attempted murder.”
“What are you talking about?” “You don’t know?” “Of course not.”
“Then tell me about your wonderful plans to be with Ruthy Wuthy.”
JOEY HONKED THE horn of his car. “Nadine, hurry up! I’m going to be late for work.”
“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” Nadine said as she struggled out the front door, her purse dangling in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. She handed the cup to Joey to hold while she got in the car and buckled her seat belt. “Ready,” she pronounced.
“Well, hallelujah,” Joey said as they drove off.
Nadine raised her eyebrows. “That’d be a good CD to buy for the fashion show.” She started to sing, “Hal-le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah, hal-le-lu-jah . . .”
Joey switched on the radio.
“Are you trying to give me some sort of message here?” Nadine asked.
“Who, me?”
“Yeah, you. Unless there’s somebody in the backseat I don’t know about.”
“I love the sound of your voice, you know that.” He patted her thigh. “But not your singing voice.”
Nadine appeared nonplussed. “Nobody’s perfect.” She took a sip of the coffee that was sloshing around in the wide-brimmed cup.
“So, you know which stores you’re going to take this clown to?” Joey asked.
“Uh-huh. Do you want to come over to the fashion show?”
“Sure. I hope that Richie guy can pull this off.”
“Me too. I’ll go back with Nick and help him set up the stereo, so why don’t you come to the hotel when you’re finished working?”
“Okay. That should be early afternoon.” Joey paused. “If my boss only knew what the people from the Fourth Quarter are doing to hang on to that place . . .”
“Don’t tell him. He wouldn’t be too happy to find out that the commission check he’s probably planning for the Golden Sun could be a lot skinnier.”
“My lips are sealed.”
They drove along, with Nadine flipping stations after every song.
“God forbid we should hear any news,” Joey muttered.
“Buy a paper,” Nadine suggested as she threw her drained coffee cup on the floor of the backseat. “It’s got a big handle. It shouldn’t roll around too much.”
“Thank you for caring.”
Finally, Joey pulled up the hill of the Watergreen’s horseshoe-shaped driveway. He leaned over to kiss her. “Now don’t run away with this guy.”
“You never know.” Nadine kissed him back. “He might like my singing.”
She stepped inside the lobby of the Watergreen and was impressed by the beautiful view of the ocean from the huge windows on the opposite wall. The blue water sparkled under the brilliant sunshine. Not bad, she thought. I’ll have to get Joey to take me here for a drink some night.
There was a bustle in the air. People with notebooks and pens were scurrying around. Nadine hurried over to the elevator. As she waited she studied the two signs, side by side, that listed the convention seminars for the day. The first one read: “‘Tanty Hose in a Glass— Efforts to Make Our Packaging Recyclable,’ Room 120A; ‘The “INGS” of Panty Hose Production—Knitting, Weaving, Dyeing,’ Room 124; ‘Tanty Hose for the Funky Crowd—Jeweled, Studded, Crazy—Cost of Production vs. Profit,’ Room 126.” Hmmm, Nadine thought. Things that I never lost sleep over.
The other sign read: “ ’Ashes to Ashes—Cremation vs. Burial,’ Room 112; ’Keeping Up Employee Morale Around the Home,’ Room 116; ‘The Latest Models of the Six-Foot Bungalow—Coffins on Display,’ Banquet Room B.” How cheerful, Nadine mused.
The elevator bell donged and the doors opened. Nadine pressed “PH” and was whisked up to the top floor of the Watergreen. Around the corner and down the hall were the double doors that opened into Nick Fargus’s suite. One of them was partially ajar. Nadine knocked on it. “Hello.”
Nick hurriedly opened the door. A valet stood next to him in the foyer, a hanger holding a flowered shirt in a dry cleaner’s bag resting on his index finger. “Nadine?” Nick asked.
“Since birth.”
“Come on in. I’m Nick.” He turned to the valet. “Did you get out the stains?”
“We tried very hard, Mr. Fargus. There’s still one little smidgen of tomato sauce, but I really think it blends in with the flowers.”
Nick looked at him sternly. “Very well.”
“Next time put some club soda on it right away,” Nadine suggested.
The valet exited with a downcast look on his face. With all the stains they got out for all the people who only visited the Watergreen once, it was just such bad luck that they couldn’t do it for the boss, he thought.
“Come on inside, Nadine. Take a look at the view,” he said proudly, leading her to the windows.
“Nice place you got here,” Nadine commented as she followed him in. “You’ve got a runway set up, I see?”
“A couple of the guys came up and built it last night. You like it?”
“Very professional. The v
iew is great too. What a bachelor pad.”
Nick’s face lit up. “You think so?”
“Heck, yeah. I’m glad my boyfriend doesn’t live in a place like this. As it is now, if he ever brought another girl home, she’d trip and break her neck right inside his front door. You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“No. You really think this is a good place to have the party?”
“It’s a great place. What are you worried about?”
“Nothing. Where should we put the stereo?”
Nadine looked around. “Now let’s see. It depends on the system we get. How much do you want to spend?”
Nick shrugged his shoulders. “How much do you think I should spend?”
“You plan to live here for a while?”
He managed a little laugh. “Unless I get fired.”
“That’d be a bummer.” Nadine walked around the large room. “Let’s see. Do you want to put speakers in the bedroom?”
Nick shook his head. “Uh-huh. The models are going to change in there.”
“Lucky you.”
Nick grinned. “I know.”
“Ohhh, so you’re looking forward to having the models here, huh?” Nadine teased.
He shuffled his feet, embarrassed. “It’ll be fun. You think they’ll like the runway?”
“They’ll love the whole place,” Nadine assured him.
The phone rang. His manner became efficient as he picked it up. “Nick Fargus.”
Nadine sat down on the couch.
“. . . more acceptances, that’s fine. I’ll let the banquet manager know . . . the more the merrier . . . who else? . . .”
Nadine watched as the expression on Nick’s face clouded and he practically squealed.
“. . . Dayton Rotter is coming? . . . No, of course, that’s great . . . see you later.” He hung up the phone looking dejected.
“The competition is coming?” Nadine asked.
“Huh? Oh. I don’t care,” Nick protested weakly.
“He’s just another good-looking guy,” Nadine said with forced cheerfulness.
“Who also happens to be rich and famous!” Nick blurted.
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