"Sorry, sir, we have no such number—"
Ernie let a disgruntled voice thunder into the phone: "Then what the heck is Hartley and Hartley Realty doing with it?"
A pause. Then she replied, "Sir, we have no Hartley and Hartley—"
"Don't be silly," he said. "I just found it in the phone book."
She answered, "We have a Hartfield and Hatley, Realtors, Inc., sir, but no Hartley and Hartley. Their number is in the directory."
Melinee was standing behind him. "Who are you calling?"
He was shaken, but he managed to appear calm as he hung up. He even relaxed against the wall. "I was trying to get the real estate agent on the phone—these lights ought to be brighter—and I thought he could refer us to his electrician."
"His what?" Melinee asked.
"Elec—" He halted. "Never mind, honey. I'm beat—rough day. I need fried chicken." He hugged his trim, prim wife and they walked toward the kitchen arm in arm. But it was not until they settled at the table that he saw, under the bright electric light, that her hair was red, not blonde, and he immediately felt he'd been gypped.
Her smirky little voice added to the shock. "Darling, don't call me Melinee when my name is Marsha. It just isn't done."