I've never been much for Halloween, but the one I remember the best wasn't even on the proper date. It was belated.

Alfred Hitchcock was giving a party in Beverly Hills, and Lulu and I were invited for a reason I've never quite understood.

Over the fireplace in the living room hung a portrait of our host. It was Hitchcock's face, but then the resemblance disappeared. The body was that of an exceptionally well-endowed woman in a low-cut gown.

The butlers wore white tie and tails, gray wigs, pallid faces and served drinks with hands that shook. Twenty starlets in black gowns and veils acted as if they were in mourning. Intermittently, they would wail. All of this was against the background of an organ playing a dirge.

The many dining tables were covered with black cloths, the glasses were filled with black water , calla lilies were the centerpiece and as dinner drew to a close, the waiters advised the dessert was "frozen stiff."

The guest list was impressive. Hollywood was in attendance. Jimmy Stewart, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Kim Novak, Charlton Heston, Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen, and George Bums and Gracie Allen were just a few of the industry's best.

Seeing Gracie Allen again, reminded Lulu of something Gracie had told her at another dinner party. In the early days in vaudeville, she and George were in a mid-western city seeking a booking. The theater manager said there was no opening. He was looking for a dog act. But we do have a dog act, Gracie told him. They went to the pound, got a dog and held it on a leash as they did their standard routine.