Marvel considered giving them a demonstration, but the sound of gunfire would agitate the cops outside, maybe even provoke them into storming the doors. From what he'd seen and heard, they were nothing but rednecks with itchy fingers and no great fondness for black boys.

He went back to the window to see if they were up to something new. No, a few were hunkered behind their cars, keeping their weapons trained on the door, while others stood in a group on the far side of the road, gabbing and waving their hands and playing with their walkie-talkies. None of them had donned white robes and pointy hoods, but that didn't mean they weren't debating it.

"Figured it out yet?" Dahlia said in the same simpery voice.

In the sanctuary of her own bedroom, where nobody could see her, Mrs. Jim Bob was on her knees beside the bed, her elbows spread on the pink bedspread, her hands clasped, her eyes rolled toward heaven, her lips sucked in so tightly that her chin trembled. On the far side of the door, Jim Bob was snorting and harrumphing like he always did before settling down, but there was no way she was going to get any sleep until she and the Almighty agreed upon an answer.

Her immediate problem was that she couldn't bring herself to formulate the question. The very question itself…well, it was unthinkable. She wasn't about to invite it into her mind, not one lurid word of it.

"For better or worse, till death do us part," she murmured over her bent thumbs. As far as she could tell, neither one of them was planning to die anytime soon, which meant she had many a hard row to hoe down the line. Oh, Jim Bob thought he'd fooled her all these many years, claiming he had to work late or had to run into Farberville for a meeting, but she wasn't stupid, for pete's sake. Whenever he started snuffling after a new hussy, he'd turn genial and mannersome and stop whining about having to dress up for prayer meeting on Wednesday nights. He'd also lose interest in crawling into her bed, which was fine with her. Mrs. Jim Bob wiggled her elbows more firmly into place and let her forehead fall onto her entwined fingers. But was there something out there that she'd been missing? In the trashy novel she'd confiscated from one of the girls in her Sunday school class, there'd been all sorts of nonsense about…well, romance. About moonlight, supple lips, and electricity racing through one's veins, throbbing and pulsating and demanding and forcing and…

Was it possible to enjoy It? It, of course being the marital obligation that her mother had so rightly warned her about just before the wedding. The thought had never before occurred to her. She'd just kept her eyes closed and reminded herself that what seemed like disgusting animal behavior was actually encouraged by the Good Book itself. Although she hadn't been fruitful or done any multiplying, she felt obliged to do her duty…week after week after week.

Mrs. Jim Bob reminded herself that she wasn't all that old. If nothing else, she was young enough to be married to a self-proclaimed stud willing to indulge his carnal desires from one end of the county to the other. She'd kept her figure. There was life within her, albeit buried pretty darn deep.

Adultery was out of the question, of course. "Till death do us part," she repeated sternly to herself. She could smell a mortal sin from a long way away, and she valued her eternal soul too much to consider the very idea.

But then, despite the surge of piousness that might have allowed her dreamless peace, she recalled the feel of another man's hand on her thigh, and she was overcome with an image. Overcome and overwhelmed.

She crept into bed and yanked the blanket to her chin. Moonlight danced seductively on the ceiling, causing shadows to melt in and out of each other like amorous amoebas. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Jim Bob wished she were a Catholic. Everybody knew they did whatever they wanted all week long, including murdering and raping and robbing and fornicating and all kinds of sinful things, and then just sashayed into a funny wooden box and confessed their sins to a priest. He canceled every last one of them, just like that.

"Not fair," Mrs. Jim Bob murmured, pulling the blanket up farther so she wouldn't have to watch the shadows copulating on her ceiling.

"This is a fine mess," Ruby Bee said from within the bathroom. "I come all the way here to be in a cooking contest, then the prissy little thing goes flying off the handle and storms out the door. They may have paid for the airplane tickets, but I spent a goodly sum of money for clothes for this shindig. On account of bein' given less than a week's notice, I didn't have time to see what all was on sale. Furthermore-"

Estelle closed the door and sat back on the bed. "It's not like she's the only one who made any sacrifices. I had to cancel all my appointments, including two perms and a frost." She paused, but before I could get in a word, said, "For the Riley girl. I think it's gonna look real sweet, what with her auburn hair. You know something, Arly? If we were to take off about six inches and-"

"No," I said curtly, although I was aware of the risk of being booted out of 219 once and for all. I'd been invited in only in order to gossip about the debacle at the press conference. If they'd been up to no good within the room, they'd tidied up nicely-no blood, no stray body parts, no lingering traces of sailors and salesmen. I glanced up as Ruby Bee edged out of the bathroom, dressed in a flannel gown and her face slathered with cream. Pink sponge rollers made bumps under her plastic shower cap.

"The contest may continue," I said to her. "There's no reason to start packing your bags. Kyle may be able to convince Geri to come back, and if not, perhaps he can get someone else from her firm to take over."

Estelle gave me a pitying look. "Kyle couldn't convince someone to come out of a blizzard, much less take over something like this. Why, I wouldn't consider it for all the tea in China, unless it meant I could turn that Catherine over my knee and paddle her, wash Jerome Appleton's mouth out with soap, put tape over Brenda's mouth-"

"Well, you can't," Ruby Bee said. She sat down on the foot of the nearest bed and sighed. "I sure can think of ways to spend ten thousand dollars. My television set's been flickering something awful, and I happened to spot a fine-lookin' one in Sears not too long ago." She sounded so disappointed that I felt guilty for secretly enjoying the melodramatics in the dining room. I patted her slumped shoulder and said, "As I said, don't start packing yet."

"Or counting your chickens," added Estelle. "There are four other contestants, after all."

"I ain't worried about them," Ruby Bee said with measurable smugness. "There's no doubt in my mind that I'll win, presuming the contest goes on like it's supposed to."

I frowned at her. "Why is there no doubt in your mind? For all you know, Durmond could have created the world's most insidious way to disguise the taste of soybean flakes. As could Brenda, Catherine, or even vapid Gaylene, who's extremely proud of her kabobs."

She responded with an indulgent smile, then wiggled her eyebrows at Estelle and said, "It's getting late. Doncha think we ought to get ourselves some beauty sleep? Run along now, Arly. You look a mite haggard yourself, and a good night's sleep can't hurt."

"It might help," Estelle said as she opened the door and waited for me to leave.

I left, although I was far from assured that all I needed was sleep to erase the dark smudges below my eyes and the tendency to twitch whenever a horn blared from the street. In any case, I ambled down the hall, idly wondering why Ruby Bee was so damn sure she would win. Her chocolate chip bundt cake was divine, but she was at the mercy of the judges and needed to acknowledge the possibility that one of them might have an abiding fondness for strawberries and jam. She wasn't counting her chickens before they hatched; she was anticipating the very existence of the eggs.