"Well, I appear to be in a position to make sure the outcome is fair, and unless Mr. Fleecum returns in time to oversee this absurd cookoff thing, I intend to see that it is. Now then, shall we continue?"

"Next Tuesday?" Brenda Appleton said incredulously as she stumbled to a halt in the middle of the den. Her hand fluttered to her unremarkable brown hair, then fluttered away like a disoriented moth.

Jerome nodded. "That's what the lady said when she called. You're a finalist and I'm invited to accompany you. I've got plenty of work I can do at the hotel."

"But I never dreamed I'd be invited to the finals of the cooking contest! If you hadn't pestered me, I wouldn't have bothered to enter in the first place. I don't have a thing to wear, not a thing." Now the hand fluttered to her chest. "And what about my bridge party? I'm having three tables of bridge Wednesday afternoon, and the girls will be furious if I cancel."

"Screw 'em," he said as he lit a cigar and then regarded her through a bluish haze. "You're a finalist, and you're going through with the contest, even if you have to wear nothing but an apron and your mink."

"The children, Jerome! I never told them I entered, because I knew they'd tease me about it. I'd better call them immediately. What time is it in California? Three hours earlier? Will Vernie be home yet or should I wait? I cannot stand to waste money talking to that machine of hers, especially when I know she's standing right there listening and can't be bothered to pick up the receiver and talk to her own mother."

Jerome turned to the sports page to see if the Mets had done anything worthwhile, for a change.

Catherine Vervain sat at her desk, utilizing her textbook to conjugate French verbs and recording the answers in neatly rounded handwriting. When she heard her mother open the bedroom door, she finished the column and impassively looked over her shoulder.

"The date of the contest has been changed to next week, Catherine. I'll reschedule your hair appointment for tomorrow, and after you're done, we'll spend the afternoon shopping for our outfits."

"Cancel my violin lesson." Catherine turned back to the tedious lesson.

"I've already done it. I think we'll try that new shop at the mall, the one next to the movie theater. I saw an adorable pink dress with tiny pearl seed buttons that will do, and I'll have the cleaners dye white satin shoes to match."

"I was, I am, and I will be," Catherine muttered.

"Will be what, dear?"

"Whatever you want me to be," she said softly, flashing small, even teeth as she bent further over her notebook.

"Next Tuesday will be fine," Durmond Pilverman said. "I'll take the train down and be at the hotel by five o'clock. That's right, I'll be by myself. My wife died several years ago and I really don't know anyone who might wish to accompany me." He chuckled modestly. "And the good Lord knows I don't need a chaperone at my age. I'm just a lonely old widower who loves to dabble in the kitchen."

After he hung up, he made several other calls, none of them eliciting a chuckle, then went into his study and took the.38 Special out of the desk drawer. He sat down at the desk and began to clean the barrel with an oily rag, whistling softly through the slight gap in his front teeth.

"A cooking contest?" Gaylene Feather said, scratching her neck with a scarlet fingernail. "Jesus, I don't know. Like, I can barely make the can opener work, much less make fancy food." She sank down on her bed and began to pluck at the dingy sheet. "Don't you got anybody else who can do it, honey? I'm supposed to work every night next week, and Mr. Lisbon falls all over me if I'm five minutes late. What'll he say if I tell him I gotta miss three nights in a row?"

Her boyfriend drained the last of the beer, then crumpled the can in his hand and lobbed it toward the garbage sack. "I'll explain to Lisbon why he should not bother you about missing work, and I promise you he won't object. If you'll do this for me, I'll give you a present to express my eternal gratitude."

"And what might that be?"

"Some new luggage, a first-class ticket to Vegas, and a limo to pick you up at the airport."

"You're kidding!" she squealed. "A limo?"

"Nothing but the best for my girl. As long as you do a few little favors for me, I'll do some big ones for you."

"Are you sure I should be in a cooking contest?" Gaylene persisted, having no luck imagining herself in an apron. She could play a lot of roles (sadistic Nazi mistress being a specialty), but Betty Crocker wasn't one of them.

"I must admit if I could find somebody else on this kinda notice, I'd do it, because I am personally and painfully acquainted with your lack of expertise in the kitchen department."

"But not in other departments…" She stretched languidly so he could admire her very admirable attributes.

"All you will do is follow the directions on the recipe card," he said as he joined her on the bed. "It's just a cooking contest, not 'Wheel of Fortune.' Now that we have settled that, I would like to buy all your vowels."

"Oooooh," Gaylene whispered.

"The contest has been moved up to this Tuesday," Ruby Bee told Estelle, who banged down the receiver and dashed to her appointment book to get to work canceling everybody.

"Not even a week away," Eula Lemoy told Elsie McMay.

"Which means I'll have to wait till the cows come home for my perm," Lottie Estes told Eilene Buchanon. Eilene was curt and unsympathetic, having hoped the call would be from the newlyweds.

"I'd absolutely die if someone was to send me to New York City," Heather Riley told Nita Daggs. They lapsed into a giggly three-hour fantasy of limousines, Broadway actors, and penthouses ankle-deep in caviar and champagne. "A good Christian would never set foot in that sinful city," Mrs. Jim Bob told Brother Verber. "I cannot begin to imagine the depravity and perversion that takes place on the very sidewalks of that place." Brother Verber could, but he kept it to himself.

"Sending those two to a big city is worse than sending lambs to the slaughterhouse," Millicent McIlhaney told Adele Wockerman, although it was a mite hard to tell if Adele had her hearing aid turned high enough to follow her.

She was a little surprised when Adele cackled and said, "Or vice versa."