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unharmed; my son had recovered; the tasting party had been postponed. Litchfield, calling me an "unattractive, overweight harpy," had reported the incident to the Furman County Sheriff's Department. The investigating officer had told me I'd used undue force, even if I had been concerned about my son. The cop said I was lucky Litchfield hadn't pressed charges.
     
     
"Poor Goldy," murmured Andr‚, as he dribbled the burnt sugar syrup into the batter. Tom, too, had sympathized with my plight. Even Arch had felt bad.
     
     
Andr‚ poured the batter into parchment-lined pans. Another knock, this one sharper, reverberated through the decrepit kitchen. "No!" Andr‚ roared.
     
     
The door banged open. I stepped back. Andr‚ grimaced and thrust his pans into the oven. "What in the world is going on in here?" Leah Smythe demanded, her voice managing to be hurt, upset, and indignant all at once. Her shredded black-and-gold hair quivered as she regarded us. Stunned, neither Andr‚ nor I answered her. She blew the bangs off her forehead and crossed her arms. Short and slender, she was dressed in faded blue jeans and a black cotton sweater.
     
     
"Well - " I began.
     
     
Leah studied me with an up-and-down look. Recalling my work on last year's Soir‚e? No. She said flatly, "You're not looking to work as a model."
     
     
I blushed. "No, I'm helping Andre with the lunch - "
     
     
"Then please don't give any more models coffee! Then everybody wants some and everybody complains about unfairness and nothing gets accomplished. And you'd better move that food outside to the deck. Hanna and Ian are terrified the set will be covered with crumbs. By the way, people have already started eating those burritos. The break hasn't even been announced! Why did you put out the food?"
     
     
Andr‚'s face wrinkled with rage. "My spring rolls," he retorted loudly, "are not burritos, Miss Smythe. Goldy! Rescue my dish."
     
     
"I'm sorry, truly I am," I murmured to Leah. "I'll get it right now." Conflict with competitors is one thing. But the first rule of food service is that you avoid fights with clients.
     
     
In the great room, I snatched the spring rolls and slid them onto a tray. One was missing; one had been dug into. I scanned the cabin's interior for the culprits, squinting suspiciously at the scruffy man in overalls who'd moved Gerald Eliot's air compressor. Still engaged in set construction, the fellow was hanging a snakeskin on the wall between the Christmas tree and the far windows. Next to the skin, he'd hung a weapon I recognized: It was a Winchester, just like Tom's. Rattlesnakes and rifles. Now that's what I called the spirit of the holidays.
     
     
Leah quick-stepped to rejoin the judges. She, Hanna, and Ian peered dubiously at a sharp-faced blond woman wearing white pedal pushers and a halter top. The woman's extreme thinness, her bony hips, her distinct rib cage, contrasted bizarrely with her high, full breasts. The other auditioning models were nowhere in sight. Still, the smell of cigarette smoke told me they weren't far off.
     
     
Clutching the tray, I hustled back to the kitchen. Andr‚ was cleaning up his beaters and bowl. I grabbed a clean pair of tongs and removed the gutted spring roll. To my chagrin, the tongs snagged unexpectedly. I carefully pulled them up; between the tongs was the violated roll and a cilantro-tangled piece of... hair. With a silent curse and surreptitious haste, I opened the tongs over the trash. Then 1 quickly covered the dishes with foil and rewashed the tongs and my hands. I had never seen Andre make such an error of hygiene. My doubts about his ability to shift from retirement to catering went from sea-level to subterranean.
     
     
I scooped up the covered dishes, slipped into the foyer, and stepped briskly past the dozen young people who'd suddenly reappeared. Rustine held the front door of the cabin open for me.
     
     
"The blonde's had her breasts enlarged. Plus she's wearing