They pulled into the driveway of the California Mission style house. It was a very big, boxy structure in butter yellow stucco. There were arched floor-to-ceiling windows across the front. Through the parted drapes they could see people passing back and forth. A young man in a sharp red blazer was standing near the front door, and he trotted down the front walk, smiling brightly. "Good evening, gentlemen! If you'll give me the keys, I'll park your car."

"Hi," Hunter leaned over and inspected the young man's nametag, "Ronald." He gave him a quick, sharp examination, and smiled. "Lovely uniform. Would you happen to have some sort of employee's ID?"

Hunter was so genial that the valet didn't take offence. "Sure." He pulled a laminated card out of his pocket and showed it to the chef.

"Thanks." Hunter handed over the keys. "Sorry about that."

"Hey, don't be," Ronald said cheerfully. "It's your baby, right? If I had one like that, I'd be careful, too."

They continued up the walk to the front door. Hunter rang the bell and said, "Yeah, right. So I'm paranoid."

"Not by much," Hank assured him. "They had a car theft ring doing a brisk business in Houston a few years ago using that scam. They got the uniforms when they hijacked a laundry service truck. Saw the uniforms, and suddenly got creative. Of course, they were working the clubs, mostly. What got me was that a lot of the victims were regulars at the places they worked, and it didn't strike them as funny that the place suddenly started offering valet parking."

The door was opened by a Hispanic woman in a classic maid's uniform. Hunter pulled his invitation out of his pocket and offered it. "Hunter Overend, and guest."

The woman took the card, smiling at him as they entered the two story tall front hall. "I recognized you, Mister Overend. My kids loved that crème brulee you showed on one of your dessert shows. Of course I can't convince them it isn't upside down flan."

Hunter smiled charmingly. "As long as they enjoy it. Keep an eye out for my kid-friendly show next month. It'll be stuff you can do in the kitchen with the kids, without necessitating Mom dipping into the cooking sherry."

"That sounds great. I'll have the VCR ready." She gestured toward the archways on either side of the entry hall. "The bar and buffet is to the left, and I think Miss Barbee-Clutterbuck is holding court to the right."

She left, and Hunter rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, lips pursed. "Well?"

"We should go to say hello to the hostess first."

"Somehow I knew you would say that. Right then. Let's get it over with."

As they started over to the archway, Hank said, "You don't like Miz Marva much, do you?"

"Very few people do," he said bluntly. "Marva believes in either screwing, screwing over, or totally ignoring. She hasn't been able to fit me into any of her categories, and it burns her. When I first came to work at the station, she made a pass that was just about as subtle as a lap dance. When I turned her down, she accused me of being gay." He smirked. "Can you imagine?" Hank just barely managed to fight down a smile. "When I admitted it, she offered to 'cure' me. I laughed in her face. For some reason she took it badly."

The room was also two stories high, with rough-hewn beams. The hardwood floors were half-hidden by rich rugs, and there were elegant, conversational groups of furniture scattered about. Marva was easy to spot. She was ensconced in the center of the most lavish grouping, occupying a sofa with Pogey Penneman, his empty wheelchair sitting within reach. There were fully occupied love seats on either side, and everyone looked up as Hank and Hunter approached.

"Marva," said Hunter. "Thank you so much for the invitation." He took her hand, not raising it, but only holding it for a moment. "You've met Herbert Crank, I think--Tina Bergeron's friend."

"Of course." She offered her hand to Hank, who gave her a polite handshake. "Mister Crank is the cavalry, the marines, and Clint Eastwood--all rolled into one."

"Ma'am, who's been pulling your leg?" said Hank.

"I saw the tape. You rode to the rescue to get the show taped, you grabbed a rattlesnake..."

"It was harmless, ma'am."

"It was a reptile with fangs. And as I've just been hearing, you faced down Pogey in mid-righteous rant."

Penneman was giving Hank a flat look. Hank replied, "We had a difference of opinion on his manners is all. He saw it my way."

"And you're good looking enough to give Clint in his prime a run for his money. It's a shame you're unavailable." She glanced at Hunter, then gave Hank another up and down look. "You are unavailable?"

"I have a full schedule," he said diplomatically. He hesitated, and then said, "I'm sorry that I won't have a chance to meet your husband."

Her carefully made-up face stiffened. "I am, too. I'd certainly rather not have to deal with all the crap that comes along with running the studio." She grew sulky. "If Toby hadn't run off with half the assets, the studio would be deep in the black by now, and all I'd have to worry about would be looking good for my own show."

"Mister Penneman," said Hank, "Did the techniques I suggested work?"

Penneman flicked his hand. "I don't have the time for things like that. I'll send them to the dry cleaner."

Hank thought about the oil slathered clothes, sitting in a hamper somewhere, marinating. He also wondered about a man who was so hell-bent on being seen as self-sufficient not insisting on cleaning up a messy clothes problem, just to prove he could do something that not even the average male would attempt. "Probably the simplest way."

"Marva, I'll just drag Hank away now." He grinned. "I'm going to go see if your caterer needs to be patted on the back, or picked apart."

"Come to think of it, I'm starving, too. All I've had tonight is that punch. Hang on and I'll join you." He pulled the wheelchair closer, and fiddled with it till one of the sides dropped. He locked the brakes, then shifted himself neatly into it and put the side up again. "If you'll pardon the expression--let's roll." They made their way into the room across the hall, with Pogey leading the way.

When they got to the buffet, Hank noticed that Pogey didn't seem as touchy about being allowed to the front of the line as he would have expected, given his tendency to bristle over what he viewed as condescension. He watched as the man quickly filled his plate, and thought, *I suppose a growling belly will make you overlook a lot.*

Hunter found nothing to complain about in the caterer's spread. "Nice to see someone who can fall between the extremes of caviar or chips and dips," he said as he and Hank filled small plates with food.

Hank said, "It all looks good, but I'm going to have to have fourths and fifths to fill up on these bitty portions."

"If you want to come by my place afterwards, I'll fix you something."

"I couldn't put you out."

"Hank, you'd be doing me a favor. Unlike some professional chefs, I enjoy cooking privately, and I'm so busy I don't get the opportunity all that often." He gave him a sideways glance. "Especially not for someone I like... like." Hank half-smiled, looking away. "Don't blush." The big Texan became preoccupied with choosing a roll. "Go for the timpano and yalanchi--they should go a long way toward tiding you over."

"I would if I knew what they were," said Hank.

Hunter pointed. "Timpano is a sort of Italian pasta, chicken, sausage, and meatball pie. It's complicated, but it looks like this caterer really knows his stuff. And those little dark bundles are yalanchi--Armenian stuffed grape leaves."

Hank loaded up his plate, too. When they were ready to sit, the only space left open was a small sofa. Pogey had already shifted himself onto one end, and was eating. The other two men scanned the room, and Hunter said, "Unless we want to try to juggle plates and glasses, that's it, Hank. You take the end--I'll make a buffer between you and the angry martyr."

"You're bad for saying that, but thank you." Hunter sat beside Pogey, and Hank put his plate and Stetson on the occasional table at the free end. "I'll bring drinks," he volunteered. "Hunter?"

"Any kind of red wine."

"Mister Penneman?"

"I'll have some of that wine punch I saw Marva drinking earlier," he responded.

Hank made his way to the bar and beverage station, and was greeted by a white jacketed attendant. "I'll need one wine punch, one glass of red wine, and an iced tea, please."

The man's face puckered. "I can accommodate you on the punch with no problem, sir. I'm afraid that's all we have in the way of wine, except for white wine spritzers."

Hank blinked. "That's a little unusual, isn't it?"

The attendant shrugged. "It's what the client ordered--specifically."

"I suppose my friend won't mind if he has the punch, too."

Hank watched as he filled two glass cups from a large crystal punch bowl. "There we are. And for you, sir?"

"Iced tea." The man made a face again. "Don't tell me you don't have iced tea."

"Well, that's considered more of a summer drink."

"I don't believe this."

"I could get you a cup of hot tea."

"I'm thirsty, son, not sick. Look--you have hot water?"

"Uh... yeah."

"You have tea bags?"

"Yeah." The man was watching Hank as if afraid he'd do something crazy.

"You have ice?"

"Yeah."

"Then you have the makings of iced tea. I'm not going to make you fix it, since I see that you're busy here, but tell your boss to keep that in mind. He might get away with that 'it's a summer drink' nonsense here, but if he ever tries it anywhere in the south he'll have a riot on his hands. Just let me have a Coke." He gave the man a level look. "You do have cold Coke?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Disaster averted." Hank gathered the drinks easily into his big hands and made his way back to his seat. Handing the cups over to Hunter and Pogey he said, "They didn't have just red wine. All they have is red wine punch and white wine spritzers."

"That's one way of saving money," said Hunter dryly.

"I'd have preferred iced tea, but all I got when I asked for it was a polite puzzled look. I had to settle for a Coke."

Hunter sipped his wine, and then grimaced. "Normally I'd try to argue with you about shunning wine with your food, but not in this case." He set the cup aside. "That is rather spectacularly foul."

"Did they use a bad vintage, or what?"

"I don't think that would account for it. It's like they put something strange in it."

Pogey rather pointedly drained is cup in two long swallows. "It tastes fine to me. In fact, I'd like another one." He held out his cup expectantly.

Hank was just sitting down, but he laid aside his plate, took Pogey's cup, and went for a refill. When he returned, Hunter and Pogey were deep in conversation. Hunter was saying, "But the thing is, anyone who hadn't made an effort to educate their palate might not even notice it, since they've added quite a lot of sugar. I can't stomach this." He got up. "I'll be right back. Plain water is preferable to this."

Hank sat and took up his own plate, murmuring, "We must look like a convention of jack-in-the-boxes."

"There's nothing wrong with that punch," Pogey insisted. "Hunter is just a culinary snob. I wish he wouldn't show off in public."

"Anyone who can make chicken-fried steak like he can is not a culinary snob, and you really ought to lay a curb on that tongue of yours," Hank said coolly.

Pogey gave him a hard, false smile. "Sorry if you think I'm disrespecting your little friend, Ranger Rick, but I just can't abide hypocrisy of any kind."

Hank gritted his teeth, but Hunter was returning, so he let the matter drop--for the moment. He continued eating, watching the other guests as they nibbled, sipped, and chatted. He recognized a number of people from the studio, and he thought one or two minor celebrities. *Heloise is going to skin my head for not getting autographs, but I just don't think that would be right at a party.*

"I don't know what Marva was thinking of," remarked Hunter, sounding genuinely puzzled. "That's the poorest excuse for beverage choices I've ever seen. I suppose we should just be happy it isn't a cash bar."

Pogey pointed his fork at Hunter. "Don't you dare accuse Marva of being cheap!"

Hunter regarded him in surprise. "Simmer down, Pogey. I'm not saying that."

"Be sure you don't." There was definite heat in the blond man's voice.

"All I was saying is that she usually makes an effort to impress anyone in the industry." He suddenly sat up straighter, then waved, raising his voice, "Suelynn!"

Hank looked up as a handsome woman in her early fifties looked over. She nodded to Hunter, said a few words to the man she'd been talking to, then made her way over. "Hunter, you devil, it's good to see you." Hank had stood up, and she smiled at him. "Oh, my. I was beginning to think that they turned gentlemen away at the state line."

Hunter introduced them. "Suelynn, this is my friend--Hank. Hank, this is Suelynn Clutterbuck--co-owner of BLAB!"

Hank shook hands, and then gestured toward the space he'd just vacated. "Please, have a seat."

"Oh, I couldn't take your place."

"Ma'am, I'll be a lot more comfortable standing than I would be watching you stand." She graciously accepted, sitting down, and he continued, "You're the second Mrs. Clutterbuck I've met tonight."

Her expression was cynical. "I'm the first Mrs. Clutterbuck, and the last. That chippie and her hyphenation. I'd spit if I wasn't a lady."

Pogey didn't say anything, but he gulped at his punch, glaring at the older woman, who was pointedly ignoring him. "Things are not exactly genial between those two," said Hunter. "Suelynn, I have to say I'm surprised that Marva seems to be the more reticent one in this feud."

"Especially give her roots," muttered Pogey.

Suelynn smiled sharply at him. "Honey, maybe Hank can tell you a little bit about how redneck women react to someone messing with their men."

"In my experience," said Hank, "creative cursing, public catfights, and occasional automobile vandalism are often the order of the day."

"You see? I've shown remarkable restraint." She sipped from a cup of wine punch, and then frowned, running her tongue over her lips. "This tastes funny. I wonder if she stiffed this caterer like she did the one who worked her last party?" Pogey's fork clattered against his plate, but Suelynn continued, with a hint of glee in her voice. "I wouldn't put it past him to take a whiz in the punch as revenge."

Hank had been taking a sip of Coke, and almost choked. "Ma'am, I sincerely hope you're wrong. Even if I haven't had any of it, the very thought is almost enough to put me off my feed."

"I think it's just a show on her part," said Suelynn acerbically. "I think she's playing poor so no one will suspect about the money."

Pogey was glaring at her like grim death. Hank was looking puzzled, and Hunter said, "My friend doesn't like to gossip, so I'll say it for him. Wasn't she left riding the ragged edge of bankruptcy when Tobias took off with the funds?"

She sniffed. "Oh, she's clever all right--I'll give her that. She's got the police fooled."

Now Pogey shoved his plate onto the occasional table at his end of the sofa. "I'm not going to listen to you defame a decent woman."

Suelynn's tone was nasty. "What are you going to do--run away?"

Hank's face stiffened in disapproval. He didn't like Penneman either, but there was no excuse for such rudeness, especially at a public social gathering. Before he could say anything, she continued, "Look, Toby was a jackass. He let what was in his pants rule him rather than what was in his head, but he was an honest man. He even told me about him and Marva almost from the start." Her smile was almost a baring of teeth. "What is it with some men, when they think that just because they don't lie about cheating that the wife shouldn't take offence about it?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Hank, more reserved than he might have been before her remark to Penneman. "That strikes me as just as stupid as saying 'Honey, she meant nothing to me' and expecting that to make the wife feel better."

"It's very refreshing to run into a man who understands that, Mister Crank." There was a rather peculiar noise from the other side of the room, and she looked up. "What the hell was that?"

"Uh-oh," said Hank.

"What is it?" asked Hunter.

"Hunter, I'm sure you haven't had much experience hearing that sort of sound, since you're such a good cook. But I helped baby sit both Heloise and Eloise when they were down with the flu last time. That sound is unmistakable."

There was a rising babble of 'ews', and other sounds of sympathy and disgust. The crowd parted, and they had a view of a slender woman bent at the waist, clutching her stomach as her escort wiped her mouth with a napkin. Hank didn't really want to look very closely at the stain decorating the front of her designer original. The man helping her accepted a glass of water and started to give it to his date. In the process he turned suddenly paled and shoved the glass into her hand so quickly that it sloshed. Her squeak of protest was drowned out as he bent over and relieved himself of the contents of his stomach, too.

Things went quickly after that. The sounds of vomiting erupted from every corner of the room. Yells of protest from people who didn't get out of the way quickly enough almost drowned out the exclamations of dismay and disgust. The spectacle of sickness and the sour scent of regurgitation were probably at least partly responsible for the second wave of upchucking. The second group of victims was a little more prepared than the first, and they at least tried to be neat. Plates, glasses, and at least one bowl of flowers were used as basins. Hank suspected that the cleaning staff was going to find a few surprises later in the week if they weren't very thorough.

Things got so frantic that people began coming in from the other room to see what was going on, and that set off the third wave of sickness, which seemed to inspire the first victims to even greater heights of nausea. At some point during this pandemonium, Hunter pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and called 911, telling them, "Look, you'd better send everyone you can easily spare. It's beginning to look like a rather spectacular case of food poisoning."

Suelynn had succumbed, too--twice. She stood up and staggered away from the mess she'd deposited between her shiny pumps. Hunter got up and offered his water for her to rinse her mouth out, and she gasped. "Gawd, I haven't felt like this since someone left the chicken salad out too long as a church social when I was a teenager."

The gagging had begun to slow down, but the victims, who were all feeling a little shaky, were having a hard time finding clean places to sit. When he saw some people headed for the door, Hank moved to block them, saying, "Folks, you shouldn't leave yet."

"Screw you," said one pasty faced man, using his handkerchief to brush at a stain on his lapel. "I'm going to the emergency room."

"Help is on the way, sir. Are you still feeling nauseous?"

He thought about it. "Well, I don't feel like I'm going to throw up again, but I sure as hell don't feel chipper."

"With a massive incident like this, they're going to need to talk to everyone to determine what happened."

"They?"

"Sure. With something like this, the police will have to investigate. There has to be some sort of health problem to be taken care of." Some people were backing up behind the first man, and Hank raised his voice. "Either that, or someone slipped something into the food, and they can't be allowed to get away with it. Please, folks. There has to be a guest list for this shindig. I'm sure that the police won't do much but talk to a few of you, then take names and get statements later. But y'all really shouldn't try to run off until you've been checked over. You might be fine now, but who knows what could happen later, when you're home, without help available?"

There was some grumbling, but the crowd gradually moved back into the interior of the house. Hank could hear sirens coming closer. That would be the ambulances--the police probably wouldn't use their sirens on a case that didn't involve violence, especially when he was pretty sure that a neighborhood like this would have a patrol car within a minute or two's drive.

He opened the door and spoke to the valet. The noise of the mass sickness had even reached him outside, and he kept peering over Hank's shoulder as the Texan explained what was going on. "Damn," he said. "I hope that doesn't happen to me. The caterer let me grab some chow before the guests started to arrive."

"If it hasn't hit you now, son, I don't think it will. What did you have?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "I sampled everything. It isn't often I'm going to get a crack at food that fancy."

"What did you have to drink?"

He looked guilty, then sighed. "I guess I'd better not lie. I had a beer."

Hank patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. I sincerely doubt that anyone's going to be concerned about you sneaking a brew. If anyone wants to leave, ask them to stay. If they won't, don't try to fight with them, but be sure you get their plate numbers so the authorities can talk to them later."

"Will do."

Hank shut the door, and Hunter came in. "I've heard the term 'bedlam' bandied about, but I never had a clear idea of what they meant until tonight. There was more going on in there than a three ring circus."

"The police and EMTs are coming up the walk. They should get things sorted out." Hank patted Hunter's shoulder. "Are you all right? You're looking a little green yourself."

"Oh, my stomach is fine. When I first started apprenticing in my mid-teens, my first teacher was a real believer in hands on learning. Once you learn to butcher a hog, render the lard, then cook chitterlings, there's not too much that can phase you."

"That's good. You look a little upset."

"Well, it's more that I'm the bearer of bad tidings. Pogey got sick after you left."

"Seriously?"

"He doesn't appear to be in mortal danger, at least not from whatever made everyone sick."

Hank straightened alertly. "Is there something else wrong with him?"

"I'm sure there are many, many things wrong with Pogey."

"Hunter, you're acting like the man is teetering on the edge of something life threatening."

"He might be."

"Will you please just tell me?"

Hunter nodded, and then said hesitantly, "Like I told you, he upchucked." He made a face. "Rather spectacularly. I think he must've fibbed about not eating earlier, considering the volume..."

"Hunter..."

"You remember how people were spitting up in everything that would hold liquid--er, semi-solids?"

"Hunter!"

"Hank... How attached were you to that Stetson?"