The cold steel molded to Gene Haynes' hand like a snug leather glove. Reverently, he squeezed the trigger. His hand spasmed as the slug exploded from the barrel. Sizzling in on target, the gray missile entered, then erupted from the victim's bald head. Crimson sprayed against white walls. The body lay lifeless on the drawing room floor. Gene smiled. This scene was his finest creation to date.

"Oh, Mr. Haynes," Mrs. Anderson gushed, fanning her eyelashes and smiling crookedly to create dimples in her ample cheeks. "You're so creative! My guests will love your cake! It's simply perfect for my murder-mystery dinner."

Pastry tube in hand, Gene nodded his agreement. He prided himself on decorating his cakes to personalize an event or individual. He'd question the customer until he discovered something unusual about the occasion or unique about the person the cake was being ordered for. In short, he got involved with his cakes. They weren't just to eat. They were to experience.

He had never experienced one of his creations more fully than this one. Frankly, a murder scene was more interesting than dabbing on rings of pink rosebuds. Rosebuds were intrinsic to cake decorating, however, so he tolerated them. He was good at intricate decorations, too, in spite of massive fingers that were out of place doing such delicate work, and in spite of the fact that he couldn't tell one color from another. Except blue and yellow, which he used as extensively as he could.

His color vision problem was another reason Gene enjoyed doing the murder scene on this particular cake. Except for the crimson "blood," which he had identified by the label on the tube of icing, it was in black and white, easy for him to discern.

Carefully, he placed his rectangular piece of art in an appropriate box, tied it with string, and turned it over to Mrs. Anderson.

"Can I get you anything else for your party?"

She scanned the deli's refrigerator display case. "Well ... not for the party, but I'll have half a pound of the dilled potato salad for dinner."

"Excellent choice." Gene scooped the salad into a container, weighed it, and passed it to her. "Have a great evening."

"Thank you so much," she squealed. Her squat legs revved up for action and she scuttled out the door.

The phone rang.

"Dinner for Two," he answered.

"Ms. Haynes, please."

The sultry, Lauren Bacall-if-you-want-anything-just-whistle-sounding voice piqued his interest.

"This is Gene Haynes."

Flustered, the feminine voice blurted, "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it was 'Jean,' I mean, I expected a woman."

This wasn't the first time a caller had assumed he'd be female. He'd fought his way through grammar school over being called "Jeannie-Weenie." But by seventh grade he was the biggest kid in school, and his ruddy complexion and burnished hair gave him a mean, tough look enhanced by glowering that he practiced daily in front of his bedroom mirror. It was worth it. All the teasing-and the fighting-stopped.

He noted, however, anxiety in the sexy, warm voice, and assumed it was not over his being a man.

"It's okay. It happens," he said, trying to soothe her. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like a dinner for two ... in my apartment."

How about you and me, he thought, imagining a face and form to compliment the perfection of the voice.

"You called the right place." In doing market research, Gene had discovered that no other catering service in Sacramento would do dinners for fewer than six. He had decided to fill that void, and at the same time supplement his income while building up a steady clientele in his newly opened gourmet delicatessen and bakery.

In the process, he discovered he enjoyed doing the dinners for two. He not only took food to the customer's home, but also the table, chairs, and everything else needed for the dinner, including music of the client's choice. He'd cook a gourmet dinner, serve it, then quietly and efficiently pack up everything and leave. The couple was generally in a romantic mood by that time and didn't want him hanging around.

"Did you have a theme in mind?" he asked.

The voice hesitated. "No, not really. What kinds of dinners do you do?"

"You name it. French is popular. Japanese, Chinese, Italian, Scandinavian--"

"How about straight American?" she interjected.

So she'll be entertaining a meat and potato man, he thought. Too bad. She sounded more interesting than that. "Prime rib?"

"Good. And twice-stuffed potatoes?"

"Can do."

She sighed audibly. "I'll leave the rest up to your judgment."

She doesn't want to be bothered, he mused. He wondered why. Usually, women fussed unceasingly over all the minor details. "You'd like the evening to have a romantic atmosphere?" he said, more as a statement than a question. Every dinner he'd done had been romantic.

"Uh, well ... no."

His mouth curled in a knowing grin. In other words, she wants to interest the guy but she doesn't want to get too friendly with him.

"No candles?"

"No, no candles."

She sounded irritated with the question

"Wine?"

"One bottle. Whatever will go well with the beef."

"Good." He liked making the decisions about the wine. "And music?"

"I don't care about the music. Bring whatever you'd like to hear." She sounded impatient, like she wanted the interview to be over. Maybe she's in a quandary and doesn't know exactly what she wants to happen as a result of this dinner, he thought.

"One other question before we get to the details of time and place. Colors."

"Colors?"

"You wouldn't want the table setting to clash with your decor."

"Oh, I see. No, of course not." Her voice trailed off. "Um, the living room-where we'll be eating-is done in muted browns and peach with accents of green."

Swell. Green and brown. They both looked the same to him. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind." He shifted the receiver to his left ear, scrunching his shoulder to his jaw to hold it in place. He picked up a pen. "Your name?"

"Misty Jones."

Misty. That complimented her voice. He thought of a low, misty, rolling, enveloping tulle fog.

"Address and telephone number?" He recorded the information as she recited it. "Now when did you want this dinner?"

"Do you have Saturday evening the eighteenth open?"

Gene checked his calendar. "Nope. Sorry. How about Sunday the nineteenth?"

"Hmm ... yes. That would be all right."

"Good. I'll keep in touch." He hung up, then glanced around his deli. Eight gleaming alabaster tables for four and two for two. He longed for the day they'd be full. He was certain he was in a good location, near California's State Capitol building. As soon as the legislators discovered him, he'd have more business than he could handle.

The back door opened to admit a gust of wind and, belly first, Sam Bronstone, Gene's part-time help. Gene regarded the large paunchy thirty-five year old with disdain. Eyes narrow, he said, "If you're late one more time, you're outta here."

Sam waved his arm as if brushing away the complaint. "Cool it. I haven't noticed big crowds pouring in for lunch. And for what you pay me, you're lucky I'm here at all."

Unfortunately, Gene knew Sam was right. He also knew Sam milked the customers with his gift of gab for more tips than he was worth. A real salesman. And with his gargantuan appetite, Sam made sure there were no excess profits.

"I was at driving school," Sam explained. "Truck driving school. I'll be making big bucks in a real man's job before you know it."

So there it was again. Gene wasn't a real man's name. And operating a deli and catering service wasn't a real man's job. If he didn't need the help, he'd see to it that the rotund toad had an assisted hop straight out the door.

"Cut the banter and get to work."

Mumbling to himself, Sam covered his Levis and plaid shirt with a starched white apron.