number of renditions of something called “Ma, She's Makin' Eyes At Me,”

which absolutely had to be the number one song played in hell.

By midnight, it was too much, and she headed for Carol's house, letting herself in using the key under the garden gnome that looked like Karl Marx with

a hangover. Which also described her mood perfectly.

The next morning, wrinkled and still fully-clothed, Kate turned over on

Carol's stiff couch, dreading to look at her watch. A furry tail twitched on her face, and she blew out a puff of air. Tommy flipped off the arm of the couch and

dove under a chair.

Carol was a little surprised to see her too. Okay, she clutched her heart when

she spotted Kate on the couch. But she quickly calmed down, excited that her prodigal girl was home again.

An hour and a decent cup of coffee later, Kate rubbed her temples.

“How's your head, now, dear?” Carol asked.

“Better.” The Tylenol she'd downed with the tall glass of orange juice was starting to kick in. The two nails that obviously must be sticking out of her temples were slowly disappearing.

“Well, I'm sorry you didn't sleep well last night.” She sighed. “You'd think the manager wouldn't let them practice so late like that.”

Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose…

Kate sat up, held the cool glass to her head. “I considered murder, but I would have had to dig four graves, and after the drive from Chicago, I was just

too tired.”

“Here, I'll get you an ice pack from the freezer,” Carol said, heading for the

kitchen.

The doorbell donged, and the nails returned. Ouch.

“Can you get that, Kate?” Carol called. “It's probably Rose dropping off my

casserole dish.”

Better not be Lida Rose. “Sure,” Kate called back, heading for the front door. She could see a shadowy figure outlined behind the lace curtains. If that was Rose, she must play a lot of basketball.

She pulled open the door, her heart bumping. “Okay, hand over the casserole

dish, mister, and no one gets hurt.”

“Hi, Kate,” Peter said, the crooked smile in danger of giving her heart palpitations. “No casserole dish, just a clock.” He held up an apple-shaped red clock with little twigs for hands. “Carol dropped it off early this morning and asked me to fix it for her.”

Kate nodded, eyes narrowed. How early? And when exactly had Carol

noticed her on the couch? “Okay, then, what's the password?”

“Let me in, I have a clock?”

“Nope.”

“Uh, should I come back later?”

She shook her head. “Not even close. Last chance.”

“Kate is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen?” His liquid eyes danced with

a smile, and now her elbows were buzzing.

Uh-oh, elbows now?

“Close enough,” she said, stepping back as a breeze played with his hair.

Why was this town always so breezy? “You may enter.”

He did, brushing by her, all smooth and clean and zesty.

Carol entered the room, a huge smile blossoming on her face. “Oh, Peter, hi.”

Peter held out the clock. “All fixed. Just needed some new batteries.”

Carol took it from him, handling it as if it were a vital piece of equipment from the Space Shuttle instead of a cheap dime-store clock. “Oh, thank you so much. I don't know what I would do without you.”

Kate watched, arms folded, nodding slightly at the performance. Bravo,

Carol. She turned to Peter. “So, clock savior, how was your week?”

“Well. You look good. You must be making progress on the project?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She gave a noncommittal nod. He was being gracious, and

she liked it. Her hair was flopped the wrong way, and she wasn't wearing makeup. And now that she suddenly remembered that, she turned quickly. Oh, geez.

He made his way in but still stood. Polite.

Carol had returned from dropping off her precious two-dollar cargo. “Peter,

will we see you at the carnival tonight?”

He nodded. “I'll be there. Have to man the balloon booth. Pop a balloon, win

a prize.”