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he’d gone around proclaiming himself the area’s “beer expert.”
    Not exactly the best makings for an epitaph—or a career—but it seemed to suit Lenny just fine.
    Jim, WTMT-TV’s cameraman, sidled up beside him, handing him a replacement beer. “Here. Howie Lassiter brought in his own keg. Guaranteed not to have Lenny’s saliva on the spout.”
    Duncan laughed and took the cup, tossing his nearly full one into the trash. “Thanks.”
    â€œHow long are we planning on torturing ourselves?” Jim asked.
    â€œWe need to tape a segment, interview a few people, then we can leave. Not too many people are here yet, though.”
    Jim chuckled. “So you can make it look like Tempest is some hotbed of activity, huh?”
    â€œNo, so I can get the hell out of weather and onto something real,” Duncan said. Klein had developed a sudden case of indigestion after returning from dinner at an Indian restaurant two towns over. With Jane busy at her kid’s recital, Steve, in a panic, had asked Duncan to cover the dance. Slow news day meant coverage of the scads of county fairs and tractor pulls throughout Indiana. Last summer, Phil’s Pickle Festival had been the lead story, the summer before that, it had been the Porta-Potti plunging contest at the Indiana State Fair. That one hadn’t been repeated, not after some guy got a little too aggressive with his plunger. Turned out the yellow D O N OT U SE caution tape wrapping the potties had been ignored by a few desperate elephant-ear fans.
    The Porta-Potti had spewed its contents over the contestants and the reporters. Klein, always ready for his close-up, had gotten the worst of it.
    Ever since, Klein kept his tetanus shot updated and did his best to avoid anything with even a hint of eau de toilette.
    Covering the Litter Box Dance wasn’t the hard news Duncan wanted, but it was a beginning. And it would look a lot better on his resume than covering cloud patterns.
    And maybe, if Steve saw Duncan could do a good job with this tiny event, he’d throw more such work Duncan’s way.
    Hopefully, that would provide that unquantifiable something that would make him charge out of bed, ready to get to work in the morning. And would give him credentials based on more than his damned S-factor. At the top of Duncan’s Christmas list was the desire to be taken seriously.
    He never had been, not by his father, not by this town. Not by anyone who saw him as the indulged only son of John Henry.
    His cell phone vibrated against his hip, but Jim was setting up the camera equipment as more people filed in, and Duncan let the call go unanswered. In a few seconds, he’d have to tape his segment and he didn’t have time to get into another debate with Katie.
    Besides, Mrs. Loman had stayed late, to take care of Katie, as she’d done for the past five years. Katie would be fine for the couple of hours Duncan needed. He’d be home soon enough, relieving tired Mrs. Loman, whose patience was undoubtedly already stretched as thin as floss.
    He started to tell Jim they might be stuck filming Lenny’s gulping at the keg when things got interesting.
    His rock-thrower showed up.
    She lingered at the entrance, beneath the huge Kitty Kleen banner with its sparkling litter box and weird, scrawny black cat logo. Rock-thrower looked momentarily shy and unsure about whether to enter the dance.
    His pulse ratcheted up again, taking in every inch of her. All curves and blond hair, she seemed to be an artist’s rendition of the perfect woman. A real-life Barbie doll.
    Duncan told Jim to give him a minute, then made his way through the cluster of teens standing by the punch bowl.
    Her gaze darted around the room, skipping over him, then she turned as if to leave. Duncan picked up his pace, weaving past Esther Dunne, who was telling Lenny to go find himself a girl while he still had almost all his teeth.
    â€œTell me