The Husband Project. Kristine Rolofson
I wonder how he got here?”
“Have Mike interview him for the new arrivals section.”
“There is no new arrivals section,” Lucia pointed out.
“He could make one up, just so we’d know who this guy is. Remember a couple of years ago? The man with the snowmobile?”
“The one who was hiding from the mob?”
“He had no credit history. And he wasn’t very friendly.”
Lucia lowered her voice. “I don’t want some mobster hiding out next door, but this guy doesn’t even seem like he knows what he’s doing here.”
“Jerry will know. He gets back tomorrow. I’m going to email him now. Have you done a Google search on the guy?”
“I will later. I’m going to frost another batch of cookies as soon as I hang up.”
“Can I come over?”
“Of course—if you want to watch Rudolph again.”
“Maybe not.” She paused. “I loved my party.”
“I know.”
“I loved all my gifts, even the frog sponge holder. Especially the frog sponge holder. I don’t know how you find things like that.”
Lucia climbed off the couch and retrieved the empty popcorn bowls. “It takes talent to be tacky.”
“It’s a real gift,” Meg agreed. “You’re a thrift shop queen.”
“No, I’m a boozed-up bad mother with a vicious dog.”
Meg’s howl of laughter rang through the phone loud and clear. “If he only knew.”
“I do feel bad about the kids knocking him down.”
“They’re too little to knock anyone down. I don’t believe it.”
“Well, the snow was slippery. Davey said the man lost his balance, and Boo didn’t help.”
“Stay away from him,” Meg said. “At least until Owen gets back and can check him out.”
“I left a message with Jerry,” Lucia admitted. “I asked if he’d done a background check on the guy.”
“I’m going to do a Google search on him. If I find anything I’ll call you back.”
“You’re not coming over?” Lucia tried not to sound disappointed, but winter nights were long and she’d looked forward to the company.
“There’s another foot of snow on the ground,” Meg said. “I think I’ll stay home, look at bridal magazines and admire my gifts.”
“Pick out a cake,” Lucia said. “I need design ideas.”
The next time the phone rang, Lucia was washing cupcake pans. She dried her hands and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mama.”
“Who is this man in the snow?” Marie didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“What man?” When in trouble, feign innocence. Her kids had taught her that.
“On Facebook. I’m friends with Kim.”
“You’ve friended everyone in town.”
“It’s nice. All my friends in Rhode Island do it. It’s how we keep in touch.”
“The man in the snow is renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” Lucia explained.
“She was a nice woman,” Mama went on. “But no family. I always thought that was strange—not that I would say anything. But she was good to the boys, letting them come over and eat candy—not that I approve of too much candy. But it was good of her to be kind to them.”
“She was a lovely person,” Lucia agreed.
“Unlike the witch on the other side of you.”
“Mama!”
“Even her cat didn’t want to live with her. First her husband leaves and then the cat.”
“I think she’s a very unhappy person.” Lucia didn’t know why she was defending the woman. There wasn’t a meaner person in town than Paula Beckett. No one knew if she was seventy or ninety; she’d moved to Willing years before Lucia and Tony had bought their house. They’d attempted to befriend her, but she’d told them to stay on their side of the fence and not to have any wild parties, wild dogs or wild children. Lucia, holding her first adorable infant, had been shocked into silence at such rudeness. Her husband, a dangerous glint in his eye, had replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’ll expect you’ll do the same.”
“I won’t waste any prayers on her,” Mama sniffed.
It was the ultimate rejection.
“The party was wonderful,” Lucia said, attempting to distract her mother-in-law from worrying about the neighbors. “Meg was thrilled.”
“She’s a good girl. And that Owen? A good man. He reminds me of Tony, big and strong.”
“He does a little.” Although her husband had been five-ten, a burly wrestler type and solid muscle. Owen, a rancher now, was taller. More basketball player than wrestler. And Sam Hove? Six-two, at least, and definitely in shape. She suspected he had spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin was tanned, his large hands calloused and scarred.
A boxer, she thought. He had hands like a fighter. What had he said about being hit by a fish?
“Stay away from that man, and keep the boys away until we find out more about him.”
Lucia promised and ended the call. Good thing she hadn’t told Mama about making the poor man take a shower.
CHAPTER THREE
CONTRARY TO THE MESSAGES he was receiving on Twitter, the posts on Facebook and the texts on his cell phone, Jerry Thompson was not harboring an escaped criminal inside his rental property.
Jerry fumed as he drove down Main Street late Saturday night. The lengths his constituents would go to avoid minding their own business never ceased to amaze him. He wasn’t in the habit of renting homes to questionable tenants, and he was as committed to keeping peace in his town as the county sheriff. So why was he getting those messages? What had happened to privacy? To benefit of the doubt? To the right to do business?
And what happened to the guy who was supposed to plow out his driveway?
Two words, George Martin had typed. Witness Protection.
Myth, he’d texted back. He’d heard that old story twenty times since he’d moved here. A mobster with a big mouth sent by the Feds to Willing to hide out until some supposed trial. But the guy had been too aggressive about his privacy and tried to run over a neighbor with his snowmobile. He’d disappeared after a brief court date in Lewistown and was never seen again. That was back when Gary Petersen still worked at the co-op and had sworn the stranger had no credit record and must have been living here under an assumed name.
Psychopath? Background? another text said.
All okay, had been his response. When had Meg Ripley turned into such a worrier?
Who is Hove? Aurora had sent that.
Writer! had been his reply. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.
Mean to Mrs. Swallow, Kim Petersen, one of Gary’s twin granddaughters, texted. With pictures of the guy in the snow surrounded by firewood.
Jerry replied with a Don’t worry text and knew he’d have more messages on his home phone. Marie Swallow had most likely called him ten times.
So his renter, if not dead of hypothermia or a victim of Neighborhood Watch, had gone from being a perfectly sane travel writer—if writers of any kind could be considered