2. Dexter
DEXTER
Afew days later, I was still riding the high of impending fatherhood, imagining what life would be like this time next year with my new son or daughter when bottles, diapers, strollers, and car seats became part of my everyday lexicon.
Freya was only five weeks into her pregnancy, and according to her doctor, we’d be able to hear a heartbeat at week ten. I couldn’t freaking wait.
This was by far the biggest and best thing that had ever happened to me.
It was an exciting, life-altering event, and yes, I wanted to tell everyone.
Not yet, though. I wanted the doctor’s assurance, and in the meantime, I hoped to get a read on Viggo Gustafsson and figure out why Freya had lied about him.
There was no way she hadn’t known that her friend lived in the same town.
No chance. I wasn’t exactly hiding in the forest. I ran a business, which meant I had a website and a social media presence.
She must have done some personal research on top of the agency’s due diligence—if only for the sake of curiosity.
I mean…she was having my child, for fuck’s sake.
Surrendering her body for nine freaking months for a veritable stranger was a big deal.
I wondered if there was something about this guy she didn’t want me to know.
Maybe he was a bad apple. Maybe he’d been in trouble with the law and had an unsavory past. I could have solved the mystery of Viggo Gustafsson with a quick call to Reg.
He was the chief of police in the Four Forest area, my good friend, and…
my former fuck buddy. Reg could type his name into an official databank and within minutes know Viggo’s date of birth, address, and if he’d had any brushes with the law.
But if I went to Reg, I’d have to share more than I was ready to.
So for now, I was on my own.
That was okay. Theoretically, tracking a lumberjack in Wood Hollow wouldn’t be difficult. They were everywhere. And it wasn’t as if I wanted to talk to the guy. I just wanted to find out a little about him.
First up, Google.
I typed Viggo Gustafsson, Wood Hollow, Wood Hollow mill, logger, and got a big fat nothing. I decided that was a sign that at least Viggo wasn’t wanted for murder. Next step, I hit the coffee shop and snooped…without being obvious.
See, Rise and Grind was a well-known lumberjack hangout.
They traveled in groups, migrating like hungry lions up and down Main Street.
They were easy to spot. Generally speaking, they were big, burly dudes with grizzly beards who wore jeans, sturdy work boots, plaid shirts, or coveralls if needed.
Sometimes they carried gear or hard hats with them, and a layer of sawdust.
Today, there was a group of five congregated at the counter, waiting for the baristas to whip up their drinks.
They should have seemed out of place under bright lights with soft jazz drifting from the speakers, but these men were the heart and soul of this town.
There’d be no Wood Hollow without the mill, and everyone here knew it.
I recognized Beau, a six-foot five giant; Ted, a rangy-looking older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a long beard; and Micah, a heavier-set guy with ruddy cheeks and bushy eyebrows.
The other two were Dirk and Tony, barrel-chested beasts who were regulars in my shop.
Dirk loved maple bars, and Tony was a big fan of chocolate glaze.
They had to know Viggo, but I couldn’t just ask them.
I could ask Davey, though—if I was stealthy about it. Davey knew everyone.
“Good morning. How’s it going?”
“Better now.” Davey fluttered his eyelashes as he leaned across the counter. The curly-haired redhead thirtysomething was an over-the-top, lovable livewire who shamelessly flirted with half the town. Including me. “Latte, two pumps, hold the foam?”
“Yes, please.”
“Coming right up!”
I tapped my card on the keypad and studied the coffee-tude of the day written on the blackboard behind the register.
“Coffee is a love language.” Agreed. I chuckled softly as I clandestinely turned toward a new gaggle of lumberjacks entering the store.
None of them resembled Freya’s description.
I should have asked to see a photo of Viggo, but as I mentioned, I hadn’t been thinking straight.
Time to put on my detective hat.
“Hey, Davey, have you ever watched The Lord of the Rings?”
Davey cocked his head curiously. “No, I tried to, but I have the attention span of a gnat. Isn’t that movie over three hours long?”
“Uh…yeah, maybe. I saw it a while ago when I was in my Viggo Mortensen phase.”
Davy gasped in delight. “Oh, my God! Yes! Dreamboat!”
“Unusual name, too. Do you know anyone named Viggo?” Nice segue if I did say so myself.
“Viggo?” He squinted as if deep in thought. “Nope. Don’t think I do. I met a guy named Lancelot at a club in Montreal last month. He had a Quebecois accent that made him twenty times hotter than he actually was and—”
“A-hem. There’s a line, Davey dear,” the older woman behind me tsked.
Davey blushed a shade of pink he’d have been mortified to know clashed with his auburn hair. “Sorry, Mrs. Galbraith. What can I get for you?”
I stepped aside and waited for Mrs. Galbraith to order before striking up a friendly conversation with the town’s busybody and retired principal of Wood Hollow High.
Something told me Davey had been a regular in her office during his high school years.
I’d lived here for eight years and had established a good relationship and reputation with most of the residents, but in some ways, I knew I’d always be considered an outsider to people like Mrs. Galbraith.
There were things most townsfolk just didn’t know about me, and trust me, I wanted to keep it that way even if it put me at a disadvantage.
Take Mrs. Galbraith for example. She hadn’t been my principal, she didn’t know my parents or my brother, she didn’t know the name of my first pet, first girlfriend, first boyfriend, and she had no embarrassing tales from a misspent youth to lord over me.
In short, I represented the influx of newbie residents who’d settled in Wood Hollow, bought property, started businesses, taught their children, and took jobs at the mill and the depot. Old-timers were wary of us.
And they didn’t love that the tables had turned. Now I coached Mrs. Galbraith’s grandkids and yep, I was the one who’d had to reprimand six-year-old Jake for throwing a rock in lieu of a football at a teammate.
“How’s your day going, Mrs. Galbraith?” I politely inquired.
“Well enough,” she replied, pushing her glasses up her aquiline nose. “I sampled your apple fritter the other morning. It wasn’t bad.”
High compliment indeed. “Thank you.”
“But I wasn’t crazy about the flavor of the jam-filled donut. Cherry, was it? It tasted rather artificial. I was under the impression that you were an au-naturel baker.”
See what I mean?
“Yes, I am. All natural ingredients, no additives. I’m sorry you didn’t care for the cherry filled, but you might enjoy the raspberry. I made them fresh this morning myself.”
Mrs. Galbraith hummed and somehow managed to look down her nose at me even though I was six-foot three and had her by a solid foot. “I just may take you up on that.”
“I hope you do.” I swiped my latte from the counter, disappointed I’d missed my chance to eavesdrop on the loggers. I smiled at the pinch-faced principal. “Have a great day, Mrs. Galbraith.”
“Thank you, Mr. Navarro. And by the way, the name Viggo is uncommon in this area, but I seem to recall a Virgil Segal from Pinecrest. Perhaps this is the man you were looking for?”
“I-I…I wasn’t looking for—” I shut my trap and lifted my to-go cup. “I should go. Have a good one.”
Okay, that was a bust.
I should have left it alone, but I was on a roll.
I popped into Fox’s Drug Store, one of the original establishments on Main Street.
Mr. Fox was a quirky octogenarian and a relic from a bygone era.
He hadn’t changed his prices in at least ten years, and unfortunately, he hadn’t raised wages for his employees and couldn’t figure out why no one was happy working for minimum wage. It was his favorite gripe.
“Ah, it’s the donut man. How’s business, Dexter?
” He barreled on before I could respond, bracing a gnarled hand on the glass-case display featuring comic books and bubble gum.
“Busy here. Those darned plastic Easter eggs are selling like hotcakes. I had to reorder the pastel candies the kids all like, too. The marshmallow ones.”
“Peeps?” I suggested, scanning the claustrophobic shelves loaded with everything from toothbrushes and birdfeeders to M&M’s and charcoal lighter fluid.
“That’s right. Not to my taste, but what do I know? Things were different in my day. I’ll tell you one thing, the cost of living was nothing like it is today. I heard you’re charging five dollars for a donut. That’s highway robbery, Dexter. High. Way. Robbery!”
“I—no. I sell two for five dollars, and they’re specialty donuts.” I also gave discounts for large orders, but I hadn’t come by for a lecture.
“Two donuts! Oh, ho, ho! In my day, five dollars would get you two dozen of the works—maple bars, chocolate sprinkles, glazed. I’ve always been partial to jelly-filled, but I heard fruit flavors aren’t your strong point.”
Thanks, Mrs. Galbraith.
“You’ll have to come by and see for yourself sometime.”
“At those prices?” he scoffed.
Okay. Enough chitter-chatter.
“I’ll cut you a deal.” I turned as if to leave, then tapped the counter and blurted, “Hey, do you know anyone named Viggo Gustafsson, Mr. Fox?”
So much for stealth mode.
The direct approach might be best with Mr. Fox.
Like Davey, the old man knew everyone in town.
Literally everyone. His son, daughter, and five of his grandkids all worked at the mill, which meant that the Fox family demographic covered an age group between twenty-two and eighty-five, and Mr. Fox knew their friends, coworkers, and neighbors.
If there was a Viggo here, he’d know where to find him.
Mr. Fox rubbed the white fuzz on his chin.
“Viggo? No. But I know a Gustafsson. He’s a logger.
Works with my grandsons, Lyle and Casey.
I think they call him Thor or Big V ’cause he’s huge.
Maybe the V is for Viggo. I don’t know if anyone’s brave enough to ask.
Quiet as a church mouse, but he looks meaner than a junkyard dog. ”
“Really? Is he violent or unstable or something?”
“Seems nice enough. But I wouldn’t mess with him, I’ll tell ya that much.” The old man narrowed his rheumy blue eyes. “Why do you ask? Did he stiff you for a donut? If so, I’d let it go, son. In a tussle, Thor would win with both hands tied behind his back.”
“Right.” I held my eye roll. I was a former college quarterback. I’d kept in shape and could hold my own, thank you very much.
“Did you want me to ask the boys to pass along a message or—”
“No, no. Thanks, though.” I waved and headed for the exit. “Probably not the same guy anyway.”
It was definitely the same guy. Had to be.
My heart sank. I didn’t want my surrogate to be associated with a mean-spirited, testosterone-jacked-up logger. Of course, he might not be mean at all. I wouldn’t know unless I reached out, and the timing wasn’t right.
Not yet.
There was nothing to do but wait it out and observe Viggo a.k.a. Thor from afar. No problem. I had donuts on my side.