smaller pot boiling merrily along, I threw in some fettuccine noodles and set the timer. About ten minutes to go, which gave me time to microwave an Alfredo sauce I had made that morning, and to wash and tear some chunks of romaine lettuce. When the simple salads were complete, the lobsters were done and I pulled them out of the pot with a set of metal tongs.
There was a sound at the door. I turned, one steaming red lobster held in my hand, water dripping on my kitchen floor.
A redheaded woman came into the kitchen, wearing black slacks, small winter boots, and a heavy red cloth jacket, which she was shrugging out of as she came up to me. She dropped a leather purse and a soft black leather overnight bag on the floor. A quick kiss and Annie Wynn said, "Honey, I'm home."
"That you are," I said. "Thanks for coming back on time."
"You're welcome."
"Hungry?" I asked.
"Starved."
"Good. Earn your keep, why don't you, and set the table." That earned me a swat on the rump, and she grabbed some silverware and dishware as I cracked open the lobster, washed the meat in the sink, and cut it up in small pieces. The fettuccine was done, which meant a trip to the strainer, and in a minute or two, we were at the bar side of the kitchen countertop, sharing the dinner, and a bottle of Australian pinot noir as well.
"How's things with you?" I asked.
"Great."
"Really?"
She shrugged. "Most of the people at Hale headquarters are eating two-day-old pizza. I, on the other hand, told my coworkers that I had a man waiting for me, a man waiting to cook me dinner. Be thankful I got out of Manchester in time."
"Thankful I am. How goes the campaign?"
"It goes," she said. "It goes. I've been doing a lot of phone work, trying to winnow out a list of campaign contributors here in the state that have yet to pull out their checkbooks or bank account for the good of the party."
"Are you good at taking money away from citizens?"
She smiled. "Quite good. Which will no doubt serve me well when I get my law degree, also known as a license to make money."
"Just what the world needs. A good-looking redhead lawyer who likes money."
"And likes magazine writers as well."
I smiled back. "Lucky me."
"Damn straight," she said, and we ate for a while longer, and she said, "So, what's new with you?"
"Well," I said. “When I came back from the post office today, like you, there was a man waiting for me at the house. But he wasn't here to make dinner."
"Really? A campaign volunteer?"
"Not really," I said. "A Secret Service agent. From their Boston office. Seems he's in the area, doing prep work for tomorrow's rally for Senator Hale."
"What kind of prep work?"
If I do say so, the fettuccine and lobster dish was delicious, and I hurried in another bite before replying. "The Secret Service maintains a list of what they call 'persons of interest' that they interview before a campaign appearance by a presidential candidate. Guys who write threatening letters to the UN. Guys who're known to be stalkers. Guys with interesting criminal records."
"You've got any of those things in your background?"
"Nope."
She pursed her fine lips. "Then you must be interesting indeed. Did he take you down to headquarters? Pull out the rubber hoses? The folded-over phone books?"
"None of the above, counselor. We had a nice little chat in the living room, he determined that I'm not watching for black helicopters to come kidnap me, and then he left. End of visit."
Another forkful of dinner went into her mouth. "So why the interest in you?"
"Because of my years at the Department of Defense, I imagine."
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I think it's because of what happened to you at the DoD, and the circumstances of your departure. That's why."
I didn't reply. She was skating into an area I really didn't want to visit, and I think she sensed it, for she smiled and said, "I guess they were looking for a disgruntled nut and came up empty."
I returned the smile. "I
There was a sound at the door. I turned, one steaming red lobster held in my hand, water dripping on my kitchen floor.
A redheaded woman came into the kitchen, wearing black slacks, small winter boots, and a heavy red cloth jacket, which she was shrugging out of as she came up to me. She dropped a leather purse and a soft black leather overnight bag on the floor. A quick kiss and Annie Wynn said, "Honey, I'm home."
"That you are," I said. "Thanks for coming back on time."
"You're welcome."
"Hungry?" I asked.
"Starved."
"Good. Earn your keep, why don't you, and set the table." That earned me a swat on the rump, and she grabbed some silverware and dishware as I cracked open the lobster, washed the meat in the sink, and cut it up in small pieces. The fettuccine was done, which meant a trip to the strainer, and in a minute or two, we were at the bar side of the kitchen countertop, sharing the dinner, and a bottle of Australian pinot noir as well.
"How's things with you?" I asked.
"Great."
"Really?"
She shrugged. "Most of the people at Hale headquarters are eating two-day-old pizza. I, on the other hand, told my coworkers that I had a man waiting for me, a man waiting to cook me dinner. Be thankful I got out of Manchester in time."
"Thankful I am. How goes the campaign?"
"It goes," she said. "It goes. I've been doing a lot of phone work, trying to winnow out a list of campaign contributors here in the state that have yet to pull out their checkbooks or bank account for the good of the party."
"Are you good at taking money away from citizens?"
She smiled. "Quite good. Which will no doubt serve me well when I get my law degree, also known as a license to make money."
"Just what the world needs. A good-looking redhead lawyer who likes money."
"And likes magazine writers as well."
I smiled back. "Lucky me."
"Damn straight," she said, and we ate for a while longer, and she said, "So, what's new with you?"
"Well," I said. “When I came back from the post office today, like you, there was a man waiting for me at the house. But he wasn't here to make dinner."
"Really? A campaign volunteer?"
"Not really," I said. "A Secret Service agent. From their Boston office. Seems he's in the area, doing prep work for tomorrow's rally for Senator Hale."
"What kind of prep work?"
If I do say so, the fettuccine and lobster dish was delicious, and I hurried in another bite before replying. "The Secret Service maintains a list of what they call 'persons of interest' that they interview before a campaign appearance by a presidential candidate. Guys who write threatening letters to the UN. Guys who're known to be stalkers. Guys with interesting criminal records."
"You've got any of those things in your background?"
"Nope."
She pursed her fine lips. "Then you must be interesting indeed. Did he take you down to headquarters? Pull out the rubber hoses? The folded-over phone books?"
"None of the above, counselor. We had a nice little chat in the living room, he determined that I'm not watching for black helicopters to come kidnap me, and then he left. End of visit."
Another forkful of dinner went into her mouth. "So why the interest in you?"
"Because of my years at the Department of Defense, I imagine."
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I think it's because of what happened to you at the DoD, and the circumstances of your departure. That's why."
I didn't reply. She was skating into an area I really didn't want to visit, and I think she sensed it, for she smiled and said, "I guess they were looking for a disgruntled nut and came up empty."
I returned the smile. "I
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