Lisa Gardner - The Perfect Husband

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writers have a tendency to view their craft as a solitary occupation. In fact, it takes many people to create a book and Im indebted to quite a few. I would like to express my deep appreciation and gratitude to all the people who helped me in this process, including:

Jack Stapelton, Bristol County assistant district attorney, who generously and patiently answered a multitude of questions about crossjurisdictional investigations and arrests.

Steve Belanger, corrections officer, who shared with me enough details about life in a maximum security prison to convince me never to commit a crime.

Chris Fuss, college buddy and dear friend, who not only provided his experience in orienteering and the Revolutionary War reenactment, but also let me play with the rifles.

Aaron Kechley and Valerie Weber, two Williams alumni, who told me so much about quaint, beautiful Williamstown, I just had to use it for murder.

And to the remaining police officers, FBI agents, and other corrections officers who kindly agreed to answer my questions but asked that their names be withheld.

These people gave me their knowledge. In some cases, I did take artistic license. Any mistakes, of course, are mine alone.

Finally, special thanks to my agent, Damaris Rowland, for believing in my talent even more than I did; to Nita Taublib for being willing to take a risk on this book; to Beth de Guzman, whose razor-sharp editing made this manuscript come alive; to my family and my friends Heather, Dolly, Michele, Terry, Lori, and Betsy for their support and endless supplies of chocolate; and to my fianc, Anthony Ruddy, for sharing it all with me and showing me a beautiful future. Words arent enough.

PROLOGUE

T HE FIRST TIME he saw her, he simply knew. He watched her red and white pompoms bounce in the air. He saw the long, golden ribbons of her hair wave across the blue summer sky. He memorized her gleaming white smile as she cried her cheerleader chants and pranced with the other girls around the freshly mowed football field. Once hed been hungry, now he looked at her and was full. Once hed been barren, now he studied her and felt his insides burst.

He knew everything about her. He knew her parents were well respected in Williamstown, a unique position for nonacademics in this liberal arts college enclave. He knew her family came from good German stock, four generations of fair-skinned blonds running the local store Matthews, and living out their years without ever traveling more than four blocks from their place of birth. They had a tendency to die peacefully in their sleep, except for Theresas great-grandfather, whod died of smoke inhalation at the age of seventy-five as hed helped free horses from his neighbors burning barn.

He knew Theresa rushed home from cheerleading practice every afternoon to help her parents at their store. She tidied small shelves packed with imported olive oils, spinach nutmeg pasta, and local-made maple candies molded to look like oak leaves. During late September and early October, when Williamstown was overrun by people oohing and aahing over the golden hills and scarlet underbrush, Theresa was allowed to slice Vermont cheese and fresh creamery fudge for the tourists. Then the season would pass and she would be relegated to housekeeping once more, dusting the blue-checkered shelves, sweeping the one-hundred-year-old hardwood floor, and wiping down unfinished pine tables. These were the same duties shed had since she was twelve and hed listened to her father tell her half a dozen times in a single afternoon that she would never be smart enough to do anything more.

Theresa never argued. She simply tightened her red-checkered apron, ducked her blond head, and kept sweeping.

She was a popular girl in her high school class of nearly one hundred, friendly but not outgoing, attractive but demure. While other seventeen-year-old girls at Mt. Greylock High School were succumbing to the star fullbacks urgent groping or the forbidden lure of cheap beer, Theresa came home every Friday and Saturday night by ten.

She was very, very punctual, Theresas mother told him. Did her homework the way she was supposed to, went to church, attended to her chores. No hanging out with dopers or druggies, not their Theresa. She never stepped out of line.

Mrs. Matthews might have been as beautiful as her daughter once, but those years had come and gone quickly. Now she was a high-strung woman with faded blue eyes, dirty-blond hair, and a doughy body. She wore her hair pulled back tight enough to stretch the corners of her eyes and crossed herself at least once every two minutes while clicking together her rosary beads. He knew her kind. Prayed to the Lord to deliver her from all sorts of evil. Was glad at her age she was no longer required to have sex. And on Friday night, when Mr. Matthews drank a whole bottle of Wild Turkey and smacked her and Theresa around, she figured they both deserved it because Eve had given Adam the apple and women had been serving time ever since.

At fifty years of age, Mr. Matthews was pretty much what hed expected as well. Steel-gray hair, buzz cut. Stern face. Trim waist. Huge arms that bulged as he hefted hundred-pound bags of flour and seventy-pound tanks of pop syrup. He sauntered through the tiny store like an emperor in his domain. While his family worked busily, he liked to lean across the counter and shoot the breeze with the customers, talking about the falling price of milk or the hazards of running a small business. He kept a loaded gun beneath his bed and a rifle in the back of his truck. Once a year he shot one deer legally andaccording to local rumorsbagged a second illegally just to prove that he could.

No one told him how to live his life, mind his store, or run his family. He was a true bull-headed, narrow-eyed, dumber-than-a-post son of a bitch.

Jim had spent just two afternoons in the store inspecting father, mother, and daughter, and hed learned all he needed to know. The parents would never cut it in high society, but they had no genetic defects or facial tics. And their daughter, their beautiful, quiet, obedient daughter, was absolutely perfect.

Jim opened the door of his car and stepped out. He was ready.

Above him the spring sky was pure blue. Before him the Berkshire hills framed Mt. Greylock High School with pure green. Below him the unbroken valley spread out like a verdant buffet, endless fields spotted by faint dots of red barns and black-and-white Holsteins. He inhaled the scents of spicy pine, fresh mowed grass, and distant dairy farms. He listened to cheerleader songs. Go fight win, go fight win. He watched Theresas long, limber legs kick at the sky.

Were from Greylock, no one can be prouder. If you cant hear us, well shout a little louder.

He smiled and stepped into the full brilliance of the spring sunshine. He caught Theresas eye as her lithe body dropped into the splits, her pompoms victoriously thrust into the air. She smiled back at him, the gesture reflexive.

He took off his sunglasses. Her eyes widened. He unfurled his charming grin until she blushed becomingly and finally had to look away. The other cheerleaders were now glancing from her to him with open envy. A few pouted prettily and one overdeveloped redhead pushed out her perky breasts in a belated attempt to redirect his attention.

He never took his eyes off Theresa. She was the one.