“December’s the best month to buy a mower,” I heard him say. “For snow-moving machines, people are willing to pay full retail. But anything lawn related—we’ve got it discounted so much we take a loss on every sale.”

Rivard had put on weight since he’d left the service: twenty pounds at least. His hair was still thick and dark, and he hadn’t shaved the skeezy mustache that had been his signature as a warden. He was dressed in a holiday-themed sweater—red with a jagged row of evergreens across the chest—chinos, and wheat-colored Timberlands.

He’d seen me come in; his intelligent dark eyes never missed much. But he didn’t interrupt his sales pitch to greet me.

“Best of all, we have a zero-interest payment plan.”

“How much that thing weigh?” the old man asked.

Rivard’s megawatt smile flickered. “Six hundred pounds, more or less.”

“How’d you get it up there? Use some kind of pulley system, did you?”

“We hooked a team of oxen to a block and tackle. Is there anything else I can show you today, bud?”

“Don’t get pissy with me, mister. Your uncle and I are both members of Le Club Calumet.”

I could see it took an act of will on the part of the junior tractor salesman to keep from pile-driving the old man into the concrete floor. “Help yourself to more free coffee and another cookie while you’re here.”

Then, with a tight smile on his face, he made his way down the aisle of snowmobiles toward me.

“I’ll get Gil to watch the floor,” he said. “We’ll talk in my office.”

Rivard’s office was the corner of the loading dock. But at least he had a desk, which he made a point of putting between us. He must have read somewhere that sitting behind a desk gives a person authority. The chair he offered me was a stool.

On the wall behind him were framed photos of his several families. Two ex-wives, one current wife. Three daughters, three sons, and judging from the photo of a pregnant blond I didn’t recognize, he had another baby on the way. Rivard was an expert at convincing women that he was marriage material, past proof to the contrary.

“You look older,” he said, a little enthusiastically.

“I am older.”

“Middle-aged, I mean. Don’t get in a huff. It happens to all of us, right? I could stand to lose five pounds. So you haven’t met the glamazon yet?”

He sipped from a coffee mug but whatever was in it was cold, and he made a face.

“I take it you’re referring to Mrs. Chamberlain?”

“Wait till you see her. I guarantee she could kick your ass. She was probably hot when she was young. She’s from South Africa originally.”

That explained the accent I couldn’t place.