The state, not local, police arrested Karl in a cabin down the road from Lartel’s house. I had gashed his face pretty well but not done any lasting damage. Apparently, after I had broken out the door like a crazed animal, Karl had taken his bloody face to the cleaning supplies and arranged and sanitized everything in Lartel’s space. When that was done, he moved on to the cabin down the road, broke in, and was busy alphabetizing the contents of their cupboards, first by type of food and then brand name. Fortunately, they were summer people and not yet around in the middle of May.

Karl didn’t confess to the crime directly, but he never moved the file of evidence that told the story. The police found Jeff’s bloody clothes buried out back of Lartel’s house, covered in synthetic hairs from a platinum-blonde wig. They released the homeless man, who was never officially charged with any crime. As for Lartel, he really had been in Mexico the whole time and was coming back early because Karl had called and told him there was an emergency, specifically that his cousin had been found dead in his library.

I prefer to think Karl had wanted to get caught, even though the police never did find the gun he had shot Jeff with, either around the house or in the woods. Regardless, he clearly was deeply disturbed. The police surmised he had kept Jeff’s body in Lartel’s root cellar for over twenty-four hours before deciding what to do with it. He sanitized it and transported it to the library Monday evening, using a key Lartel had given him long ago. It chilled me to realize Karl had probably come from dumping the body at the library when I bumped into him outside the Turtle Stew, freshly stood up by a corpse.

The word around town was that Karl was pleading insanity as well as spilling some of the town’s dirtier secrets, including the facts that his wife had left him more than a year ago and that Lartel McManus had been stalking Kennie for over five years. As a direct result, I think, Lartel packed up shop and disappeared before anyone even noticed he was back from Mexico. His clean, creepy little house is for sale, and I’m the interim head librarian. A promotion is a promotion.

I also got my article published as widely as the Star Tribune in Minneapolis. They edited a lot out that appeared in the Recall, but I suppose we were catering to a different audience in Battle Lake. Writing and publishing the article was good experience, and I was happy to make Jeff look like the hero it turned out he was. I celebrated my first statewide publication by dumping out the half-empty bottle of vodka I had bought at Bonnie & Clyde’s.

The doublewide was now officially liquor free again, and when Sunny called to tell me Alaska and Rodney were still wonderful and to ask me how I was doing, I could truthfully answer, “Just fine.” And it was time to go out and see how the world was treating me.

The Turtle Stew has tater-tot hotdish on the lunch menu, and that’s about as good as it gets. A side of green beans and whole chocolate milk, a quality pen and a virgin crossword puzzle, and I’d be that much closer to mental health.

The bell jingled as I entered, and conversation stopped momentarily. I passed around the bland, “how ya doin’?” smile I had been practicing, meant to reassure and soothe while keeping others at a distance. I sat down in the only open booth by the window, the electric red naugahyde cover feeling alive next to my naked calves. I had decided to wear a skirt this morning, another part of my master plan to blend for a while. I had ruffled enough feathers and was feeling moderately spanked.

“Hello,” the waitress said, sliding a menu over to me.

“Hi,” I said, sliding it back. “I know what I want.”

“Tater-tot hotdish, green beans, and chocolate milk?” She smiled openly at me.

I smiled back, this time a genuine grin showing my teeth. “Sounds perfect.” As she walked away, I debated the merits of being considered a regular in Battle Lake. Before I could get my list past one (“save time ordering food”), Kennie slid into my booth across from me, a full-sized cardboard-backed poster in her hand.

“I know what y’all did, and I have to say I am so proud of you, honey chile. You saved the town.”

I blinked loudly at her, willing her to be uncomfortable in the silence. Like most beauty contest types, she was immune to negative body language. It really is hard to shame the ignorant. She lowered her voice and leaned across the table, air escaping the negative space between her thighs and the naugahyde in pained squeaks.

“And I know you called Trillings and told them what Jeff planned to do with the land. That’s right good of you.” She nodded her chin firmly. “The DNR has started looking into making it a wildlife refuge.” A playful smile highlighted by bubblegum pink lipstick and makeup-caked wrinkles tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“But y’all ain’t the only humanitarian.” She slowly turned the poster around. Mrs. Berns’s full-body, swimsuit-clad picture beamed at me, her skin going one direction, her varicose veins another. “Elderly beauty contests! Countywide!” Kennie grinned.

In a distant way, I noticed how the whites of Kennie’s eyes were as milky as her teeth, a startling contrast to her heavy blue eyeliner and dark red rouge circles. “That’s gross, Kennie.”

She laughed heartily, but it was a reflex instead of an acknowledgement. “Beauty doesn’t stop at any age, and we need to prove that. We’re gonna fight the good fight in Otter Tail County, you mark my words, honey chile. These old people just plain ol’ need more extracurricular activities.” Her fingers clacked the beginnings of “The William Tell Overture” on the plastic tabletop. Her wide smile wilted, and she pouted like a child. “Well, I can see y’all ain’t gonna get excited. And here we were gonna ask you to be a honorary judge, bein’ a town celebrity and all. Y’all change your mind, you let me know.”

“Don’t quit your day job, Kennie.”

She laughed her belly laugh again and darted out to place the poster in the entryway. Gary Wohnt was leaning against his new police Jeep across the street, perfecting his Frank “Ponch” Poncherello look. He had on the requisite mirrored sunglasses, glossy hair, and jaunty toothpick. It appeared as though he was even cultivating some facial hair, and for a grotesque second, I pictured him offering free mustache rides at the next class of ’82 party.

I watched Kennie strut out the door and toward the Chief. His gleaming lips cracked a smile, and he opened the passenger door for her. Apparently she had a chauffeur for her poster-hanging run. I mentally made it a mission to not find out anything more about those two.

I sighed, thinking that geriatric beauty contests were probably a healthy improvement over geriatric orgies. One small step for Kennie Rogers, one huge step for humankind. The waitress plunked my food in front of me. One of the many beauties of tater-tot hotdish is that it’s quick; at the time you order it, it’s already cooked and just needs to be heated. I peppered the pile and dug in.

I reached into my back pocket to pull out the note from Jeff I had found yesterday in my bottom dresser drawer. He must have written it after our last night together, intending for me to find it while he went to the Cities.

Mira,

You’re one of a kind. I am looking forward to spending a lot of time getting to know you better. Beware closed minds and open mouths while I’m gone, blood brother. This town can trap you!

Jeff

My eyes got a little hot reading it, even though this was the fourteenth or fifteenth time. He had been a note writer, and I hadn’t even known it until he was dead. I loved note writers. I wondered what he meant about this town trapping me. I would have to spend some time with that one.

But first, I needed to do two things. I had to haul Sunny’s draconic garden tiller over to the Senior Sunset and get their garden ready for planting. It probably wouldn’t hurt to pick up some seedlings for them on the way. Next, and most importantly, I needed to go out to the Jorgensen land and say a farewell prayer for two men, Jeff and my dad, who were going to miss out on a lot of good things in life. I knew just what flower I was going to leave as a memorial—a bloodroot. I only hoped Jeff and I hadn’t plucked the last one.