Dorothy Mercier pulled the binder labeled “Office Supplies and Maintenance” from the top shelf above the Wagon Wheel’s office sink. The plastic bottle of low-dose aspirin in the first-aid kit underneath gleamed. It was too new. The wrapper was intact.
She lifted the bottle, confirming the factory seal. No fingerprints. A sticker price of $4.79 from Deneys’ Market still clung to its base. Dot opened the binder and flipped to the supply log, Bonnie Tetzlaff’s neat, prize-winning hand filling the columns. Her eyes scanned down the page for “Aspirin, low-dose.” There it was: a fresh entry, dated “Monday, before opening,” alongside “new bottle, kit.” The swap window, the one she hadn’t been able to close, narrowed to Sunday 9 p.m. through Monday 7 a.m.
Dot pulled her phone from her barn coat and snapped a clear photo of the log page before sliding the binder back onto the shelf. Exhibit B, she noted in her mind, the log that cemented the timeline. Whoever emptied the kit’s old aspirin did it Sunday night, and a fresh bottle was signed in Monday morning. The list of people with club access that night was short: Kurt Vandehey, Bonnie Tetzlaff, Dale Detloff with his key, and Orv himself.
The kitchen doors swung open and Kurt walked through, wiping his hands on his apron. He paused, seeing her in the office doorway. “Still inventorying the paper clips, Dot?” he asked, a thin smile on his face. He checked his phone, a habitual motion that conveyed more tension than he intended.
“Just tying up a few loose ends,” Dorothy said. “Speaking of which, when did you last see Orv? Before Sunday, I mean.” She fanned herself with a sheet of paper from the desk, the late September sun already warming the club.
Kurt stopped drying his hands. “Friday fish fry. We talked about the specials, same as always.” He put the towel down on a stack of clean linen. “Wanted to confirm the prime rib numbers for next week.”
Dot kept fanning. “Well. Terri told Peg you went out Sunday night. Fish fry was Friday. Those are different nights, Kurt.”
His face went as white as a fresh-cut onion, the flush draining away. He looked at the floor, then at the wall, anywhere but at her. “I… I was just checking on things. Heard a noise. Nothing.” He turned sharply toward the walk-in cooler, the $4,200 unit wheezing like it owed money, and disappeared inside.
“Well.” Dot watched the cooler door click shut. That was an exit, not an answer.
Her phone rang, startling her. Rollie Schuette. “Dorothy? Don’t do a thing on that estate just yet.” His voice was flat.
“The cremation?” she asked, already knowing.
“The permit. It needs the county signature. My signature, actually.” A pause. “And my pen seems to have developed a paperwork problem. Lost its ink. Or maybe it’s a bad seal on the cap. Happens sometimes.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means the body stays right where it is. Pending paperwork. I’ll let you know when my pen starts working again.” He disconnected.
Dot tucked her phone back into her pocket. The body, and any chance of proof, wasn’t gone. Not yet. She walked out of the office, past the kitchen, and through the quiet dining room. The aroma of stale fryer oil hung in the air. She wanted a cup of coffee from Lu & Peg’s, something stronger than the lukewarm pot Bonnie had brewed this morning. She still hadn’t made peace with Gary’s empty side of the bed, and that was an ache a lukewarm coffee could not touch.
She headed to the back door, where Bonnie was polishing a stack of brandy snifters. “Everything settled up, Dot?” Bonnie asked, her smile bright.
“Almost,” Dot said. “Just waiting on some paperwork.”
Bonnie hummed a polka, setting the snifters carefully into a rack. “You just let me know if you need anything else. A piece of that carrot cake I made yesterday? It’s only $4.50 a slice.”
“Maybe later.” Dot stepped outside. The north wind off the bay carried the faint smell of lake trout. She drove her aging Buick down the bay road, turning south on County K. The thought of Kurt, suddenly pale, stuck in her mind. His lie was thin as parchment. It wasn't about the fish fry. It was about Sunday night. And he’d lied about it to the sheriff.
***
The kitchen light in the Vandehey house on Ridge Road burned late. Kurt sat at the table, empty coffee mug before him. His wife, Terri, stood by the counter, arms crossed. She had listened to his story about "checking on things" and "hearing a noise" for the third time. The words lay between them, heavy and untouched. He looked at his hands, then at the tabletop. He did not look at her.
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