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what’s Mr. Vilhalminsson in the mood for tonight?” Jaelle asked. I always thought it interesting that someone as jive as Jaelle was so formal with elders.
    “I’ll take two stew specials to go.” I sat at the lunch counter and spun the vinyl-topped seat a full three-sixty, something I could never resist.
    Jaelle wrote the ticket and clipped it to the order wheel.
    “Where is everybody?” I asked.
    “Russ and the crew left on Saturday for a job up near Baudette. Don’t know about anybody else.” Russ was Jaelle’s husband and the big hunk of a lumberjack for whom she had uprooted her life and moved north of civilization. It was a sore point with Jaelle that Russ’s work often took him away for weeks at a time. They’d only been married a year, and Jaelle was an outsider here, too. No wonder she was bored and restless and spent her tips at Tinker’s Tap, the local bar out on Highway 53. Rumor had it Jaelle liked tequila. And Norah Jones. And six-ball pool. Just give these townies something to yammer about and it spreads like mustard on a foot-long.
    The door opened, and a waft of cool air blew in. I looked up to see Wade holding the door for middle-aged male and female versions of himself, complete with cropped hair and pig cheeks — even the mother. He continued to play doorman, and I was surprised when none other than Fru Dorit, Hulda’s suck-up, walked in. Wade ushered her in with a well-mannered, after-you gesture. Huh? A submissive Wade?
    The parents passed solemnly, nodding terse good evenings to Jaelle. Dorit graced me with a lopsided grin, wacky enough to pass for old-lady eccentric but lingering enough to make me think we shared a secret. My stomach did a small flip.
Uh-oh. Did we really share a secret? Like membership to a clandestine organization?
Wade managed a suggestive smirk, quick and smug.
Jerk
. They settled into a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.
    “Do you know the Ivarssons?” Jaelle asked. “Wade must go to your school.”
    “I’ve seen him around.”
    “They’re an odd bunch,” Jaelle said in a low voice. She stacked the two containers of stew in a paper bag, wrapped two corn muffins in bakery sleeves, and then added napkins and plastic soup-spoons. “I guess it’s understandable, given the tragedy.”
    I snuck a peek at their table, catching the father reaching across the booth to give Wade an upside-the-head smack. Some words were exchanged, but we were too far away to hear. I turned back quickly, not wanting to be caught staring — and wondering if “odd” was a comprehensive enough adjective.
    “What tragedy?”
    “The death of the little girl, Wade’s sister, years ago.”
    “Really? How?”
    “On a camping trip. She fell down a hillside and hit her head on some rocks. She was only nine.”
    “That is sad.”
    “Wade was with her. Can you imagine anything so awful?”
    “No.” I couldn’t.
    “The grandmother, Dorit, is a hoot. When she’s on her own, she dishes on everyone and everything. That woman can yak, and that woman can obsess. She really loved that little granddaughter of hers, Hanna. I guess because she never had a daughter of her own. Wade’s dad was her only child, so she dwells on the loss sometimes. She was in here this June and just beside herself about it being the first day of summer and the anniversary of Hanna’s death. She really couldn’t have been any sadder. But most times she’s got a lot of spunk, and there’s no mistaking who rules the roost in that family.”
    I took another quick look at their table, where Dorit was talking with a pointed index finger. Even Wade’s father had his head lowered.
All righty, then. Order up. Scoop du jour. One big steaming bowl of dysfunction
.
    Jaelle folded the to-go bag neatly and handed it across the counter, sighing and rubbing her temples.
    “Are you feeling OK?” I pushed Afi’s twenty across the counter and waited for change.
    “I guess so,” Jaelle said. “Had a little