She circled the small town in the family pickup. The cargo bed was stacked with crates holding milk bottles filled with whiskey. Some of it was barrel-aged; some of it was the more recently distilled white lightning. Her first stop was at Mayor Dietrich’s house, a brand new Sears Greenview Home with three bedrooms upstairs and a half-wraparound porch out front. This was one of the nicer houses in town. Most were simple wood frame structures built by German, Czech, and Scandinavian immigrants in the late 1800s.

  Referring to an order form, Mist filled her carrier, walked to a galvanized dairy box on the back doorstep, opened the small cooler, and exchanged bottles for cash. This routine was repeated around the hamlet three days a week. On Fridays’, she would take a big run into Shakopee to make deliveries and post a notice in the classifieds informing customers that their “goose down pillows” were ready. These were for the patrons who had placed large orders for pick up.

  Windegaard Whiskey was an old name in the community and much more than a small family operation. Lars Windegaard, their father, had done it for over thirty years, and when he died, his sons had taken over the business. The secret to their success was the outstanding strain they used for corn mash called Minnesota 13. They were also well-versed in the distillation process, taking great care with every step, especially barrel aging.

  Windegaard Whiskey had ten employees in the distillery and five guards. The business had been operational in one form or another for over forty years.

  Even when selling liquor was legal, the family chose to remain independent of government regulation and sold illicitly. There had always been violence surrounding their operation, but Peer was the first death. Prohibition was changing everything.

  Peers’s funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. Father Svoboda was saying the Mass. Even though the Windegaard’s were not regular parishioners at St. Agnes of Bohemia, the priest offered the sacrament without reservation. He knew Magdalena Windegaard, their mother, would have wanted her youngest child buried by the church. A Czech Catholic, she raised her children in the faith, but when she died of the grippe in 1908, Lars never returned to St. Agnes’s with the children. Brought up as a Lutheran, he converted to marry Magdalena but was never interested in practicing a faith of any kind.

  Mist’s last stop was the mercantile where her friend, Lucie Ludvik, worked. It was a square brick building with a Coca-Cola sign painted on the side. Lucie was standing on the porch of the store smoking when Mist pulled up. Holding her cigarette delicately between her fingers, she walked down the steps to the pickup. Five years older than Mist, she was a petite, attractive redhead with a bob, wearing a close-fitting black and white checkered skirt and white blouse covered by a merchant’s apron. She took Mist’s hand, and said, “How are you?”

  Mist looked into her eyes and replied, “I’m fine,” and then dropped her gaze again.

  Lucie was one of the few people Mist looked at directly. They had been friends for years. Lucie reached over, touched her jaw, and said, “Chin up, my darling.”

  Mist nodded and drew her heavy brows together. “It’s just that I’m scared about reprisals.”

  With a crooked smile, Lucie remarked, “I can see you’ve been reading again. Now what does that big word mean?”

  “Revenge.”

  The smile dropped from Lucie’s face. “Oh. Any idea who did it?”

  “Sheriff Johnson seems to think it’s bootleggers over in Savage, the name of Muller.”

  “Why did they do it?”

  “To eliminate their competition.”

  “Well, the only way to do that would be to--” and Lucie stopped abruptly.

  “I should go.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Lucie handed Mist ten dollars and said, “We’ll take a gallon today.” She went to the cargo bed, put milk bottles in a rack, picked it up, and returned to the cab. When Mist shifted the truck into gear, Lucie put her hand on the door and said, “I wrote to Viggo about Peer’s death. Hopefully, he will come down.”

  “Thank you. Maybe he can talk some sense into my brothers.”

  Lucie shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Mist pulled away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw Lucie climbing the steps back into the mercantile with the rack of milk bottles.

  Mist’s Uncle Viggo Windegaard had been in love with Lucie for as long as Mist could remember. She was smart and seductive and kindhearted, but his ambitions had always been more pressing than his love life. A dapper sophisticate never meant for a rural setting, Viggo moved to the Twin Cities, married money, and started a lucrative gambling operation. But he never forgot Lucie. He sent her money and train tickets regularly to join him in Minneapolis at the Dyckman Hotel, where she would stay for a week at a time. She never complained, and he never wavered in his devotion to her. It was an arrangement acceptable to both.

  Viggo was Lars’s youngest brother and Mist’s favorite uncle. He detested Lars’s brutish ways and was disgusted at how he treated Mist. Now, Lars’ sons were carrying on the tradition.

  When he could, Viggo tried to embolden Mist and give her confidence, but it was a losing battle; she had been bullied by the family for too long. She believed she was a worthless, repulsive drudge, good only for keeping house and helping with the business. Mist wasn’t even sure God noticed her.

  Even though her intellect was far above that of her brothers, she couldn’t see it. Like most people in the community, Mist never went beyond the eighth grade, but she loved learning, visiting the Shakopee library weekly. She never failed to bring home a stack of books and magazines that she would devour. Reading helped her become aware of her grammar, and she worked on it diligently. Over time, it just became a part of her.

  Her keen mind was matched only by her culinary skills. With a meager food allowance, Mist could turn an ordinary ham steak into a Delmonico’s tour de force, an everyday sandwich into a slice of heaven, and fried chicken into a divine work of genius. And she could bake too. Her bread was light and fluffy, her cakes mouthwatering, and her cookies delectable. All in all, she was probably the best cook in the Minnesota River Valley.

  Every time she went to Shakopee, she stared longingly at the downtown cafes. More than anything, she wanted her own restaurant, but she knew it was impossible. Things like that didn’t happen to her. But Axel saw dollar signs in her skills and came up with the idea of opening a small roadhouse in an old cabin on their property. He could make money on her food and sell liquor at the same time.

  Mist was tired when she arrived home from the whiskey run that morning. Peers’ death had kept her awake at night, and she was worried about more violence. Pumping water into the sink, she washed her hands and grabbed her apron. It was time to start the midday meal. The funeral was today, and they had to eat early.

  She checked on Magnus in the bedroom. He was on his back, snoring. His crunched face and flattened nose always reminded her of a bulldog. The whiskey jug was by his bed. He had been in a drunken stupor for days. It reminded her of when he returned from the war in France. It took him a month to emerge from his alcoholic lethargy.

  She returned to the kitchen. The shack was nothing more than a small four-room hovel built by Great Grandfather Anders Windegaard after the Civil War. It had two bedrooms downstairs and a loft upstairs. The brothers occupied these rooms. Mist had to sleep on a cot in the sitting area by the large cast iron wood stove. But she preferred this arrangement. It was the warmest spot in the house.

  The kitchen was tiny, but she had arranged it efficiently. Pots, pans, and herbs were out of the way, hanging overhead. There was a Hoosier baking cabinet with a built-in flour bin and workstation, an icebox, and shelves lining the walls with crocks, dishes, and utensils. The sink was broad and deep with a hand pump by the kitchen window. Next to it was Mist’s worktable, where she could look outside while kneading her bread or preparing a meal. A huge wood box sat in the corner. She was loading the stove when Axel burst in. “Get over to the cabin. They’re unloading it now.”

  “Oh!” Mist exclaimed, slamming the door on the stove. Grabbing her jacket, she rushed after him across the yard. They ran past the barn, pens, and gray weathered outbuildings to a cabin down the dirt road that predated Great Grandfather Windegaard. The oldest structure in the area, it was an abandoned outpost used in the 1850s to trade with the Dakota Indians.

  Six men had just finished hauling an eight-burner restaurant-size woodstove into the shack. It was resting on a cement slab Nels had poured a month ago. Although the weather was cool, the workmen were drenched in sweat from moving the mammoth appliance. They climbed back onto a horse-drawn wagon parked by the door.

  Axel walked up, handed the lead man a wad of bills, and asked, “When are they tearing down The Palace?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” the workman replied. Taking a hankie out of his overalls, the man wiped his brow. “A shame. It was a right fine old hotel. The new place they’re building will be more modern and have gas stoves.” He looked at Mist. “You’d like those, ma’am. They’re much easier, and it’s good clean cookin’.”

  Mist nodded but did not look up from her feet. She knew all about the new gas stoves being installed in the cities and would give anything to cook on one. She marveled at the time and effort she could save not having to stoke a fire.

  “Don’t get her daydreaming,” Axel grumbled. “This is good enough for her.”

  “You folks starting an eatery?”

  “Just sumptin small,” Axel replied. “More of a blind pig than anything. Mist here’s a fair cook, and I think we can bring ‘em out for food and then sell ‘em whiskey. Liquor’s still the name of the game.”

  With a nod, the lead man said, “Appreciate your business, Mr. Windegaard.” He snapped the reins and left.

  Axel and Mist turned and walked inside the shack. The building had been used for storage for years. Axel had her scrub every inch of it, and after Nels and Magnus made repairs, it became the perfect structure for a roadside eating and drinking establishment.

  “Hell, we’re almost ready,” Axel said, strutting around the cabin.

  Mist ran her hands over the massive stove with the words Kalamazoo Stove Company written on the front. She opened the doors and inspected the range and two ovens. Straightening up, she looked around. Yes, they were almost ready, and she was thrilled. They had purchased two iceboxes and three cupboards from the hotel along with sturdy white plates, coffee cups, and flatware.

  Axel picked up a cup and said with a chuckle, “There won’t be a lot of coffee poured into these.” He ran his eyes over the shelves and cupboards. “I want you to get Lucie out here to look things over. I want to make sure we have everything we need.”

  “All right,” Mist mumbled, even though she was more qualified to do it herself.

  “She’s still gonna wait tables here, right?” Axel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. She’ll add some class to this joint.”

  “Helen agreed to wait tables too,” Mist added.

  Axel scoffed. “That porker?”

  “She’s a good worker, and everyone loves her,” Mist replied quietly.

  “All right, all right,” he grumbled.

  Helen Borg was Mist’s childhood friend. With white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and an amiable disposition, Helen was round-faced and overweight, and the men in town made fun of her. Both suffering ridicule, Helen and Mist were kindred spirits, and they confided in each other completely.

  Axel walked out into the front room where there were blackout curtains on the windows, a chunk stove, and eight tables. “Yes, sirree, we have only one thing left. We have to name it. We’ll call it Axel’s Place.”

  No response from Mist.

  “D’ya hear me?” he called into her. “Axel’s Place!”

  “All right,” Mist replied.

  * * *

  The vacant lot alongside St. Agnes of Bohemia was crammed with motorcars, wagons, and horses. Almost everyone from Gunflint Creek attended Peers’ funeral, as well as friends from Shakopee and the surrounding area.

  Mist and her brothers stood in the narthex greeting people as they filed inside. As usual, she had tied up her long blonde hair, and for the funeral, she was wearing a black toque and dark dress borrowed from Lucie. Her face was drawn and white, and her eyes were puffy. She was holding a basket of wrapped hard candies she and the women of Gunflint Creek had made to honor Peers. A Scandinavian tradition, funeral confectionary was made in the shape of corpses, wrapped in black crepe paper, and given to funeral attendees. Fringes on the wrappers depicted the age of the deceased. If they were short, the deceased was young, and if they were long, the deceased was older. Peers’ fringe was relatively short. He was only sixteen.

  The Mass seemed endless. The Windegaards sat stiffly, unsure of how to act in church. Taking their cues from others, they stood up when everyone stood up and knelt when everyone knelt. They did not take Communion. Father Svoboda asked them not to partake since they had not been sufficiently prepared for the sacrament.

  After Mass, six employees from the funeral home carried the flower-laden casket out to the cemetery. They were dressed in formal gray suits and wearing shiny black top hats. Funerals were the only time the residents of the Minnesota River Valley saw such finery.

  After the burial, the brothers invited everyone out to the house for food and drinks. The women of Gunflint Creek brought out hot dishes, cakes, and cookies. The men stayed late into the night, drinking and carousing.

  Mist thought she would be relieved when everything was over, but instead, she flooded with anxiety knowing that now the vendetta surrounding Peers’ death would begin.

  * * *

  It started two days later. Nels was sitting at the kitchen table, taking shots of whiskey and smoking. “I fought my share of krauts in France,” he slurred with a toothless grin. His face was square under a head of thin, receding hair, and his arms were like ham shanks. He wore dirty overalls and a work shirt over his bulky frame. “Now I’ll get some jerrys on this side of the ocean.”

  Mist and Helen were washing dishes. They had been working all day stocking the roadhouse with food, preparing for the opening. When Nels made his announcement, they turned and looked.

  “Come here, Borg,” Nels roared at Helen.

  Putting down her dish towel, Helen grinned, her dimples showing, and sat down on his lap. He grabbed her breast and squeezed it. “Ah, ripe and firm.”

  Mist looked away. She didn’t like Nels pawing her friend, but she understood why Helen allowed it. She was lonely and yearned for male attention. Not so long ago, Mist too had allowed her brothers’ friends to have their way with her, but those days were over. She realized, at last, they were only using her for a quick pleasure, pushing her away the minute they were gratified. Luckily, Lucie had explained the merits of pessaries, so there were no mishaps.

  “If only Jens was alive. Now that guy could shoot,” Magnus said, raising up on one elbow from the sagging couch. Reclining in the main room, he was, at last, emerging from his drunken delirium. “Our brother was the terror of the county.”

  Axel, who had always been jealous of his older brother Jens, countered with, “Yeah, but he was no match for the Spanish Flu, was he?”

  Magnus bristled. “Oh, ya? You whimpered like a little girl when you got it.”

  Axel jumped to his feet and barked, “You goddamn--”

  “Now, now,” Nels said. “We’re gettin’ off track. What are we gonna do about the Muller clan over there in Savage?”

  After glaring at Magnus, Axel sat down and replied, “Get them before they get us.”

  “How?”

  “We need to wipe ‘em out and end things right now.”

  Mist and Helen gasped.

  Nels frowned. “Bursting in there, guns blazin’ will get us all killed, smart guy.”

  “He’s right,” Magnus added, “and local law can’t look the other way if we bump ‘em all off.”

  “I’m not talking about taking them out, I mean their operation,” Axel said. “We’ll substitute rotgut for their whiskey.”

  Forgetting herself, Mist blurted, “No, Axel!”

  “Shut up. You got no say in this.”

  “Jesus Christ, Axel,” Nels said, pushing Helen off his lap. “That’s no plan. That shit kills people.”

  Axel shook his head. “Not if we denature it right. Hell, if it’s one thing we know how to do, it’s distilling. We’ll make it just bad enough to make people sick, but not kill ‘em or blind ‘em.”

  “I dunno,” Magnus said. “These are people that ain’t done nuthin’ to us.”

  Axel jumped up and roared. “I don’t give a goddamn about them! They should be buying from us anyway!”

  They all stared at him.

  Nels took a deep breath and said, “All right, all right. If we’re careful.”

  “But everyone’s gonna know it’s us, especially Sheriff Johnson,” Magnus countered. “How ya gonna get around that?”

  Still panting, Axel sat back down and said, “Well, we could rough the Mullers up a bit first. Just enough to have everyone think we’ve evened the score and are done. Then we can circulate the swill and put ‘em outta business for good.”

  “Are you sure you know how to redo that industrial shit?” Nels asked.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Axel replied. “You boil it and burn off the wood alcohol content. We will burn off just enough so it makes people sick but doesn’t kill ‘em.”

  “Where do we get it?”