Mystery

“Next is our place,” Sarah said.

Smaller than the others, Anton Goetz’s old lodge was dwarfed by the large oaks and firs that surrounded it. A weathered veranda faced the lake on its second floor. “Then comes Glen Upshaw’s, where you’ll be,” said Mrs. Spence. His grandfather’s lodge was nearly twice the size of the Spences’, and seemed to loom—like his grandfather—out of the surrounding trees while being concealed by them. Two bay windows and a massive dock protruded from the lake side of the lodge. Otherwise, only its grey roof was visible through the trees.

“Next is that abortion of Roddy Deepdale’s,” said Mrs. Spence. This was the redwood-and-glass building on the treeless expanse of lake front beside his grandfather’s property. It looked even more aggressively contemporary from water level than from the hillside. “I don’t know why he was allowed to put that up. He can do what he likes in Deepdale Estates, but here … well, you can certainly tell he was never a part of old Eagle Lake. Or old Mill Walk, either.”

“Neither were we, Mother,” Sarah said.

“On the other side of that eyesore, coming back this way on the south side of the lake, are the Thielmans, the Langenheims, the Harbingers, and the Jacobses.” Ranging in size between the massiveness of his grandfather’s lodge and the relative petiteness of Sarah’s but of the same weathered wood, with proportionate docks and balconies on the lake, all but the Langenheim lodge were shuttered and empty.

On that side of the lake, just before the north end began to narrow and turn marshy, sited roughly opposite the wooded space between the clubhouse and the Redwing compound, stood a tall narrow building with a long front porch facing the hillside and a short, businesslike dock and stubby veranda barely wide enough for a couple of chairs and a round table. All of it seemed in need of fresh paint. This building, too, had been shuttered.

Tom asked about this lodge. “Oh, our other eyesore,” said Mrs. Spence. “Really, I’d rather see that one torn down than Roddy’s monstrosity.”

“Who owns it?” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen anyone there.”

Mr. Spence said, “I tried to buy that place, but the owner wouldn’t even return my calls. Guy named—”

“Von Heilitz,” Tom said, suddenly realizing. “Lamont von Heilitz. He lives across the street from us.”

“Oh, look, Buddy sees us.” Mrs. Spence jumped up and down and waved. The motorboat was noisily tearing up the length of the lake and, standing up behind the wheel, squat, black-haired Buddy Redwing made violent, meaningless gestures with his arms. He sounded a klaxon, and birds fled the trees. He gave a Nazi salute, sounded the klaxon again, then cut the wheel sharply and heeled the boat over, nearly shipping water, and pointed at the walls of the compound. His companion, whose shoulder-length blond hair streamed out behind him, did not move or respond to Buddy’s antics in any way.

“Why, that’s a girl in that boat with Buddy.” Mrs. Spence put her hands on her hips, having undergone another sudden mood swing.

“Nah, that’s Kip,” Jerry said. “Good old Kip Carson, Buddy’s buddy.”

Buddy drew the speedboat up to the central Redwing dock, and Mrs. Spence avidly watched him jump out of the boat and lash a rope around a post. Buddy’s soft belly hung out over his baggy black bathing trunks. His legs were short, thick, and bowed. Buddy leaned out over the rocking boat, extended a thick arm, and pulled his friend up on the dock. Kip Carson was naked and sunburned a bright red on his narrow shoulders. He tossed back his hair and reeled up the dock toward a stockade door. Buddy made drinking motions with his right hand, then trotted after his friend.

“Kip is a hippie, I guess they call it,” Jerry said.

Mrs. Spence announced that Buddy had invited Sarah for a drink at the compound, so they would drop her off first. Jerry could leave the rest of them at the Spences’ lodge, and Tom could carry his bags to his grandfather’s place. She got back in the car, and pulled the short skirt firmly down as far as it would go. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter what high-spirited boys do when they’re alone together,” Mrs. Spence said. “Buddy and his friend are practically stranded up here. That young man must be the only company the Redwings have in that big compound.”

“Nah, there’s an old lady,” Jerry said. “But Buddy and Kip pretty much run by themselves. They shot a hole in the bar mirror at the White Bear two nights ago.” He drove onto the road circling around the west side of the lake, and soon they were passing the empty parking lot of the clubhouse.

“I wonder who their other guest could be. We must know her.”

“Ralph and Mrs. Redwing call her Aunt Kate,” Jerry said. “She’s a Redwing, but she lives in Atlanta.”

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Spence. “We know her, dear.”

“I don’t,” said Mr. Spence.