Page 130 of It Happened on the Lake

“Eventually.”

Beth eyed the room quickly and turned toward the hall. “Let’s get out of here. What’s upstairs? I forget.”

The third floor was similar to the garret over the garage, once a living space for servants, now an attic filled with junk, aside from the turret room—her room—which Beth observed with a jaundiced eye.

“The door needs rehanging,” she said.

“I know.”

“And not to be sacrilegious, but the crucifix, this one and, well, all of them have to go.” Then hearing herself, she said, “Well, maybe one or two can stay, but the rest should be donated.”

“With the dolls?”

“Wherever. Just . . . well, at least packed away if you want to keep them.”

“I don’t. Got it.”

“Good. You’re gonna need help. This is a huge place, and there’s so much to be done. Even with Craig doing the repairs, the clean-up is going to be massive. Look, I know a couple of women who do this kind of thing—under the table, mind you, so cash only—but they could put this place in order, wash linens and dishes, and mop floors, shampoo carpets, and even tackle most of the windows. Whatever you want as long as you keep it on the down low, if you know what I mean.”

Harper nodded. She did need help.

“Even so, it’s going to take weeks, maybe more, and that doesn’t touch the big stuff—like plumbing, electricity, refinishing the floors, and . . .” She let her voice trail off as she motioned to Harper’s sleeping bag. “So this is where you’re camping out?” she asked. “When there are all those other bigger bedrooms with larger bathrooms?”

“So far, yeah. I haven’t really settled in.”

“I guess.” Beth shrugged. “Well, to each his, er, or her own.”

“Right.”

“There’s another floor, right?” she asked, pointing toward the ceiling.

“Yeah. Well, just one room.” Harper had mixed feelings about the unique area at the top of the turret—she hated it and loved it, sometimes dreaded going up there again, other times was lured to its incredible view. She led Beth up the narrow, curved staircase to the tower room, which her grandfather had called his “crow’s nest,” and unlocked the door with another one of Gram’s keys.

This was the place where, she knew, he did private things. Dirty things.

But George Dixon had been dead for years—twenty-three years to be exact—and yet, as she stepped into the loft area, her skin crawled and it was almost as if he were here, as if she could smell the smoke from his pungent cigars. He’d bragged about still being able to get Cubans, though those imported cigars had been banned in the early sixties. But he had the boxes on the bookshelf in here to prove it.

The room was circular, windows all around, which allowed for a 360-degree view of the lake. The bathroom was partitioned off near the staircase, and it, too, had a wall of windows, so that even from the shower, one could look outside.

“Oh wow,” Beth said, her breath taken away. “This . . . this is incredible. Your grandfather’s sanctuary.”

Harper was nodding, trying not to remember how Gramps would come up here, lock the door, smoke his cigars, pour a drink, and pleasure himself while looking across the water and ogling the women sunbathing.

It was more of a lair than a sanctuary.

“I didn’t like him, but this is . . . well, it’s a selling feature for sure. What’s this—blueprint?” She unrolled large, yellowed pages with schematics of the house and outbuildings on Gramps’s desk. “Oh wow,” she said. “Look at this. Plans for when this house was built. Check the date. 1901. How cool. You should frame them,” she said with a wink. “You know, for the new owner.”

“Right.”

“And since you’ll probably remodel, these will save you having to start from scratch.”

“I guess so.”

“Iknowso. I live with a contractor, remember?” Beth rolled the plans up again, then peered through the telescope. “Holy Mother of God, with this, you can see . . . Geez, right into all of the houses on the point!” She swung the telescope left to right. “This is even more incredible than the one downstairs. There’s the Sievers’ place. Remember that old coot and his nasty dog? That German Shepherd. It was always on patrol around the perimeter of his property. You know, I wonder if there are still booby traps there? I told you his daughter owns the place now. A single mom, she moved in with her kids—I think they’re teenagers.”

“Right, you did tell me. Until then, I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

“None of us did. Never really saw her before he fell and broke his hip. He ended up in an assisted care facility. The same one where Cynthia Hunt lived. Serenity Acres, the only game in town.” She was still bending over the telescope. “And there’s the Hunts’ place. I still can’t look at it without thinking about Cynthia. Dear Lord, what was she thinking?”