There were a lot of spectacular homes along the tree-lined Lakeshore Drive in Pemkowet, every bit as imposing as the Vanderheis’ place, and most of them considerably older. Once upon a time, most had been modest summer cottages, but over the years, far too many quaint cottages sitting on large plots were torn down and replaced with mansions that occupied every inch of space that local zoning laws allowed. The only thing they retained of their original character was their name: names like Sans Souci, Pinehaven, or Gray Gables, proudly displayed on hanging placards at the end of winding driveways, adorned with coats of arms either real or invented. Due to erosion, none of the houses along this section of Lakeshore Drive directly overlooked Lake Michigan. They were set back on the opposite side of the road, but all of them enjoyed lakefront access, usually in the form of a long series of wooden steps and decks leading down to private beaches.

A lot of them were still euphemistically called “summer homes,” as they served as seasonal residences for wealthy citizens of Chicago, Detroit, or St. Louis, but as far as I was concerned, they were mansions.

For sure, Lurine’s place qualified.

I couldn’t help but feel out of place as I turned into her drive and pulled up to the gated columns. Rolling down my window, I pressed the button on the loudspeaker and announced myself. “Um . . . hello? Hi. Daisy Johanssen to see Ms. Hollister.”

It was silly. I’d known her since she was Lurine Clemmons, living in a mobile home in Sedgewick Estate, establishing her current identity. She lived two units down from my mom, babysat me regularly when I was a kid, and served as a willing confidante when I was a teenager, before she moved out to Los Angeles. On the surface of things, Lurine was one of those friends every young person should have: old enough to serve as a role model, young enough to identify when a parent couldn’t.

Still, a lot had changed since those days.

My tail twitched restlessly while I waited for a polite voice to reply over the speaker, “Ms. Hollister will see you, Ms. Johanssen.”

There was a buzzing sound, and then the gates parted silently, swinging open on well-oiled hinges. I drove through them, and they swung silently closed behind me.

Lurine Hollister, née Clemmons, née God-knows-what in the early days of history, had done very, very well for herself. As far as I could tell, she always did.

“Ms. Johanssen.” Lurine’s—what? her manservant? housekeeper? butler? I guess he was all of the above—greeted me at the door. He had a closed, lugubrious face and impeccable manners. “Welcome.” He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Ms. Hollister is enjoying herself in the pool. She bids you join her there.”

“Great, thanks.”