A voice reached us through the wind in increments and I spotted a man in a heavy rain poncho standing at the end of the island’s dock. This dock was underwater, too—the whole thing plunged below the surface of the river, and the sight of him on its slick, algae-coated planks so far out in the river made me feel ill. One big swell and he’s a goner, I thought, but the man seemed surprisingly steady. He opened his canvas-clad arms, and for an eyeblink he was Christ the Redeemer guiding us to port.

“Looks like he wants us docked in the boathouse,” Tim said, wiping rain from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Should be plenty of room if there’s only the one other vessel.”

I looked to the left in time to see the boathouse doors lift and expose a cavernous space. My parents’ whole house in Swanton would’ve fit inside, with room to spare. There was an empty slip next to the skiff Tim said they used to ferry guests to and from the island. The little vessel looked toylike, way too small for a boathouse of this size. On the building’s interior wall I spotted a wooden sign decorated with curly gold script. It was the kind of thing you’d affix to the back of a yacht or a sailboat, the equivalent of vanity plates for your car.

“Loophole,” I read. “Either these people have a sense of humor or they found an awesome tax attorney.”

“I wonder where Loophole is now,” Tim said as he glided our boat inside. “The owners of this place come from old money. They’re what the guides on tour boats call a family of the Gilded Age. It’s weird all they’ve got is this puny skiff.”

Just as we were about to get out of the rain, one last manic gust of wind blasted me from behind. It was as violent as a shove. “What else do you know about them?” I lowered my voice before asking. In the shelter of the structure it was quieter, and the man in the poncho waited nearby.

“Not much, but this island’s always been one of my favorites. The house was built in the late 1800s, I think. I’ve seen old photos of it in shambles, but it was bought and fixed up in the forties. Far as I know, it hasn’t changed hands since. Islands rarely go up for sale,” Tim added. “When they do, it’s a feeding frenzy. Can’t wait to see what the house is like inside.”

I didn’t question Tim’s knowledge about an island he’d only ever seen from the water or the people he’d never met. Tim could tell you which Canadian newspaper mogul just embedded a man-made waterfall into his island’s cliff face, and which nineteenth-century tobacco tycoon’s family funded the expansion of the area’s most prestigious golf resort. Carson thought of himself as the authority on the region, but my colleague had him beat. Part of that’s because of Tim’s job: a small-town investigator gets around. The few times I mentioned Tim’s expertise to Carson, Carson got testy and changed the subject. Nobody likes being told they don’t know the lay of their own backyard.