Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) by Dani Amore Page A

stop at a couple of them on my way out for a beer or three.
    Across the road was property that commanded a view of the lake, but didn't come with any lake frontage. Here it was mostly new construction. Big three and four bedroom monstrosities with giant picture windows set high in an attempt to overlook, both physically and psychologically, some of the real estate eyesores that lay below them.
    I rounded a curve and pulled into the town of Pewaukee, which during the winter months was really more of a hovel than a town. The sign said 'Population, 1,058." But I suspected that it was less than that. Maybe they'd counted the muskies in the lake when they'd taken the census.
    I passed through the small town and as I wound my way around the lake, the sun peeked out from the thick, gray clouds, and the shadows of branches fell across the road. A dead deer lay on the shoulder of the road, its tongue lolling to the side, its stomach bloated.
    I checked the slip of paper Jenkins had given me and spotted an address number. I still had a way to go. I watched as the yards continued to get bigger, the homes more elaborate, the forest thicker, most likely to disguise the increasing wealth of the property's inhabitants.
    This was Pewaukee's version of the Gold Coast, home to the summer "cottages" of Milwaukee's titans of commerce. They all had summer homes out here; the bankers, the brewers, the lumber barons. Even some of Chicago's rich and famous had summer homes here.
    To call them cottages of course, was a gross misrepresentation of fact. I braked the Audi as I came down a small hill and gazed upon a mansion that had to have at least ten bedrooms, and at least that many bathrooms. It was a three-story monument in rock.
    This is where the wealthy families gathered and allowed their children to play together, to form alliances, both physical and political, with other members of the landed gentry. Where sons were introduced to daughters and daughters were pointed in the direction of certain young men. This is where picnic baskets overflowed with champagne and shrimp, fine breads and cheeses, and of course, beer. I pictured the men in their starched shirts and ties, the women in long white dresses with elaborate sun hats, prim and proper in stilted photographs.
    The driveways here were gated, with their addresses posted clearly, which made it easier for me. I double-checked the number on the slip of paper, then looked ahead for it. Two more driveways down, I found it.
    I pulled into the driveway and rang the buzzer on the gate. The trees that surrounded the estate were thick but since it was winter, were totally without leaves. There were some evergreens scattered about, but not enough to entirely block the view.
    Even among the homes that surrounded it, the Schletterhorn estate was spectacular. A gigantic, sprawling three-story home with three turrets, at least seven fireplaces, judging from that same number of chimneys, and God knew how many rooms. It’d been built with stone. Probably imported from the old country, whichever old country that might be. During the summer months, ivy most likely clung to a good portion of the structure’s face, because now I could see the bare vines clinging to the rock.
    Huge windows carved out of stone looked out over the sprawling grounds. I caught a glimpse behind the house of the servants cottage, which was nearly twice as big as my house.
    I pulled up, rolled down the window and pushed a small button at the base of what looked to be an intercom system. A man appeared from the side entrance to the massive house. He walked toward the driveway without an ounce of urgency. As he got closer, I could see that he was a big man. He had on white pants and a dark blue winter jacket that was buttoned firmly against the chill. He had on thick black leather shoes. I had the fleeting idea that he might turn out to be Sasquatch in disguise.
    When he got to the gate, he stepped inside a glass enclosed booth, moved