Chapter 3: The Lakefront Discrepancy

The Oakhaven Town Archives smelled of old paper and forgotten wood polish. Rhys Caldwell, a tenacious journalist for the *Oakhaven Chronicle*, didn’t mind the scent. It was the smell of history, of stories waiting to be unearthed. He was meticulously sifting through dusty deeds and land registers, researching a piece on historical property disputes along Oakhaven Lake.

His current focus was on the late 1970s, a period of rapid development and often contentious land deals in the burgeoning resort town. His fingers, stained with archival dust, moved deftly through the oversized ledgers.

He had a knack for spotting anomalies, for noticing the faint tremor in the paper trail. Most transactions followed a predictable pattern: land bought low, developed, sold high. Or inherited, passed down.

Then he saw it. A deed registered in the fall of 1978. It involved a prime lakefront lot, one of the most desirable parcels in all of Oakhaven. It was a property Rhys knew well, now home to a sprawling, modern villa owned by a Chicago hedge fund manager. Back then, it had belonged to Archibald Harmon, the patriarch of the influential Harmon family and Gwendolyn’s late husband.

The buyer was listed as “Arthur Beaumont.”

Rhys paused, pushing his glasses up his nose. He scanned the details. The description of the lot was precise: seventy feet of pristine lake frontage, mature oak trees, perfect for development. Yet, the sale price recorded was a mere $100.

One hundred dollars. For a prime lakefront lot in 1978. It was an impossibly low sum, even for four decades ago. A red flag, stark and undeniable, unfurled in his mind.

He leaned closer, scrutinizing the entry. Had it been a gift? A family transfer? Usually, such an arrangement would be clearly noted, often with a “love and affection” clause instead of a nominal cash figure. But this was a straightforward sale, recorded as $100. It made no sense.

“Everything alright over there, Mr. Caldwell?” the archives clerk, Martha, called out from her perch behind a tall counter, her voice thin but friendly.

Rhys straightened, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. “Just finding a curious entry, Martha. A lakefront parcel, Harmon to Beaumont, 1978. Only a hundred dollars.”

Martha peered over her spectacles, her brow furrowing. “Oh, yes. I recall that one. Always seemed a bit odd, didn’t it? Archibald Harmon, he owned half the town back then. Never one to let go of prime real estate for a song, unless there was a good reason.”

“Precisely,” Rhys muttered. “And Arthur Beaumont? Any idea who he was? Not a local, I presume. I haven’t seen that name in other records.”

Martha shrugged. “Can’t say I remember much, dear. Might have been an out-of-town buyer. Or maybe just a relative? Harmon family was extensive.” She offered a small smile, then went back to stamping documents.

Rhys made a note. Arthur Beaumont. $100 lakefront lot. Archibald Harmon. It didn’t fit any conventional narrative. It was a loose thread, begging to be pulled. It wasn’t directly related to his land dispute article, but his journalistic instinct buzzed. He knew a good story when he saw one. This was more than just a historical anomaly; it felt like a secret.

***

Meanwhile, across town, I sat in the hushed quiet of the Oakhaven Public Records office, a worn file open on the table before me. My own “investigation” had begun just yesterday, a desperate, clandestine effort fueled by the letters in Gwendolyn’s study.

After the fright of Gwendolyn’s early return, I couldn’t stop thinking about “Arthur.” Who was he? Why the secrecy? Why the payments? The library, I reasoned, would be the safest place to start. Less conspicuous than a private investigator, certainly.

I told the clerk I was looking into family genealogy, a plausible excuse given Oakhaven’s small-town charm. I spent hours poring over old town directories, census records, and finally, property deeds. My eyes ached from scanning microfiche, scrolling through names alphabetically.

“Arthur.” Such a common name. I found several Arthurs in various historical records. Arthur Miller, Arthur Peterson, Arthur Davies. None of them sparked any recognition, no obvious connections to the Harmon family.

Then, late in the afternoon, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, I found it. A deed registered in 1978. My breath hitched. It was a transfer of land. From Archibald Harmon. To Arthur Beaumont.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp. Arthur. Beaumont. The name pulsed in my vision. This was it. This had to be him.

The address of the property, a desirable lakefront lot. The date, 1978. It perfectly aligned with the dates on Gwendolyn’s cryptic letters. The “payment” in the letter, and the “agreement.”

My mind flashed back to Gwendolyn’s letter: “The payment, as agreed, will be discreetly handled through Mr. Jenkins’s firm.”

A sudden chill permeated the room, despite the afternoon warmth. A lawyer. Mr. Jenkins. He was the Harmon family’s long-time attorney. He handled everything. If payments were made, discreetly, through his firm, he would know. He *must* know.

I looked at the recorded sale price. My eyes widened in disbelief. $100. For a lakefront lot. The sheer audacity of it. The brazenness. This wasn’t a family transfer. This was a deliberate obfuscation, a grotesque undervaluation meant to disguise the true nature of the transaction.

“Are you finding what you need, dear?” the records clerk asked, her voice soft, startling me.

I quickly looked up, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “Yes, thank you. Just… some distant relatives. Fascinating what you can unearth.” I carefully closed the ledger, trying to appear nonchalant, my fingers trembling slightly.

My mind was a whirlwind of frantic thoughts. The letters, the payments, “the boy,” and now this suspicious land deal with Arthur Beaumont. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, forming a picture far more sinister than I could have imagined. Gwendolyn’s financial control over me suddenly took on a new, terrifying dimension. Was she just controlling, or was she trying to prevent anyone, especially someone as observant as I was, from digging too deep?

I couldn’t tell Leo. He wouldn’t believe me. He would dismiss it as my “overreaction,” influenced by his mother’s careful narratives. I’d already seen that. He would see it as an attack on his mother, his family.

“Elara? You alright? You look a little pale.” Ellie’s voice jolted me back to the present. I hadn’t even realized I was walking out of the building.

I stopped, leaning against a cool stone pillar outside the records office. “Ellie,” I breathed, trying to steady myself. “I just… I’ve been doing some research for a new design project. It’s been a long day.”

Ellie, my closest friend, owned the cozy café just down Main Street. She had a knack for seeing right through my carefully constructed walls.

“Research for a design project, huh?” she said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Looks more like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe you’ve been sorting through Gwendolyn’s archives again?”

I managed a weak laugh. “Something like that. It’s just… a lot to take in.” I desperately wanted to tell her everything, but the tangled web of secrets felt too dangerous, too overwhelming to voice aloud. What if she thought I was crazy? What if it put her in danger?

“Well, come on,” Ellie said, linking her arm through mine. “I’ve got fresh coffee brewing. And a new batch of lemon poppy seed muffins. You look like you could use both.”

As we walked, the gentle hum of Oakhaven life seemed to mock the turmoil in my heart. Arthur Beaumont. The name was no longer a vague reference in old letters. It was a concrete person, tied to a concrete, fraudulent transaction. A key player in Gwendolyn’s hidden history.

The $100 lakefront deed was more than just an anomaly. It was a smoking gun. It validated every suspicious phrase in Gwendolyn’s letters. This wasn’t just about financial control anymore, or Gwendolyn’s dislike of me. This was about a decades-old secret, paid for and protected with an almost obsessive fervor. A secret that, if revealed, could shake the very foundations of the Harmon family, and by extension, my own life.

I had to be careful. I had to be discreet. But I knew now that I couldn’t stop. The truth, however devastating, felt too important to leave buried.