Cursing, eyes flashing red, she’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in this out-of-the-way lakeside resort. Seven squat buildings strewn along a narrow half-mile of VT 30. The usual collection—market, post office, real estate firm, motel, and thank the Lord, a bar. She needed a drink. A low ceiling and dim bulbs provided the backdrop for dusty Indian masks on the walls. Depressing, she thought, but not going to be here long, and do need that beer. She walked to the end of the bar and hopped up on the stool. Mel, she guessed that’s who it was, white hair, leathered face, rolled up sleeves, came out from the back. “Welcome to Silver Lake, what would you like?” “What’s on tap?” “Heady Topper IPA is the favorite around here.” She took a sip and knew why. Five minutes later, a man walked in. Must be a regular, his beer…