The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (10 page)

Stig picked up a packet of sugar, flapped it twice, and emptied it into his tea. “Two years ago the Michigan DNR banned all gillnet rigs, which made the sport fishermen very happy. People are afraid the same thing will happen here.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I hope not, but in addition to the push to eliminate gillnets, new regulations are becoming law all the time.” He held up his index finger. “First, limited entry. That’s designed to limit the number of commercial licenses and drive out part-timers. You know Mel Jenks, at the park? He fishes part-time and is probably about to get squeezed out. I suspect that’s why he took the maintenance job.”

And I suspect that’s why he spits at the mention of a former warden’s name, Chloe thought. She tried not to squirm in her chair. She really did not want to be in the middle of this.

“Two.” Stig ticked off another finger. “New geographic restrictions have designated lake zones for commercial fishing, sport fishing, recreational use, and rehabilitation.”

That sounded reasonable, but Chloe understood that people would scream about any new exclusion.

“Three. For years men were able to catch chubs with a two and a half-inch mesh, but now
…
”

Oh my, Chloe thought, as her companion pontificated about nets and “flexible rule measure,” etc., etc. She felt her eyes glazing over and tried to tune back in. Deputy Fjelstul clearly needed to talk. The least she could do was listen

“And four. Quotas have been established, and certain fish have been excluded from commercial fishing altogether. In theory, that makes sense. But it’s now illegal for a commercial fisherman to take a trout, period. Now, I don’t begrudge the sportsmen from having fun on the lake. I enjoy pulling in a trout or salmon as much as the next guy. But that kind of extreme is ridiculous.”

Chloe could hear the rising agitation in Stig’s voice. Dinner better be good. Stig was an even more effective enchantment-buster than Brenda.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Almost all of the commercial fishermen I know are good men, honest, just trying to earn a living. Same thing for most of the game wardens I know. But all it takes is a couple of fishermen who think they’re above the law
…
”

“To give everyone a bad name.”

“Right. And we’ve had a couple of embarrassing incidents with over-zealous wardens. One warden set up a sting and actually coerced a fisherman to go find trout. Another time a warden seized some dead trout a fisherman had tagged and was bringing in, as the law requires. Then the warden sold them to a restaurant, even though the fish were over twenty-four inches long!”

“Um
…
”

“Twenty-four inches is the max for public consumption. Too many PCBs build up in the older fish.”

OK, Chloe thought. I’m on the brink of getting profoundly bummed. Fortunately the waitress interrupted, bringing Stig’s food. Chloe hit the salad bar. Yahoo! Veggies, fruit, cottage cheese, potato and pasta salads
…
all much more inviting than her freeze-dried stash at the lighthouse.

When she sat back down, Stig picked up where he’d left off. “This is a way of life that gets handed down, one generation to the next. My older brother fishes with my dad and my eight-year-old nephew. Nobody wants to protect the fish populations more than the men who earn their living with nets.”

“But
…
”

“But laws get made for a reason. And someone needs to monitor the populations.”

Chloe was glad she worked with inanimate objects. How did people in law enforcement cope with so many people, so much bad energy, day after day? Roelke loved being a cop. But then again, he was generally tautly wired. How much of that came from genetic roulette, and how much from the job?

Chloe stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork. And how had she ended up having supper with a deputy sheriff, talking about law enforcement, thinking about Roelke McKenna?

Deputy Fjelstul said, “When I started working for the DNR, I thought I had the best job in the world. Once things with the fishing industry got so riled up, though
…
I was just doing my job, but—hell.” He shrugged. “I got tired of hearing people I worked with condemn all commercial fishermen, and tired of hearing friends and family speak of me and my colleagues with loathing.”

“Loathing? Is it really that bad?”

“Tempers are flaring. And not too long back a fisherman died of a stroke a few hours after he got arrested for having an illegal trout. Evert was only forty-nine years old.” Stig rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “That’s when I quit the DNR.”

Chloe regarded him. “Do you think someone might get hurt?”

“Get hurt?” Stig blinked, as if surprised to discover an audience. “
No
. And if I seemed to suggest that, I beg your pardon.”

“Everything OK?” the waitress asked. She turned to Chloe. “Want another bitters?”

“No thanks. I’ll stick with water from here on.”

Stig gestured at the empty shot glass. “Now you’re a true islander.”

No,
you
are a true islander, Chloe thought. She felt sad.

“Listen,” Stig said, “I shouldn’t have dumped on you like that. All this trouble will settle down again. People have been arguing about fishing regulations for over a century.”

“Really? That long?”

“Sure. Same as anywhere else. Wardens are caught between bear hunters and environmentalists in Alaska. Trappers and tree-huggers in the northwest.”

“I suppose.” Chloe nibbled a slice of cucumber.

“My college roommate works Fish and Game in Louisiana. A gator hunter took a potshot at him one morning last week. The same afternoon he had to arrest this group of crazy kids camping illegally in the swamp, all in the name of protecting the alligators. They were lucky they didn’t get eaten.” He took a long swig of tea. “Every one of them had a weird name. Lotus, Zilpha, Rainbow—stuff like that.”

“Well,” Chloe said judiciously, “I’m not sure someone named Stig Fjelstul has much room to criticize in
that
regard.” She ate another tomato.

He looked startled. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “You got me there.”

“My first name is Ingrid,” she told him. “Every Scandinavian name in the book shows up somewhere on my family tree. I’m just sayin’.”

“God, I’m turning into a curmudgeon.” He chuckled again, and dug back into his filet.

Chloe was glad she’d been able to make him laugh. She wasn’t always good with people. She would count this as a small victory.

Sixteen:
September, 1875

“Anders,” Ragna said. “Don’t
go with the other men tonight.”

Anders shaved a curl from the float he was carving. “Of course I’m going! We stand together.”

Ragna bit her lip and turned back to the wet net she was overhauling—pulling it over a pole, spreading the mesh. Anders had caught some trout with the whitefish, and their sharp teeth had torn jagged holes she’d need to repair. The kitchen had a steamy wet weed smell.

“Mama, look!” Paul cried. He’d built a wall from cedar blocks.

Ragna kissed the top of his head. “Well done! Can you add another row without them falling?” She waited until the three-year-old had returned to his task before lowering her voice again. “Anders
…
we need to talk about leaving Rock Island. More and more of our neighbors are moving over to Washington. We could farm.”

“I’m a fisherman.”

“You haven’t always been a fisherman,” she reminded him. “When we came here, our plan was to fish just until we’d earned enough money to buy land.”

“It was,” Anders admitted. “But after being on the water
…
” He shook his head. “I can’t be tied down by potatoes.”

Ragna had known this. She’d seen the change in him, seen his spirit soar. “We can still move to Washington. You can fish from Jackson Harbor. I just
…
” She picked out a snarl. “This past winter was so difficult.” It had been the coldest and longest in anyone’s memory, sometimes forty degrees below zero.” Worst of all, once the shipping season had ended the Betts family moved to Washington Island for the winter. They’d be gone until the ice left the channel in May.

A small crash interrupted her thoughts. Paul stared at his tumbled blocks with dismay. “Start again,” Ragna suggested.

Anders got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. “It is no small
thing to move,” he said over his shoulder.

Ragna knew that, too. She’d come to love this little cottage surrounded with Danish flowers, the shady woods, the gentle beach.

But Carrick Dugan had become more than a nuisance. Last year, Anders found his nets slashed. A few months ago, the oars left in his Mackinaw disappeared overnight. Dugan never tried the same trick twice, and months might pass without trouble. As more people moved away from Rock, though, the shadow cast by Dugan’s temper seemed to darken.

“We once moved from Denmark to the New World,” she reminded Anders, “so we can surely manage a move across the channel! There are deeper harbors at Washington. You could get a bigger boat. Or get set with pound nets.” Several of their neighbors had switched to pound nets, which corralled fish instead of snaring them, and were set close to shore. No more days spent rowing hour after hour.

“We can’t afford a bigger boat.” Anders shrugged.

Ragna felt a tiny kick inside, and she placed a palm over her swelling belly. Hush now, little one, she whispered silently to her unborn child. All is well.

Except all
wasn’t
well. “I want to get away from Dugan,” she admitted at last.

Anders came to her and pulled her into the protective net of his arms. “There is nothing to fear. Dugan struggles through life because he’s lazy and ill-tempered.”

Ragna pressed her face against her husband’s chest. She could hear his heart beating. “They are not always idle threats. Who knows what he’ll do next? Perhaps you can ask a sheriff to make Dugan leave.”

“I wish I could.” Anders sighed. “I want my sons and grandsons to find as many fish as I do, and Dugan is unwilling to fish with an eye to the future. But I can’t publicly accuse him of anything without proof.” He cupped her face in his rough hands. “All will be well.”

Ragna turned away. She hadn’t told Anders of the times Dugan had watched her, or made vague but personal threats. She was afraid of what Anders might do.

Her brother Jens opened the door and poked his head inside the cabin. “It’s time.”

“Anders, please don’t do this,” Ragna begged.

“It is decided.”

Jens added, “Besides, it was your idea!”

“It didn’t occur to me that you men would actually—”

“Dugan has no concern for anyone but himself.” Anders reached for his hat and slapped it on his head. “We need to teach him a lesson.”

Jens gave her a little shrug before disappearing. Anders followed, closing the door firmly behind him.

Ragna got back to work on the net—always a net—and tried to think of nothing but tangles and twine. It was no good, though. Finally she grabbed her son’s jacket from its peg. “Come along, Paul,” she said. “We’re going for a walk.”

She draped her heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, took Paul’s hand, and slipped into a cold, cloudy night. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness they silently made their way through the village, down to the beach. The men worked silently but she had no trouble spotting them, black shadows against the gray-black sky. If she hadn’t seen them, the stench would have given them away.

Ragna looked in the direction of Dugan’s cabin, at the village’s south end. You brought this on yourself, she told him. Everyone
agreed that fish offal must be disposed of well away from the beach.
Only Dugan left bloody entrails wherever he wished, ignoring
polite requests that he clean up after himself.

Ragna had been walking along the beach with her family two evenings earlier when Paul had slipped on a pile of guts and fallen. “I’d like to fill that man’s boat with entrails!” Ragna had snapped, as she tried to comfort her son—and swipe the worst of the mess from his trousers. She’d barely noticed Jens’ grin, and the contemplative look that passed between her men.

Tonight Rock Island’s fishermen were taking action. When Dugan came to his Mackinaw boat in the morning, he would find it full of rotting, stinking fish guts.

Anders and her brothers seemed to believe that would fix the problem. Ragna was sure that the fouling of Dugan’s boat would only make matters worse.

Seventeen

“Come back again,” the
waitress told Chloe as she cleared their plates. “As Tom Nelsen used to say,‘You’re a stranger here but once’.”

After paying the bill, Stig and Chloe left via the main door and strolled back to his truck. The crack of a bat against baseball and excited cheers drifted from a nearby field. “So,” she said, “you commute to Sturgeon Bay every day? That’s gotta get old.”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “And giving speeding tickets and negotiating domestic disputes isn’t nearly as much fun as working out in the woods and on the lake.” His voice was wistful. “Technically I’m on vacation, although that went out the window when that call came in from Rock. I was the closest man available to investigate, so
…
” He abruptly stopped walking.

“What?” Chloe asked. Then a putrid smell smacked her in the face. They’d almost reached his truck.

“Those sons of bitches,” he muttered.

“What
is
that?”

Stig’s face settled back into hard planes as he surveyed the bloody, stringy mess on top of the cab and draping the windows. “Fish guts.”

_____

“Thanks again,” Chloe said an hour later, when Stig docked at the pier below the Viking Hall on Rock Island.

“Don’t worry,” Stig said. “I won’t ask you to be seen in public with
me again.”

She made a point of catching his eye. “I wouldn’t hesitate. No more bitters for me, though. I’ll leave that pleasure to the next tourist.”

His lips twitched in a faint semblance of a smile. As Chloe stepped to the dock she remembered the one genuine laugh she’d wrested from him. That unguarded Stig Fjelstul was gone again.

That is one lonely man, she thought as she watched his boat
head back toward Washington Island. At least when she confronted
human misery and vice, the people involved were—for the most part—long dead.

Turning, she considered the Viking Hall which loomed above the dock. Sylvie Torgrimsson had mentioned historical exhibits inside. Well, here I am, Chloe thought. She had a couple of hours of daylight left.

In Chester Thordarson’s day, boats could putter through two arches made of quarried stone and dock beneath the building, depositing travelers beside an interior staircase. Chloe poked her head into the watery catacombs: dim, dank, and empty. Then she circled outside to enter the building from the east.

Even Chloe, not generally impressed by displays of grandeur, stopped short. Thordarson’s great Icelandic Viking Hall was magnificent. High arched windows provided plenty of natural light and views of the channel. Most of the furnishings were original. A runic inscription had been carved into a huge mantel, reminding her of Brenda Noakes’ comments about archaeologists’ search for evidence of early Viking travel through the Great Lakes.

Thordarson had also commissioned a set of oak furniture intricately carved with scenes from Norse mythology. Chloe knew the story of Odin
…
and here was Njörd, god of boats and fishermen, relaxing while roasting his catch over an open fire.

The panel on the next chair depicted a man rowing a boat on waves that held within their frothy curls the faces of several young women. Chloe checked a handy guidebook left available for visitors and learned that Aegir and his wife, Ran, ruled the sea. According to legend, Ran pulled drowning men into the depths of the sea with her net. She, Aegir, and their daughters lived in a great hall of their own, illuminated by the gold she stole from sunken ships.

“I really wish I hadn’t read that,” Chloe muttered, trying to dispel the image of the body she’d found on the beach, wrapped in a net. Enough with the mythical gods.

Chloe found a small corner room which contained exhibits about Thordarson. She admired the man’s scientific accomplishments, but skipped over displays about energy transmission grids and volts and transformers. Other stories, while not germane to her project, were more interesting—a sad story about a workman who drowned while rowing from Rock Island back to Washington; a funny one about Thordarson not finding a single deer when he swept the island with a gun crew, determined to kill the animals that habitually nibbled his garden ornamentals. And she lingered beside a female mannequin adorned with the traditional Icelandic dress Thordarson’s wife, Juliana, had worn on their wedding day. “I’d like to know more about you,” Chloe murmured to the long-dead woman. “Chester seems to get all the attention.”

Then she discovered a set of letters Chester and Juliana had exchanged with friends and relatives in Iceland. The originals were framed with typed translations—a clever presentation that allowed visitors to gaze on historical documents and still quickly discover what the Thordarsons had found newsworthy. Chloe waded in eagerly, hoping that Chester and Juliana had taken an interest in the lighthouse on the far end of their island.

Half a dozen pages later, she found a letter of Juliana’s that had nothing to do with the lighthouse—but stopped her nonetheless.

The carpenters are finishing updates on another of the fishing cottages, and soon it will be available for guests. One of the men brought his grandchildren to Rock today. “My people lived on Rock,” he told me. “It’s nice for the little ones to play in the meadow and along the beach while I work.” When I stopped by this afternoon to check on the progress, a little girl came skipping to meet me. She clutched my hand and in charming fashion proceeded to give me a tour. After pointing out this and that, she concluded, “And this is the house where the murder was.”

Chloe leaned closer. The murder?

As you can imagine, I was taken aback! “You mean the man with the gold coins?” I asked, for we’ve heard that tale many times. “Oh, no,” the waif said solemnly. “The other murder. I heard Mrs. Betts tell Grandmama that—”

Chloe vibrated like a leashed hound. Mrs. Betts!
Emily
Betts? This letter was dated 1921, during the period when Emily was living in Jackson Harbor. It
had
to be Emily.

At that juncture, the child’s grandfather hurried forward and hustled her away. When I questioned him, the man politely refused to provide anything further. “Don’t listen to a child’s fanciful tales,” he said. Gudrun, you can likely imagine that I wanted to do just that! The man stood firm, however, so I am forced to let my own imagination conjure what details it may.

The carpenter may not have wanted to upset his employers with unsavory tales, Chloe thought, but still, there was probably at least a kernel of truth in the child’s story. The reference to Mrs. Betts conversing with her grandmama was too specific to attribute to a child’s whimsy.

That implied that a second murder had taken place on long-ago Rock Island. A murder in the fishing village. A murder Emily Betts had discussed years later. What had
that
been about? A marital affair gone wrong, a theft, some petty squabble that exploded in an alcoholic rage? Chloe agreed with Juliana—it was unfortunate the child’s grandfather had intervened when he did.

Odd, Chloe thought, that Brenda hadn’t mentioned that tale. The archaeologist had clearly worked through the archival material left by the Thordarsons, but she’d regaled Chloe with the tale of what she called Rock Island’s
only
murder victim—the hapless James McNeil, who’d bragged about his gold coins and gotten killed for them.

Chloe stared blindly out a window. Maybe Brenda cared more about finding remnants of everyday life in the fishing village than some sordid tale preserved in oral tradition. Or, maybe she had some hidden agenda. The woman seemed as tightly wound as
…
well, as Roelke could be when he was focused on solving some crime.

Although Chloe skimmed through the remaining correspondence, she didn’t find any other juicy tidbits. As she left the Viking Hall she squinted at the sky. The sun was sinking, but she was pretty sure she had enough time to visit the fishing village site again.

She hit the trail that cut straight across the island at a jog. Her heart was pounding by the time she emerged from the trees. After a short but sharp ascent she felt a sudden lake-scented breeze cool against her skin. The meadow where she’d met Brenda looked deserted.

It is so peaceful here, Chloe thought, as she paused to catch her breath. That whimsical sense of enchantment returned as she wandered toward the beach. When she reached the rise above the shore she sat down by a wild grapevine studded with tiny fruit. Not much to them but she munched some anyway, spitting seeds, soaking in the view. Empty lake, empty beach. It wasn’t difficult to imagine this landscape as it had been a century or more before.

Chloe let herself become still, open to a faint sense of busy-ness that lingered in this now-serene place. She could almost see the cottages built of weathered-silver boards, and cabins with dark logs and stone chimneys; the cooper shops and fish sheds; the dock extending into the lake; Mackinaw boats pulled up on shore, nets drying, barrels of fish and stacks of cordwood waiting for the next trading vessel. It all seemed so real.