The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (11 page)

Eighteen:
November, 1875

After a week of
gray skies, a feeble sun turned the snow to slush. And after a week of terrible morning sickness, Ragna felt well enough to tackle heavy chores. She hauled enough water to fill her outdoor cauldron, built a fire, and gathered the nets Anders had brought home the day before. She frequently scalded the nets to remove slime. She dyed them with walnut bark, too. Light nets startled the fish. Only the laziest fishermen left their nets pale.

“Always the nets,” Ragna muttered. Knitting, dying, mending, boiling, reeling, weighting, packing. She tried to think of every net she handled as getting her one step closer to a
hygge
family farm on Washington Island.

With the nets simmering, Ragna pulled on her thick mittens. Winter was descending fast. Soon Anders would be ice-fishing. She hoped that brought her men better luck, for the autumn lifts had been poor. Their take was down. Everyone’s was.

It troubled everyone. “Regulate mesh on the gillnets,” Anders said, over and over. “A small change can affect which fish pass through, which get caught.” He was relieved when such a new law was finally passed. Changing mesh size meant the making of new nets—no small undertaking. But most of the men had sons to leave their rigs and gear to. No one wanted to see the fish disappear.

Ragna had knit net after net—for her own men, and then for most of the fishermen left on the island. She’d never been busier. Never tucked more coins into the pouch kept beneath the mattress.

And surely soon, she thought, we’ll have enough set by to satisfy even Anders. They could buy land on Washington—near the Betts’ place, if she was lucky. They’d raise cows and potatoes, and Anders could still slip away to be on the water.

Ragna had just finished feeding the last gillnet into the cauldron of steaming water when she felt Dugan’s presence. She went still, leaning over the kettle, sweat beading on her skin. A cloud seemed to sail over the sun. The wren which had been warbling a mighty serenade flitted away.

Before turning around she casually picked up the stout piece of oak she used as a stir-stick. Dugan stood beneath a tree with hands in his pockets. Watching, just watching. He wore filthy trousers and a heavy wool sweater that needed darning. It was difficult to see his eyes beneath the cap he’d pulled down low on his forehead. Little weasel eyes, she thought. He’d be a handsome man if he cleaned up and taught himself to smile.

She loaded her voice with ice. “Yes, Mr. Dugan?”

“I know your man filled my boat.”

“No! It was all of them—”

His eyes narrowed. “It was your man at the lead. You both have always wanted to make trouble.”

“We
don’t
.”

“Trouble,” Dugan insisted. “It has a way of lying in wait, and creeping up—” He slapped the tree trunk, and Ragna jumped—“just when you least expect it.”

Ragna’s heart pounded beneath her ribs like a cooper’s mallet. “I want you to leave.”

“Well, I want a lot of things. A good haul of whitefish. A little company.” Dugan let his gaze dip below her face.

As she tightened her grip on the oak stick, a roar came from behind her. Anders flew at Dugan. The two men went down beneath the cedars, tussling, grunting. Anders was bigger than Dugan, and overpowered him quickly with one good punch to the jaw.

Then Anders scrambled to his feet, panting. “We’ve had enough,”
he barked. “If you ever threaten my wife again I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Dugan sneered. He got up more slowly and stood
with feet braced, clearly ready for another round.

Anders’ big hands clenched. “Get
out
of here.”

Dugan eyed him for a long moment, as if to say
You don’t frighten
me.
Then he slowly swaggered away. Before disappearing, though, he paused and looked over his shoulder at Ragna. She involuntarily pressed one hand over her pounding heart.

Anders muttered a Danish oath. “I’ll let no man live who threatens
my wife. And you with child! I’ll—”

“Let him go.” Ragna laced her fingers through his. “
Please
, Anders. He wants to provoke you by being discourteous to me.”

“Discourteous is hardly the right word! I’m going to fetch your brothers.”

“Anders!” She tightened her grip, anchoring him. “We need to talk to Anton. Or maybe Mr. Betts.” The closest lawman was in Green Bay, but Emily’s husband was a government official. Someone needed to intervene before Anders did something that would land
him
in jail.

Anders stood for a long moment. Ragna could feel his quivering rage. Please, please, she asked silently—not sure if she was beseeching her husband, or God. Don’t let this get worse.

Finally Anders drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry he spoke to you so, Ragna. You’re right. We need to involve the law.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my love. I was coming to tell you—this morning I found something we can use to send a sheriff after Dugan.”

She felt a ray of hope. “What?”

“I don’t want you to worry anymore,” Anders said. “Your condition is unsettling you. Soon you’ll have another baby to tend, and you’ll be happier.”

Ragna wanted to stamp her foot. Her pregnancy had nothing to do with her feelings about Dugan. “But—”

“I’ll take care of Dugan, one way or another.”

Ragna’s hope disappeared. “One way or another?” she repeated sharply. “What does that mean?”

“Mama?” Paul had appeared in the open cottage door, looking sleepy. He’d been napping.

She sighed, rubbing an ache in the small of her back. “I’m coming,” she told her son. She didn’t want Paul to hear his parents argue. She’d let Anders’ cryptic comment go
…
for now.

Nineteen

“Hey, Chloe!”

Chloe jerked from her reverie. Sometimes her imagination was too vivid. Was that another sign of developing perceptive abilities? Lovely, she thought as she lifted a hand to greet Brenda Noakes, who was walking through the tall grass.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Brenda added. She sat down on the ground beside Chloe.

“I was lost in thought,” Chloe admitted. “It’s easy to imagine what it might have been like here.”

A breeze blew a strand of hair into Brenda’s face, and she shoved it behind her ear. “It surely is.”

They sat in silence. Chloe thought about asking Brenda about Juliana Thordarson’s letter, but decided against it—she wasn’t sure how Brenda would respond, and she didn’t want to spoil a companionable moment. Instead she said, “Seems like the lighthouse and the Viking Hall get most of the attention. How did you get interested in the fishing village?”

Brenda plucked a piece of grass and idly flicked seeds from the stem with her thumb. “Some of my ancestors lived here. My father’s people were Yankees from Illinois, but one of my mom’s grandmas, Berglind Fridleifsdottir, came here from Iceland with her husband.”

“Cool.”

Brenda glanced at her thoughtfully, then looked away. “I don’t mention this often, but
…
want to know what’s really cool? When I was seventeen, I was wading off the beach there one day and I found a netting needle.”

Chloe’s forehead wrinkled. “A netting needle?”

“They’re sort of like shuttles, flat, about this long.” Brenda held her hands about six inches apart. “Used to make or repair nets. This one was really old, and whoever carved it added some decorative flourishes. One side is incomplete, though. I imagine someone dropped it before finishing the design.”

“Oh my gosh!” Chloe exclaimed. “Maybe one of your ancestors made that very piece.” Hey, it was possible.

“Could be, I suppose.” Brenda shrugged. “I’ve always been drawn to this place. My grandmother worked for Chester Thordarson, and sometimes my family was invited here for picnics. When I was in high school a few of us used to sneak over sometimes.”

“By boat, you mean?”

“No.” Brenda looked sheepish. “A reef runs from near Jackson Harbor on Washington Island over to the southeast end of Rock. Most years you get wet maybe to your knees or waist, at the deepest spot. But there are bad currents out there, and waves can form without warning. The passage can be deadly for people trying to walk or even paddle across.”

Chloe remembered Garrett complimenting Tim and Natalie for having enough sense to wait out the wind before venturing into the passage. “I heard something about that.”

“People don’t realize that Lake Michigan is a single ecosystem. A bad thunderstorm in Escanaba affects conditions here. You get current going one way over the reef, and wind going the other—the water just boils. And the reef itself is deceptively serpentine. The rangers tell people not to even consider crossing it. Too damn dangerous. But we were kids, and stupid.”

Chloe thought back to a few of her more idiotic adolescent moments. “When I was thirteen, my sister’s boyfriend said he’d give me a dollar if I jumped off the roof of a tobacco barn. I might have done it if his mother hadn’t seen me start the climb and come running.”

“That poor girl who drowned and washed ashore was probably
doing
something stupid. Drinking tequila and going skinny-
dipping
, for example.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said. She really didn’t want to talk about the dead girl. “Say, can I ask you about something? Do you know Stig Fjelstul?”

“Sure.”

Of course she did. “He was telling me earlier today about conflicts between commercial fishermen and the DNR.”

Brenda picked up a pebble and tossed it down the slope. “Yeah. It’s sad, but nothing new. I live in Michigan, and the commercial fishermen up there really got screwed.”

“So I heard.”

“Was it right to completely ban gillnets?” Brenda spread her hands. “I honestly don’t know. But people were fighting about fishing regulations back in Berglind’s day. I don’t suppose that will ever change.”

“Do you think things could get violent? The situation is obviously weighing on Garrett’s mind. He brought it up the day I arrived. And Stig really seemed torqued up.” Chloe hesitated. “And isolated.”

“I suppose so.”

Chloe wasn’t sure what else to say. Leave the problems for the people born and raised here, she told herself. She had all she could handle with the furnishings report.

Brenda wiped her hands on her jeans and stood. “Well, my boat’s docked over at the main landing, and my dad’s expecting me for dinner on Washington. He’s still milking, bless his heart, and I like to help with chores.”

“Have a good evening,” Chloe called, and watched the archaeologist walk back to the trail. She was glad she’d run into Brenda, who’d seemed more friendly—less prickly—than on their first meeting. Maybe I
should
have asked Brenda about that letter from Juliana, she thought. Well, next time.

Chloe got to her feet—she needed to get going too. She did want to see the beach before hiking north, though. She skirted a shrubby grove of trees at the south edge of the meadow, looking for a path to the water, and was surprised to emerge suddenly into one of the remote campsites—a familiar one. The last time she’d been here, she’d been weak-kneed with relief to find kayakers Tim and Natalie. Now the site was empty.

Well, almost. A bouquet of asters and goldenrod, tied with a piece of twine, had been left behind to shrivel. You’re not supposed to pick flowers in a state park, Chloe thought, but her mental rebuke was only mild. As she imagined Tim picking flowers for Natalie, Chloe felt a pinch of loneliness. It had been a long time since anyone had surprised her with a bouquet of wildflowers.

Get over it, she told herself. She was happy to be right here, right now. She really was.

After descending to the beach, Chloe picked her way along the cobbled crescent, imagining life as it had once been. She wasn’t naïve enough to think of the past as “the good old days.” The fishing families had lived daily with hard work and danger, and yet
…
i
f they felt mostly contented with their lot, she understood that too.

The idea of a murder seemed incongruous here. “Who died?” she whispered. “When? Why?”

Waves lapped gently against the beach. The breeze sighed among the nearby trees. There was no one to answer—

Except there
was
. A slight movement in her peripheral vision intruded into her reverie. Someone was walking along the beach south of her, right along the treeline.

Chloe waved. “Hello?” she called.

The figure, no more than a shadow in the fading light, slipped into the woods.

O-kay. Whoever was out for a twilight stroll didn’t feel like chatting. Intellectually, Chloe—so protective of her own solitude—completely understood. And maybe I even imagined it, she
thought. Shadows were stretching long. She’d been picturing
people here. Maybe the figure was a manifestation created in her mind.

She rubbed her arms briskly as she turned back toward the trail. She still had a bit of a hike back to the lighthouse. And imaginary or not, something about the furtive movement she’d seen made her uneasy.

_____

By the time Chloe arrived back at the clearing, the lighthouse stood black against a cobalt sky. She paused, savoring a delicious sense of arriving
home
. I bet Emily Betts felt this way, Chloe thought. She was viewing a scene that had been viewed for well over a century
…

Except for the aluminum ladder standing against one wall, and
the pile of tarps and tools, and row of modern paint cans left
beside the summer kitchen steps.

Chloe sighed. Obviously Herb’s painter had been at work while she was away. “Didya have to leave these right by the door?” she grumbled. She dropped her daypack and dragged all the equipment to a more discreet location. Visitors who trekked up here to see the lighthouse wanted to take photos without a bunch of maintenance junk marring the scene.

Before settling in she walked down the exterior steps and unlocked the cellar door. She needed to check out the space so she could answer questions for lighthouse junkies like Mr. Dix.

The cellar was dim and smelled musty. A large room along the east wall likely served as the schoolroom. Windows provided light,
and the chimney showed evidence of a stovepipe hole. Chloe imagined
children hurrying up the very trails she’d walked, scampering down here, settling down to recite spelling words and do sums.

Unfortunately, some modern junk had been tossed down here as well—two battered coolers, a piece of frayed rope, two large black plastic trash bags closed off with twisty ties. Chloe considered hauling those to the garbage can in the modern outhouse, but decided against imposing their stench on hikers. Why hadn’t Maintenance Mel carted this crap away? With an aggrieved sigh she pulled the modern detritus around the corner, out of sight from anyone peeking in the windows.

The north and west rooms were more pedestrian, with some coal in an old bin and rows of dusty canning jars on a shelf. Newer bits and pieces from the restoration process had been stored here as well—packages of sandpaper, stray bits of new lumber, brooms and dustpans, a metal toolbox, and a bottle of sulfuric acid. “Mel better be using that to clean modern tools,” Chloe said. She’d have to check with Herb to be sure that none of the restoration workers were using harsh chemicals.

With visual integrity restored to Pottawatomie Lighthouse, Chloe went outside and watched bats swoop through the clearing while she made tea in her Sierra cup and ate cheese and crackers. Then she went inside and sat down with one of the reference files. The original logbooks kept by the keepers were in the National Archives, but some wonderful RISC soul had photocopied them.

“I will read them all,” Chloe promised, as she flipped pages to—ah, yes. The Betts era.

William Betts started his log sporadically, sometimes skipping several days, then writing at length when he had something to tell.

Since the 21st of this month there has been the worst weather that I can remember seeing. Not much wind but fog and rain. A steamer on her way to Green Bay lay for 30 hours within hearing of this lighthouse and could not make it through. A brig got on the reef off SouthEast point of St. Martin’s light, got off without damage.

As Chloe read, William conjured vivid pictures of winter storms, fishermen frozen in their boat, a schooner wrecked on a nearby shoal. What he did not conjure was a picture of Emily.

“What was
happening
in your lives?” Chloe demanded, thumping the page with a frustrated fist. She had hoped that Emily herself, as assistant keeper, might have made some entries. Not the case, though. If Chloe hadn’t known better, she’d have assumed that William managed the station alone.

The last lengthy entry came on July 26, 1877, when the supply steamer
Dahlia
arrived. An inspector toured the lighthouse, and brought with him a lampist to level the light pedestal. William seemed pleased with the results of the inspection, but evidently the inspector had been critical of his newsy log entries. From then on, William daily wrote a single terse line, citing wind direction and ships sighted. Period.

Chloe mourned the loss of anecdotes. “You should never stifle a storyteller!” she scolded the long-dead inspector. “Didn’t you know that historians would be interested?”

Bleary eyed, she closed the file. She was too tired to creep through the rest of William’s entries. She rested her face in her palms, elbows on the table. Emily felt as elusive as ever.

But she lived right
here
, Chloe thought. She tried to send a mental message: I want to tell your story, Emily. But so far, I haven’t found it.

Emily didn’t answer. Instead, the faint sound of children’s laughter drifted into the room.

Chloe jerked upright. The lantern cast a yellow pool of light on the table. The kitchen was shadowed and, now, silent. But I did hear laughter, Chloe insisted to herself. She had not dozed off. She had not dreamed it. But
…
if that laughter had something to do with whatever story Emily wanted her to tell, the clues were too obscure.

“Shit,” Chloe muttered. Why was she trying so hard? Flinging open the door to her bourgeoning perceptive abilities might well slam the door on a normal life—settling down, having a family. Did she want to lose the chance of a relationship with Roelke in order to pursue some bizarre sense of obligation to a woman who’d been dead for decades?

On the other hand
…
it seemed she’d been given the chance to set something right. Something so profoundly wrong that a vestige of it persisted for a century. Was it acceptable to walk away?

“All right,” Chloe announced to whomever might be listening, “time for bed.” She checked her watch and groaned: almost 2 AM.

She was heading for her sleeping bag when she remembered the barge she’d seen, and Brenda’s reaction to it. She might as well check again. She grabbed her binoculars and climbed to the lantern room.