The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (5 page)

Denise Miller, one of the EMTs, told the women where to meet them at the Waukesha ER. “And is your husband taking any prescription medications, Mrs. Saddler? It would be best if we take them along for the ER docs to see.”

The elderly woman nodded. “Two. Both bottles are on the nightstand.”

“I’ll grab ’em,” Roelke told Denise.

Skeet turned back toward the house. “I got it.”

Roelke watched Skeet disappear inside. Great. Ju-u-ust great. Was this how things were going to be?

Eight

By the time Chloe
got back to the lighthouse the day hikers had already disappeared—perhaps down to the beach, perhaps looping around on the trail that circled the island. Chloe was grateful. She needed to do something important. Finding the body on the beach had overwhelmed her arrival, and she had consciously tried to shut down her inner sensors when she locked herself inside the lighthouse last night. If there were any surprises, she wanted to discover them before the RISC committee arrived.

She started in the kitchen, standing perfectly still, receptive to whatever vibes might be lingering in the lighthouse. Nothing out of the ordinary came to her, nothing surprising—just the typical mild jumble of emotions she usually sensed in old buildings.

Since childhood, Chloe had occasionally perceived the resonance of strong emotions in old places. She never discussed those incidents, and she’d pretty much learned to live with them. Every once in a while an impression became so overwhelming that she couldn’t bear to be
in
a building—a potential liability for a curator—but usually the impressions faded into the background like chatter in a coffeehouse
…
as they did here in Pottawatomie Lighthouse.

“Thank goodness for that,” she muttered. She wanted a peaceful week on Rock Island. A chance to work on a project that had nothing to do with Ralph Petty. A chance to discover how she felt about the possibility of a romantic relationship with Roelke Mc-Kenna. A chance to collect her thoughts and consider what the heck she truly wanted to do with her life.

She had only five days to accomplish all that, so
…
time to focus. First up: meeting the RISC committee. She wanted to be ready.

The kitchen held a round table and four chairs. Someone had piled files and notebooks and reference books on the built-in sink’s drainboard. Chloe smiled, grabbed some of the files, and settled down at the table. This was the good stuff.

Sometime later, when the sound of raised voices drifted through the summer kitchen’s screened door, Chloe got up to greet her guests. No one was in sight, which meant that somebody was talking way too loudly. No tours for you unless you pipe down, she silently told the offenders.

Assuming, of course, that the noisemakers were
not
the RISC committee. RISC members who had invested years of their life into Pottawatomie Lighthouse, raising money and volunteering time and overseeing the restoration, would quite understandably not appreciate any whiff of possessiveness or censure from her.

Three people emerged from the trees. One of the two women walked briskly ahead, hands in the pockets of her jacket, looking down. The man was speaking in strident tones and gesticulating wildly. The second woman walked with arms crossed across her chest—awkward to do, Chloe mused. She must be pretty annoyed.

Chloe stepped outside, letting the screen door bang behind her. “Hello!” she called, with her biggest, brightest, most professional smile.

The woman leading the trio looked up. “Chloe?”

Lovely. This
was
the RISC committee, apparently in high dudgeon before they even sat down with her. “That’s me.”

“I’m Lorna Whitby,” she said, clasping Chloe’s outstretched hand in both of her own. Lorna was forty-something. Her expensive pink blouse didn’t hide the rigid set of her shoulders. “We’re glad you’re here,” she added. “It’s exciting to see the lighthouse project reach this stage.”

“I’m delighted to be here,” Chloe said honestly.

Lorna turned to her companions. “This is my husband, Herb, and Sylvie Torgrimsson.”

Herb still looked miffed, but he made an effort. “Welcome to Pottawatomie Lighthouse, Chloe.” He was a soft-looking man wearing a plaid sports jacket and button-down shirt—way too formal for the setting. His gaze was direct and assessing.

The third member of the RISC welcoming committee was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than the Whitbys. She’d captured long gray hair in two careless braids. Her skin was weathered as a piece of driftwood, and she was lean and lithe. “We expect a lot from you,” she warned Chloe, but she tempered her words with a genuine smile.

“It’s an honor to be involved,” Chloe assured her. “The lighthouse is spectacular.”

“Many of the old lighthouses around the Great Lakes are past salvation,” Lorna told her. “But the DNR stabilized Pottawatomie years ago. It was a safety issue.”

“The state doesn’t have money to pay for internal restoration work, or for guides,” Sylvie said. “So that’s where RISC comes in. We have big plans.”

“Which need to be undertaken one step at a time,” Herb said pointedly. Sylvie flapped one hand in a
Go away, you’re bothering me
gesture.

O-kay, Chloe thought. “Why don’t we start by talking about the scope of my work?” she suggested. “We should all be clear about expectations.”

“Sound thinking,” Sylvie said approvingly.

Since the afternoon was pleasant they settled at the picnic table outside. “We’re in the middle of the restoration,” Herb told Chloe. “The first priority was reproducing the lantern room. The ironwork is original, but everything else had to be rebuilt. Exterior tuck-pointing is complete. We also had the lath and plaster within the house repaired, and the paint analysis done.”

“Herb took the lead on structural work,” Lorna added, patting her husband’s hand.

Sylvie shot Herb a dark look before turning to Chloe. “So now we’re ready to consider furnishings,” she said. “That’s where you come in.”

“Usually,” Chloe began, “the first thing I’d want to do is establish a chronology of use—”

“We know exactly who was here, and when,” Herb told her. “From 1836, when the first keeper arrived, to 1946, when the Coast Guard automated the light.”

Chloe had been about to make that point, but she smiled and continued. “I read everything I could in advance, and I’ve started looking through the files inside. Your committee has already done a lot of legwork, which is great. But what about collections? Have you accepted any donations?”

Lorna put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Just the bed in the lightkeepers’s room, and the kitchen table and chairs. The sink is original—feel free to use the drain, by the way. And weavers on Washington Island made the rugs to protect the floors from workmen.”

“I have explained to other committee members, and to potential donors, that we can’t accept any other pieces until we have a plan,” Herb added loftily.

“Thank goodness we have you to keep us walking in a straight line.” Sylvie rolled her eyes. “Chloe, I’ve put together a list of would-be donors and what they want to give.”

Despite the obvious tension bubbling between Herb and Sylvie, Chloe was ready to hug all three of these people. She’d been involved in projects where well-intentioned participants had already made commitments that hindered guest curators instead of helping.

“Fantastic!” she told them. “While I’m here, I’ll analyze the raw research and dig deeper in the archives on Washington Island. I’ll also visit as many potential donors as I can. When I get home, I’ll have access to period catalogs and other periodicals. You can expect my formal report in about a month.”

Everyone nodded.

“The plan will include a site description, the chronology, and biographical information about the inhabitants. I’ll consider how each room was used, make suggestions for interpreting the lighthouse, and recommend furnishings and other bits of material culture to support the restoration and interpretive themes.” She looked around the table. “That all sound good?”

It all sounded good.

“With any luck we’ll find primary source material from some of the women and children who lived here,” Chloe added. “Sometimes the best clues about furnishings turn up in diaries and letters written by the people who had to clean the pieces.”

Herb straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, the light keepers themselves did a great deal of upkeep on a regular basis.” He sounded peeved again.

“Yes, of course,” she conceded. “And I did read that a couple of women served as assistant keepers here in the nineteenth century.” She was delighted about that.

“If you’ll study the records,” Herb said, “you’ll see that my grandfather was a keeper back before World War II. He was a bachelor at the time, but I assure you, he was ready for every inspection!”

Shit, Chloe thought. The first thing she should have done was discover if any of the RISC folks had personal connections to the place. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Nothing to do now but backpedal. “I’m sure that’s true,” she said. “If you haven’t already written up everything you learned about daily life here from your grandfather, I hope you will. It would be
invaluable
.”

Herb looked a little mollified. “I already have. It’s in the files inside.”

Sylvie got to her feet. “Enough blather. Let’s take a tour.”

Herb, Lorna, and Sylvie walked Chloe through the lighthouse’s first floor: kitchen, keepers’ bedroom, parlor. “I can easily imagine lighthouse families eating supper,” Chloe said, “and settling down for a game of dominoes in the evening.”

“The keepers’ attention was always focused out on the channel,” Herb said curtly. “In addition to watching for commercial vessels, they kept an eye on local fishing boats. At night the keepers watched to see if the light was shining properly.”

Chloe made a mental note:
Keep future flights of fancy unspoken.

“You know this building isn’t the first on this spot, right?” Sylvie asked. “The 1836 cottage and tower failed. Poor mortar. It was a government job, so I expect they took the low bid.” She shot Herb another dagger look. “Some things never change.”

“I know this structure was built in 1858,” Chloe said, as they climbed the stairs to the second story. “There were some fishing families on the island at that time, right? They must have been amazed to watch this huge stone building go up.”

Sylvie nodded. “The fisherfolk lived in little cabins, most likely.”

Chloe scribbled a note. “I wonder if we could find some written description of the lighthouse from someone in the fishing village. A letter, maybe.”

“Observations from some barely literate fisherman would hardly be relevant to this project,” Herb said. He pointed to a narrow room, facing north. “This was the assistant keeper’s bedroom.”

OK, Herb, I get it, Chloe thought. No more references to women, children, or fisherfolk. The Native Americans who fished these waters were presumably off-limits in his mind, too.

“Have you been up to the watchroom and lantern room yet?” Lorna asked. “The original Fresnel lens got stolen at some point, but we had a reproduction made.”

Herb glanced at his watch. “We need to cut this short if we’re going to catch the last ferry back.”

“I’ll explore the tower on my own,” Chloe assured them, even though they had plenty of time yet. “I don’t want to keep you.”

They all tramped downstairs again. As they walked back through the main kitchen, Sylvie pointed to a woven rug in one corner. “That rug covers a trap door and stairs leading down to the cellar,” she said. “But the steps haven’t been rebuilt. If you want to see the cellar, go outside and around. The key you have will open the exterior cellar door.”

“There’s no reason for Chloe to enter the cellar,” Herb retorted. “Nothing down there except snakes.”

“So I’ve heard,” Chloe said lightly.

“We have seen snakes in the cellar,” Lorna said. Her tone was apologetic—perhaps because of Herb, perhaps because of the reptile contingent. “Mostly little ring-necks, but some fox snakes too.”

“If I go down there, I’ll keep my eyes open,” Chloe promised blandly.

Herb sighed. “There’s no reason for—”

“For God’s sake, Herb,” Sylvie snapped. “Stop being such a pansy ass!”

“Have you seen our outhouse?” Lorna asked Chloe brightly. “Not the modern one, the original. It’s the oldest structure in Door County.”

Chloe let herself be towed outside and around a lilac hedge, and dutifully admired the oldest structure in Door County. “What a treasure.”

“We’re lucky the stone walls have held up so well,” Lorna said. She raised her voice as angry tones drifted through the hedge. “A man on Washington Island who has a woodlot is going to provide the huge plank we need to restore the door
…
”

Chloe asked every question she could think of, but an outhouse tour could only last so long. When she and Lorna ambled back around the hedge they found Herb and Sylvie glaring at each other. “Come along, Lorna,” Herb said. “There’s something I need to check in the Viking Hall before the
Karfi
arrives. Chloe, it was good to meet you.”

When Herb and Lorna were gone, Sylvie gave Chloe a wry glance. “Don’t mind old Herb.”

“With a project this large and complex,” Chloe said carefully, “it’s inevitable that conflicts arise.”

“Herb simply doesn’t understand why some of us are interested in the big picture, and not just the lighthouse service itself.”

“I do feel strongly about social history,” Chloe said. “The lighthouse stories have to be considered within broader contexts or they won’t make sense. The fishing village, the region—it’s all important.”