The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (8 page)

“Some things never change.”

“All in all, the Thordarsons were good caretakers. They left most of the island undisturbed, thank God. I’ve got a pretty good sense of what changes in the landscape came from them.”

“That’s good to know,” Chloe said. “So, do you live on Washington Island?”

Brenda shook her head. “I grew up there, and often visit my dad at the old family farm, but I live in Escanaba now.” She jerked her head in the vague direction of Michigan. “I’ve got my own boat, so it’s not too hard to come across.”

Not hard, Chloe thought, but a bit of a trip. A beautiful one, though. “Say, I saw a lit-up boat in the Rock passage about midnight. Do you know—”

“
Dammit!
” Brenda’s hands clenched convulsively.

“Um
…
what’s the problem?” Chloe asked, wondering if she should back away. Very, very slowly.

Brenda gave a little shake, as if ridding herself of something repugnant. “What did the boat look like?”

“I don’t really know. I didn’t have binoculars. Definitely not a freighter, though.”

Silence.

“So, what might that be?” Chloe asked.

Brenda lifted her chin. “I have no idea.”

The lie was so flagrant that Chloe almost laughed. Something told her that might not be a good idea. “Well,” she said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Chloe left the archaeologist to her survey. That woman is wound a little too tight, she thought. Fortunately, treasure-hunters and poorly appropriated grants were not her problem.

Learning all she could about the relationship between the village and the lighthouse, however,
was
her problem. And Chloe felt inexplicably disappointed to discover that—aside from a few foundation stones—there was nothing tangible left from the fisherfolk of Rock Island.

Thirteen: July, 1874

The fisherfolk of Rock
Island celebrated summer with an
annual picnic, and Ragna rose before first light that day. While her young son, Paul, played on the floor, she made
aebleskivers
in the special pan she’d brought from Denmark, and an apple cake too.

By mid-afternoon the plank table set on the beach groaned with stuffed sturgeon, steaming biscuits drenched in maple syrup, potatoes, and beans. Norwegian women brought
krumkakke
filled with fresh-whipped cream. The Irish women brought scones and
barm
brack
, a German fishwife came with sugared doughnuts, and Yankee women brought snickerdoodles and gingerbread.

“Such a feast!” Emily marveled. “I must write down your
recipes.” She’d carried Jane and a blackberry pie from the lighthouse.

“There aren’t as many of us on Rock as there once were,” Berg-lind Fridleifsdottir said. She was a heavy-set woman with a broad smile who had immigrated from Iceland.

Mette Friis looked indignant. “But we still set a fine table!”

Ragna let the older women evaluate neighbors—and meals—come and gone. “I’m sorry your husband can’t come,” she told Emily.

Emily switched Jane, who was fretting, from one shoulder to the other. “Such it is for lighthouse families. Now that I’m officially assistant keeper, William and I can never leave at the same time.”

Jane began to whimper. “May I?” Ragna asked.

“Of course.” Emily relinquished her daughter.

“There now, little one,” Ragna whispered, swaying back and forth. The baby smelled both sweet and a tiny bit sour.

She heard Anders’ ringing laugh and glanced toward the men, looking strangely idle as they lounged on logs set near the water. Several were whittling, as if idle hands were too much to bear. Anders, walking after Paul as he chased a butterfly, caught Ragna’s eye and grinned. Watching them together made Ragna’s heart melt like butter in the sun. “I had not known
…
”

“Known what?” Emily asked.

Ragna realized with a start that she’d spoken aloud. Berglind and Mette had moved away, and Ragna glanced about to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I love my husband dearly,” she said. “But I hadn’t known how fierce love can be until—”

“Until you had a child.” Emily kissed her daughter. “And the three of you became a family.”

“Yes,” Ragna agreed. She touched Jane’s cheek with a gentle finger. “All I need now is a sweet girl like this one.” Although she had weaned Paul long ago, she had not become pregnant again.

But this is a good day, she thought. Not a day for regrets. It was pleasant to see everyone enjoying themselves. And Carrick Dugan had, for his own reasons, stayed away.

His absence was a gift that buoyed her through the feasting, the
boat races, the games and singing. When she settled into bed
beside Anders that night, she felt a warm sense of contentment.

_____

The day after the picnic Ragna cooked pancakes for breakfast, then carried Paul down to the beach to see the men shove off. “We set nets only about five miles out,” Anders told her.

“We knew we’d feel lazy after feasting,” Jens chimed in, patting his belly. He was the younger brother.

Anders cuffed Jens playfully before turning back to his wife. “The wind is fair. I expect to be home by mid-afternoon.”

But Anders wasn’t home by mid-afternoon, or late afternoon, or early evening. One by one the other Mackinaws returned. “Have you seen Anders?” Ragna asked. “Have you seen my men?” The fishermen shook their heads, shrugged.

Finally, as the sun was setting, she went to the yellow house
at the south end of the village where Anton Jacobson lived. Many
of the men worked for Anton, and everyone respected him. “I
expected Anders and my brothers home long ago,” she told him.

Anton squinted at the sky, sniffed the breeze. “It’s fine weather. Your men are good sailors. They can navigate by the stars. I can’t imagine what delayed them, but I expect they’ll be along any time now.”

Ragna put Paul to bed at Mette’s house, and then paced the beach with a lantern. She walked in tight circles for what seemed like an eternity. Her husband and her brothers—all out in one boat. Bad things can happen out there, Dugan had said
…

Finally she heard the splash of oars. A moment later the Mackinaw came into view, black in the faint glow cast by lantern and moonlight. When Anders stepped out she put the lantern down and ran into the water to meet him, weak-kneed with relief. She tried to help as he stumbled to shore. Carl and Jens hauled the boat onto the beach before sprawling on the ground.

Ragna lifted the lantern. No one looked hurt. The fish boxes were full. They are safe, Ragna told herself. Her men were safe. She
filled her lungs with damp air, perfectly aware of the stones
beneath her, the soft splash of waves against the shore, the scent of woodsmoke lingering in the night.

Finally she asked, “
Why?
What happened? Why are you so late?”

“Trouble with the buoys,” Carl mumbled.

That made no sense. Ragna looked at Anders in confusion.

He crawled to the boat, reached inside, and retrieved
…
half a buoy. The portion that should have poked from the water was gone. The weighted end of the pole was intact, but the staff had been severed
—
neatly sawed in two. Someone had done this.

Anders spoke for the first time, and his voice quivered with suppressed fury. “Every buoy was destroyed, right at the waterline. We had no way to find our nets. We couldn’t lose them
…
or the fish
…
so we just kept searching. Rowing back and forth, back and forth. For hours.”

“But—but why?” Ragna whispered.
“Why?”

“I don’t know why,” Anders muttered.

Ragna thought of Carrick Dugan and his threats, his eyes narrowing as he watched her from beneath some cedar trees, her relief when he’d stayed away from the picnic. She might not understand why, but she was pretty sure she knew who.

Fourteen

After leaving the village
meadow, Chloe made it around the island in time to watch the
Karfi
arrive. Eight or ten day-visitors disembarked, plus a couple of people with camping gear. Chloe waited while Garrett checked the campers in at the contact station. “Hey,” she said when he was free.

“Glad you stopped by,” Garret said. “I’ve given Herb Whitby permission to bring a painter out to the lighthouse this week. I’m sorry it has to happen while you’re here, but we’re behind schedule.”

“No problem,” Chloe assured him, remembering Sylvie’s irritation about that issue. Herb either had a wish for power or a thick skin to persevere in the face of criticism. “So
…
has the young woman who drowned been identified?”

He shook his head. “I’m guessing whoever she was with panicked, and hasn’t reported her death. That sometimes happens when drugs or booze are involved. If—can I help you?” He paused to speak to a visitor who’d returned. “Yes, you’re welcome to go inside the Viking Hall. Just flip the lights on.”

“We tried,” the man said. “They’re all burned out.”

Garret gave Chloe a quick
Why me?
look before turning back to the guest. “I’m sorry. There must be something wrong with a circuit. I’ll have my maintenance man take a look.”

The joys of being in charge never end, Chloe thought. She waited until the guest left before speaking. “So if the girl’s parents or friends didn’t know she was going out on the lake, they might eventually report a missing person, but no one would know to check for drowning victims.”

“At least not right away,” Garrett agreed. He locked the contact booth and they began walking up the hill. “It’s always possible that the victim was boating alone.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Chloe told him about the cairn and pebble
N
she’d found on the beach.

“I need to document this. I can put out a bulletin, see if any young women with
N
names show up on missing persons lists.”

They stopped at the park office so Garrett could leave a note for Mel and grab a camera. Room with a view, Chloe thought enviously, admiring the panorama below as he rummaged for a new roll of film. Then she stepped sideways to study a map—the one he’d mentioned, drawn by a developer who’d fought to keep the state from purchasing the island for a park. The park landing area had been slated for a hotel and condos. The peaceful eastern shore she’d just visited was parceled into lots—some even labeled with presumptive buyers: Stenhoffer, Owings, Kopecky, Brown. Not a Scandinavian name among them. Probably bazillionaires in cahoots with the developer, Chloe thought. “This is chilling.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “There but for the grace of God
…
” He finished rolling the film into the camera. “Let’s go.”

They hiked up to the lighthouse together. Chloe was glad she wasn’t wearing her backpack. Garrett covered the trail in long loping strides she could barely match, even unburdened. She didn’t want to come across as a weenie.

In the clearing, a visitor was taking close-up photographs of one of the lighthouse’s downspouts. He looked up and brightened visibly at the sight of Garrett’s uniform. “Say!” he said, bounding over to meet them. “These copper downspouts look original! And the lightning cord too!” He gestured to the rope of braided copper that ran from a lightning rod on top of the lantern room to the ground. “These details are important. Any chance I can get inside the lighthouse? I’ve come all the way from Massachusetts.”

“I’d be glad to show you around,” Chloe told him. Garrett didn’t need her help down on the beach.

“Richard Dix,” the man said, offering a firm handshake. Mr. Dix had a flop of brown hair that needed pushing from his face every few moments, and he wore glasses with heavy black plastic rims that needed to be pushed up his nose with equal regularity. The gestures made it hard for him to handle both the camera and a notebook, but he managed.

When Mr. Dix wasn’t telling tales of the lighthouses he’d visited from coast to coast, he peppered her with questions. Chloe
answered what she could and punted what she couldn’t. It was
exhausting, but she enjoyed the challenge and admired his ardor. Passionate people like this made preservation projects possible.

“Can we go all the way up?” Mr. Dix asked hopefully, peering up the steps from the third-floor watch room.

“We can,” Chloe said. “But please be careful. The hatch is
narrow. Don’t hit your head.” As she had done last night. He scampered
up the ladder like a professional.

By the time Mr. Dix was ready to leave, an hour had gone by. He was still asking questions as he walked out, so she felt compelled to follow him into the yard. “Has any archaeological work been done on the site?” he asked, scanning the clearing thoughtfully. “Trash heaps, foundations of earlier buildings, that sort of thing?”

“Not yet,” Chloe said. Mr. Dix would have to get in line behind Brenda Noakes on that one.

“May I go into the cellar?”

“I’m afraid not.” The RISC committee hadn’t forbidden her to take a visitor down there, but they’d discouraged it. Besides, she hadn’t gone exploring in there herself yet.

Mr. Dix spent quite some time back on his hands and knees, peering through the cellar windows. “What’s the layout down there? A structure so massive must have enormous supports.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t been down there myself yet,” she told him. “I’m just not sure.”

“Well, thanks for the tour,” he said finally, getting to his feet. “It’s a wonderful lighthouse.”

Chloe grinned. “Isn’t it? Come back in a couple of years, when it’s furnished and docents are available to give proper tours.”

“I will. I most certainly will.”

“So, you’re traveling through the area? Where to next?”

“I saw Cana and the Eagle Bluff lights on the way up the peninsula,” he told her, “and plan to see the rest of Door County’s lights before driving down to Green Bay and on around to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”

“Sounds like a fine trip,” she said. “Safe travels.” She waved as he headed back toward the dock.

Chloe didn’t notice the other visitor in the clearing until the young man emerged from behind the oil house in the side yard. “Hi,” he said.

She responded in kind, thinking,
Please don’t want a tour. Please don’t want a tour.
She liked showing off the lighthouse, but at this rate, she wouldn’t get any work done. “Would you like a tour?”

“No thanks,” he said. “I was just taking some pictures.” He gestured toward the camera hanging around his neck.

Something niggled her memory. “Say
…
weren’t you up this way yesterday?” She recognized the camera, which had a lens as long as her forearm, and his longish black hair. She’d seen this guy get off the
Karfi
the morning before.

“Um, yeah. I’ve been, um, trying different angles. Different lighting. Of the lighthouse. You know.”

Chloe’s visitor gauge, which had hit one extreme with talky Mr. Massachusetts, swung to the other end of the dial. This guy’s demeanor made her want to draw him out. His thin face and long fingers gave him the look of an artist, although instead of romantic pallor he had a sunburn. He looked about seventeen. Probably a few years older, though, she decided. Not many kids in their teens had such expensive gear.

“That looks like a nice camera,” she said brightly. “Lots of good subject matter on Rock.”

“Yeah.” He studied his camera. “I, um, want to do this for real. You know, professionally. Notecards and calendars and stuff.”

“The guy who just left here would have been happy to buy a calendar featuring Pottawatomie Lighthouse,” Chloe told him. “I’ll look for your work in the gift shops one day.”

She went back inside and shut the door behind her. With any luck she could get some more reading done before anyone else showed up. She fished a bag of gorp from her pack and settled back at the table with the files she’d abandoned the night before.

Well, she thought as she picked through the trail mix in search
of M&Ms, Garrett had predicted that lighthouse guests would
include birders and lighthouse people and photographers. She’d already hit the trifecta. She had enjoyed meeting the elderly couple —good birders, quite at home in the outdoors, and affectionate with each other. Mr. Massachusetts had been a trip, but fun in his own way. Camera Guy, though
…

She frowned. He’d come to Pottawatomie the day before. He
could
have been the person who built the memorial cairn on the beach.

Chloe swallowed, wiped her mouth with her hand, and wiped her hand on her jeans. Then she went back outside. She had another question or two to ask her young visitor.

Camera Guy, though, was gone.

_____

OK, Chloe thought. I need a new plan.

She enjoyed giving tours, but she had a lot of curatorial work to do. From now on she’d spend her days doing research on Washington Island, and save general reading and note-taking for evenings, when the park’s day visitors were gone and the campers were tucked in their own cozy campsites two miles away. She checked her watch. If she beat feet, she should be able to catch the 1 PM
Karfi
back to Washington. She could check out the archives, at least get a sense of their collections, and grab the last
Karfi
ride back to Rock.

She was at the dock before it occurred to her that it might be a good idea to let someone know where she was going. She followed the sound of a motor around the Viking Hall. Melvin Jenks was mowing grass. She planted herself in his line of sight, waving. “Excuse me!”

Melvin cut the engine—not off, but at least to idle.

“I decided to jump over to Washington for the afternoon. Will you let Garrett know?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great. Thanks.” Chloe turned away. This impromptu trip was a good idea. She was like a kid in a frozen custard stand when visiting a new archives, struggling to choose what to sample and knowing that any flavor would be good. She might even find some new bit of information about Emily Betts.

And maybe, she thought, she could find out if anyone had identified the dead girl. Deputy Fjelstul was probably handling the investigation from his home. She felt badly about quizzing Garrett every time she ran into him. The poor man was probably sick of talking about it.

Chloe glanced down at the channel. The
Karfi
was approaching the dock, but she still had a minute. She ran after Maintenance Mel and went through the arm-waving routine again. “Sorry to bother you,” she said, after he cut the engine again. “But I was hoping to talk to somebody over on Washington, and I don’t know where he lives. Do you know Stig Fjelstul?”

Melvin turned his head and spit in the grass. Then he revved up the mower and marched away.

Chloe stared after him. “Okey-dokey, then,” she said at last. “Thanks for the information.”

_____

Roelke McKenna tried to make eye contact with the young woman hunched in a chair across the desk from him. He’d never met her before, and he was trying hard to put her at ease. “I really appreciate you coming in,” he said. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Penny Sloan might have given him a tiny nod. It was hard to tell. A curtain of brown hair screened her face. The teen was still sniffling too, scrubbing at her eyes every now and again with a wadded tissue.

“We’ll take it from here,” Roelke added. “Thank you.”

He watched Penny leave. She’d shuffled into the EPD looking so traumatized that he’d pegged her as an abuse victim. Once seated it took her another ten minutes to spit the story out. Short version: her boyfriend had offered angel dust to Penny’s younger brother. The boyfriend thought it was funny. Penny didn’t.

Roelke sighed. He could deal with the boyfriend, but Penny had set herself up for a hard time. High school could be hell. Nancy Reagan wanted to believe that her new “Just Say No” campaign was going to solve the drug problem. Lots of parents wanted to believe that rural villages like Eagle didn’t even have a drug problem. “I wish,” Roelke muttered.

He was reaching for an incident report form when the door opened again. Mrs. Saddler took one hesitant step inside, scanning the room as if to be sure that Roelke didn’t have any hardened criminals shackled to the wall. “Hello?”

“Please, ma’am, come in.” Roelke ushered the elderly woman into the chair Penny had vacated moments before. “How is your husband?”

“Much better,” Mrs. Saddler said. She looked trim and smart in a navy blue suit with white blouse. “The doctor said we were very lucky. If any more time had elapsed
…
” She shuddered.

“Good thing you were with your husband when he had the heart attack.”

“I wasn’t, though.” Mrs. Saddler rubbed her wedding ring absently. “I was in the kitchen when it happened. My husband was in the bedroom, and he didn’t make a sound. But something made me turn off the coffeepot and go back to check on him. I just knew.”

Roelke didn’t understand such things, but he didn’t doubt her. “I’m glad.”