The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (12 page)

As soon as she emerged through the hatch she saw a cluster of lights in the distance. With her field glasses she got a better look—definitely a boat of some kind, but that was about all she could say. She remembered Brenda’s harsh reaction to the news that a boat had anchored in the north channel in the wee hours. Brenda had
also complained about colleagues who got funds to search “for
Viking ships and rune stones.” Was someone searching the waters between Rock Island and the Michigan shore for wrecked Viking ships? Did Brenda think that someone was a competitor? Maybe Brenda’s work on Rock Island was a cover for her own real interests. She did have a boat of her own, and spent a lot of time cruising back and forth
…
and
something
about the idea of a nocturnal ship had pissed Brenda off.

On the other hand, Brenda’s interest in Rock Island’s history seemed sincere. And she couldn’t have faked that story about finding the netting needle. No way. The expression on her face had been passionate; the details specific
…

Chloe was so focused on the distant boat lights that she didn’t notice the
other
light for some time. A single light, faint as a firefly, twinkling from the water below the lighthouse. The field glasses magnified the light without illuminating its source. Chloe frowned. What the heck was that?

OK, she thought. Maybe someone on a small sailboat was an
chored in the channel for the night. There was nothing wrong with
that. Still, visions of someone creeping ashore, climbing the steps to the lighthouse clearing, gave her pause. It would be easy to—

“Stop it!” she snapped. She picked up her lantern and checked her watch. Two-thirty in the morning.

Chloe ground her molars. Time to leave the light tower. If she didn’t she’d A., be comatose in the morning and B., completely spook herself out with wild imaginings. She’d report the barge to Garrett next time she saw him. Right now, she needed some sleep.

Twenty: May, 1875

“What do you think?”
Anders asked. He held out the netting needle he was whittling for Ragna. “Will this suit the best net maker on the island?”

Ragna put down her cup of morning coffee to accept the offering. “It’s lovely,” she said. Only Anders would take time to make sure it fit her hand perfectly, and to carve decorative flourishes in the wood.

“I’ll finish it today,” he said. He took the shuttle back and slipped it into his pocket before reaching for his warmest wool scarf. Their brief taste of spring had disappeared.

Ragna hoped she’d just passed her last winter on Rock Island. “Anders, we can surely buy a little place on Washington Island now. When the weather is fine you can still fish for us.”

Anders patted her belly. “I’ve a growing family to provide for. I made more money selling trout last winter than I could make in two years of farming. Let’s see how we do with the whitefish this season.”

“But—”

“Enough!” he said sharply. Paul looked up from his oatmeal, his face puckering.

Ragna rose and walked away, arms crossed over her chest. She and Anders hadn’t quarreled so since she’d pressed him to leave Denmark. She leaned against the windowsill, watching snow drift past the pane. “At least stay home today.” Carl and Jens had gone to
Washington Island for supplies the day before, and hadn’t yet
returned.

Anders joined her, gently turned her to face him, and gave her that lopsided smile she loved so much. “I’ve fish waiting in the nets.”

“As soon as Carl and Jens come back, go talk to someone about whatever evidence you have about Dugan,” Ragna said. “Don’t put it off.”

“I promise.” Anders kissed her forehead. “Don’t fret, love. I’ll be home and wanting supper before you know it.”

_____

A misty cloud enveloped Ragna as she stood on the beach that afternoon, clutching Paul’s hand. They were both cold and damp and tired. She knew she should take her little boy home, put him to bed, wait for Anders there. It would be best for her unborn babe as well. Ragna put a protective hand over her belly, but shook her head. Somewhere in the gray mist and cloud, her Anders was trying to make it home.

“Just a little longer,” she whispered. “Your papa is still out on the lake.” She couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on the water.

Ragna paced back and forth past upturned boats. Most of the men had stayed home that day. Even Anton Jacobson, who’d been known to shake his fist and dare the lake to take him on, hadn’t left shore.

She felt a tiny kick. The baby she carried was restless, often making her or his presence known with tiny fist or foot. “There now,”
Ragna crooned softly, shifting her weight back and forth.

Paul pulled his hand free and squatted down. “I want Papa home now,” he complained.

“I do as well.” She clenched her teeth, imagining just how tired her husband would be. The breeze that had filled his sail that morning had turned wild at mid-day, then died. Snow showers had given way to this silent creeping fog—disorienting for a weary fisherman rowing home.

Thank God he’d set his nets north of the island. He’d have Pottawatomie’s powerful beacon to guide him back toward shore. Ragna imagined Emily or her husband tending the light, making sure that local men—not just the captains of trading vessels—would find safe harbor. Once reaching Rock, Anders would row around the island until he made the beach here by the village.

How many times had she walked this crescent of shoreline, waiting, worrying, wondering? I can’t do this any longer, she thought. Can’t watch Anders leave each dawn, not knowing when or even if she’d see him again.

“This is the last time,” she told both of her children. “I think
…
”

Her voice trailed away. She’d heard the splash of an oar. Hadn’t she? She stood erect, listening. Everything seemed unfamiliar in fog like this, the everyday sounds muffled and distorted, but—
yes
. There it was again. A boat was coming in.

Ragna grabbed Paul with one hand and held the lantern high. “Anders!” she cried. “Anders, here we are!”

The quiet splash of oars paused for a moment, then resumed. Finally a Mackinaw boat slid ghost-like from the mist.

“Anders!” Ragna called again, almost weak with joy. “I was so worried! I
…
” Her voice trailed away. She watched with dismay as Carrick Dugan stowed his oars, jumped over the side of his boat, grabbed the gunnel, and heaved his craft up on the beach.

Had it been any other man Ragna would have splashed out to join him, helping to tug the boat above the waterline. Not Dugan, though. And not
now
.

“Have you seen Anders?” She prayed that for once, just this once, he would understand, offer a word of comfort instead of threaten and snarl.

For a long moment she thought Dugan wasn’t going to answer at all. Finally he turned his head and looked at her. Ragna raised the lantern again. His eyes looked wild, like a fanatical preacher she’d once heard exhorting his parishioners back in Denmark. Ragna’s heart begin to skitter in her chest. Her skin prickled. The clamminess left her bones, replaced with a scorching heat.

“Your man must be gone,” Dugan said at last. He drew a deep shuddering breath. “He must be gone.” Then he walked away.

A roaring grew in Ragna’s ears. She didn’t know she was screaming until Paul jerked his hand from hers, staring at her with terrified eyes.

Twenty-one

The foghorn blast that
seemed to come from an inch away brought Chloe upright in bed. “Geez Louise,” she gasped, pressing one hand over her thumping heart. Half-hearted gray light filled the room. A drizzle of rain sulked down the windowpanes. Chloe groaned, rubbing her eyes. Only a second blast from the unseen ship passing through the channel, and the knowledge that some perky campers might hike up at first light, shoved her out of bed. Yawning, she pulled on jeans, sweatshirt, and a hooded jacket.

As she started making breakfast on the picnic table, the gray mist gave her a delicious sense of isolation. Then she remembered the figure near the fishing village site who’d ducked into the trees when she’d called. Someone else was on the island yesterday evening. She really wished that whoever it was had at least waved hello.

Well, Chloe told herself, your primary job is here, at the lighthouse. Maybe you should just stay away from the village site. While waiting for water to boil, she tried to understand what she found so compelling there. There was nothing to see, really. She had an abundance of stunning scenery and solitude and serenity here at Pottawatomie. And though she did enjoy indulging in her oh-so-active imagination, she could do that here as well.

But she was trying to understand Emily Betts, and the village had been part of Emily’s community here on Rock. Understanding Emily’s life was part of the consultant gig. Right?

The water simmered. Chloe tore the top from a packet of oatmeal, poured it into the pot, and stirred absently. Honestly, she couldn’t claim that her fascination with the village site was all about Emily. There was something about the meadow that called to her. Something that went beyond the scope of her consultant job. She leaned against the table, eating oatmeal, watching the fog swirl past, thinking. Maybe there was a story she needed to tell at the village site too.

“Like I don’t have enough problems?” she mumbled. Still, there was a certain freaky logic to that theory. At Pottawatomie, she had Emily Betts’ photograph as a talisman. She walked the floorboards Emily had walked, she washed dishes in Emily’s sink, she slept in the room where Emily had made love and given birth and watched the beacon shine over the midnight cliff and channel below. But at the meadow she had no talismans or tangibles. If there was something there for her, she’d have to work harder to find it. Maybe she was the only person who could.

Maybe she needed to think of her developing perceptive abilities as a gift instead of a nuisance.

Chloe was pondering that when a mechanical grumble announced the arrival of Maintenance Mel. She folded her arms, keeping her face neutral as he emerged from the park truck.

“Morning,” he said, gruff as ever. He hefted an Igloo cooler from the truck and set it on the top step. “Here’s drinking water. Got your buckets? I’ll go down to the lake and fetch wash water for you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Fetch ’em out,” he said. “I’ll save you a trip. Besides, you could break an ankle going down those steps in weather like this.”

Chloe decided to do as instructed, and watched him disappear into the mist. Maintenance Mel, doing her a favor? Maybe that was his way of acknowledging that he’d been out of line the day before. She sighed, remembering what Stig had said about Mel getting forced out of the commercial fishing business. At least she had a better understanding of why Mel was grumpy.

“Thanks,” she said when Mel returned with the water. “Say, I was down in the cellar yesterday and noticed some garbage and junk down there. Want to take that with you?”

“Too busy today.” He got in the truck and spoke through the window. “All kinds of junk blows across from Michigan and washes up below the lighthouse. If you find trash on the beach, just dump it in the oil house. When I got a full load I’ll haul it out.”

Chloe was glad when the truck noise faded back to silence. She appreciated Mel’s goodwill gesture of hauling water, but honestly? She
wanted
to see the beach shrouded in fog.

Ferns glistened with moisture along the woodland trail toward the staircase. Chloe imagined Emily Betts walking this same path, empty buckets in hand, as autumn began its inexorable descent on Rock Island.

Halfway down the old stone steps, Chloe noticed again the small cave near the path. The mist made it easier than ever to
imagine the long-ago. Might the lighthouse families have used that cave for cool storage? Had Emily carried crocks of butter and strawberries to shelves beneath the limestone overhang?

Chloe left the trail and wandered to the opening. Although only a few feet deep, the cave was still dark on this sunless day. The walls near the opening showed evidence of wood smoke, but much as she enjoyed picturing long-dead traders smoking their pipes and roasting fish while waiting out a storm, she was pretty sure modern campers or kayakers had left the black stains.

Her fingers trailed along the wall as she moved inside. If she could find a nail—square and old, preferably—protruding from the stone she’d have evidence that someone had used the overhang for something other than campfires
…

One more step and her left foot met air instead of rugged stone. She stumbled against the rough limestone wall. “Ow!” she whimpered. She took stock gingerly, flexing ankles, rubbing a scrape on her elbow. If she’d managed to incapacitate herself here, how long would it take someone to notice her absence and come looking?

Roelke’s voice echoed accusingly in her head:
This trip is a very bad idea!

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. She pushed herself erect, wincing, and surveyed the booby-trap. Someone had dug a hole against the wall. No
…
several holes. She hadn’t noticed at first because the stones had been tossed toward the back of the cave, in the deepest shadows.

Who the heck? And why? Somebody looking for the lost gold coins Brenda Noakes had mentioned? Chloe shook her head. Could someone really think that gold coins supposedly lost a hundred and thirty years ago might be calmly waiting in a cave that sat just a few yards from a trail the lighthouse families had used daily? Yes, no doubt someone really could.

“You could have at least cleaned up after yourself,” Chloe grumbled. She kicked rubble back into the holes as best she could, hoping to keep the next inquisitive and hapless hiker from breaking an ankle.

When she descended the wooden stairs to the beach, she passed craggy limestone walls lining the north end of the island. There was no telling how many crannies and crawl-spaces might beckon thieves and treasure-seekers—long ago, here and now.

Despite Mel’s dire prediction, Chloe managed to reach the beach safely. Which was good, since she’d already banged herself up once this morning. That was her quota.

She turned east and picked her way to the memorial cairn, hoping to find new evidence of mourning. Maybe even a whole first name, spelled in tiny pebbles. But the
N
remained as solitary
epitaph, its maker evidently long gone. “I hope the officers can
figure out who you are,” Chloe told the dead young woman. She half-expected the dead girl herself to answer, but the girl stayed stubbornly silent.

Then Chloe noticed a bit of broken glass by her feet. Bits, actu
ally, now that she looked more closely. She sighed, mentally scolding
whichever picnicker had been too lazy and/or selfish to clean up after whatever mishap had left these shards. She wadded them into a tissue and carefully stuffed it in her pocket.

Then she stood, taking in the lake’s new mood. The mist was cold on her face. She felt all alone, enveloped in drifting wet wisps of cloud. A loon, cloaked in fog, called nearby. The mist only intensified the sense of timelessness. She thought about all the souls who’d once walked this beach—the first landing for southern travelers after crossing from Michigan. And for a century keepers had walked here, too. She’d read that the lighthouse service had tried to maintain a dock on this northern shore, but every structure was destroyed by storms. Those keepers’ families were pretty isolated. They must have so looked forward to the infrequent supply ship visits!

Part-way back to the stairs Chloe found a large flat rock a short way down the beach, perfect for sitting, as if planted by God for those compelled to linger. Or, she thought, for a mother who wanted to watch her children while they splashed on the beach? Had Emily sat on this very stone a century ago? Chloe blew out a long, deep breath as she settled down. She was suddenly sure of it. How often had Emily perched here, watching her children play, watching sleek schooners sail the passage? Chloe smiled. Emily’s Rock. With no modern intrusions, it was
so
easy to imagine the scene
…