The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (13 page)

Twenty-two: May, 1876

Emily loved the dawn
hour, when the birds were waking, the light soft and pink, the day full of possibilities. She often watched morning come from the light tower. Today she’d descended to the beach. The cisterns were leaking, and she’d brought buckets to fill so she could start morning chores.

But instead of filling them and climbing back up the bluff, she picked her way to a large flat rock a short way down the beach, perfect for sitting, as if planted by God for those compelled to linger. Emily had come to think of it as
her
rock—a place to enjoy quiet moments among the constant commotion at the lighthouse. She’d bring Jane down to play when she was a little older.

Emily scanned the horizon, searching for the supply ship
Dahlia
.
With luck, a new library box would be delivered that day. What a joy to discover the new books tucked inside! And often notes, too. The other lighthouse wives in the area were good friends. They kept in touch through letters, sharing news and seed packets and recipes. Emily smiled, watching three cormorants fly over the water at top speed. Her life was very full, very good. She was thankful that—

“Mrs. Betts!”

Emily scrambled to her feet. A woman was thumping down the steps, holding her skirt high so she wouldn’t trip. Mette Friis, wasn’t it? Yes. Emily made her way across the cobbles to meet her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mette struggled to catch her breath, and swiped tears from her eyes. “Please come.”

Emily felt a hand grab her heart, squeeze. “Tell me, quickly!”

“It’s Ragna.” The older woman’s eyes were dark with sorrow. “Oh, Mrs. Betts. She’s in a bad way.”

Twenty-three

When Chloe emerged into
the clearing, she was surprised to see someone wearing stained yellow rain pants and coat sitting at the picnic table. Sylvie Torgrimsson waved, grinning as Chloe joined her. “Good morning! I didn’t know if you were still in bed, so I figured I’d wait here for you to show yourself.”

“In bed?” Chloe scoffed, very glad she’d forced herself to rise and—well, if not actually shine, at least faintly glow. “Just finishing some chores. How did you get here?” The first
Karfi
run was still a couple of hours away.

“I’ve got my own boat,” Sylvie said. “A fishing tug. My husband was a commercial fisherman. He’s been dead for six years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. But he died on the water, and I was with him when he went. A heart attack. I thank God every day that he didn’t waste away by inches, away from the lake.”

Chloe nodded. She understood that thought completely.

“Anyway.” Sylvie hoisted a weather-beaten canvas sack. “I brought coffee and homemade doughnuts.”

“You,” Chloe said fervently, “are my new best friend.”

They went inside and settled down at the kitchen table. Sylvie poured coffee from a thermos and set out a sack of sugared doughnuts. “How’s it going? Any questions?”

Lots of them, Chloe thought. She mentally shuffled through them, looking for something that was actually germane to the job the good RISC folks had brought her here to do. “Here’s number one. Has the committee given any thought to a period to focus on in terms of furnishing the lighthouse?”

“A little,” Sylvie said, “but we wanted to hear your recommendation.”

Chloe considered, happily sipping coffee that was much better than the instant dreck she’d brought with her. She was sorely tempted to recommend interpreting the lighthouse during the Betts era, but professionally, that was not the best call. “I suggest the 1900–1910 range.” Well after the Betts were gone. Chloe was proud of herself.

“Why then?”

“That’s about mid-way through the period the lighthouse was inhabited,” Chloe explained. “It will be easy to find documentation—Sears and Roebucks catalogs from the period will give a general sense of styles for everything from sofas to picture frames. And it shouldn’t be too difficult to find original pieces from that era. The earlier you go, the harder and more expensive it will be to furnish the rooms.”

“Good thinking. I’m sure everyone on the committee will agree.”

Chloe smiled. She was so used to hearing complaints and criticism from her own boss, the infamous Ralph Petty, that even calm approval felt like a tidal wave of praise. This consultant project
was
doing good things for her mental health. It was pleasant to linger here in the lighthouse kitchen, chatting. The foggy weather made the rest of the world—even the campground and park office—feel a million miles away.

“We’ll have some flexibility in terms of room use,” Chloe added. “Obviously the second story rooms were allotted different functions depending on whether a single man or one family or two families were living in the lighthouse at a particular time.”

“We’ll need to keep the needs of the docents in mind,” Sylvie said. “We can keep modern functions—a small refrigerator and stove, and a little space to sell souvenirs—in the summer kitchen.”

“Perfect!” Chloe exclaimed. “That will provide a nice gathering space where the docents can provide a bit of orientation. A map of the islands would be helpful to make sure visitors understand why the lighthouse was needed here in the first place. Then, in the main building, visitors will find a period-appropriate presentation.”

Sylvie cradled her mug in hands, and surveyed the nearly empty kitchen with satisfaction. “It does me good to see this old place coming back to life. We hope to have the docent program up and running by next season. I’ve got my name on the list.”

“You’re going to volunteer?” Chloe wouldn’t have guessed Sylvie would enjoy handling guests all day.

“Don’t look so surprised! I have a costume from that era that I wear to events at the Farm Museum on Washington, so I’m already set to give tours in style. After watching this lighthouse crumble for years, all boarded up, I want to help make visitors feel welcome.”

“Once I get the furnishing plan written, we can start collecting,” Chloe said. “I would expect that by spring we’ll have enough pieces in place to start the docent program.”

“Speaking of furnishings, I brought that list of potential donations I promised.” Sylvie fished a folded piece of notebook paper from a pocket and handed it over.

“Thanks.” Chloe skimmed the list, pleased to see that about half of the people who’d offered items lived on Washington Island. “I’ll visit as many of the locals as I can. When I get home I’ll write to the people who are farther away, asking them to provide a photograph and whatever information they have. I’ll document as much as I can and send my recommendations to you.”

“Sounds good.” Sylvie leaned back in her chair, extended her legs, and crossed them at the ankles. “So, Chloe. How are you making on? I don’t mean the project. I mean
you
.”

“I’m doing fine,” Chloe said cautiously.

“Not spooked staying here all alone?”

Chloe eyed the other woman. Did Sylvie know of a reason she
should
be spooked? “Well, the first time I went to the outhouse after dark my flashlight beam hit a pair of yellow eyes in the clearing. It was a fox, but for half a second I was a bit
…
startled.”

Sylvie laughed. “Glad it was nothing more serious. How’s Garrett been treating you? Got everything you need?”

“Yes.” Chloe nodded emphatically. “He’s been great.”

“Have you met Brenda Noakes yet?”

“I have, yes.”

“Has she
…
well.” Sylvie paused, looking—for once—hesitant.

Chloe pulled a bag of dried apricots from her stash. What the heck was up? “I understand that there haven’t been funds for archaeological work here or at the village site,” she said, offering the fruit. “That’s too bad, but I don’t think it will affect our project too much. I can work from oral tradition and written sources.”

Sylvie’s face cleared, and she seemed to bury whatever she’d been about to say. “Have you been to the archives?”

“Yesterday. I’m heading back to Washington today. When I’m here during the day, it’s too easy to get caught up in giving lighthouse tours. Don’t get me wrong, I love showing people around! But it’s not the best use of my time. My first priority is giving RISC as much as I can to help keep this restoration project moving forward.”

“Then I best let you get to it.”

Chloe’s cheeks grew warm. “No—that’s not what I meant!”

“Not to worry.” Sylvie laughed. “Listen, before I head out, I want to ask you a personal favor.”

“You’ve already bought my goodwill with breakfast,” Chloe said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like you to write a nomination to get Pottawatomie Lighthouse on the National Register of Historic Places.”

“Oh.” Chloe took that in, turned it over in her mind. “It’s a great
idea, but—”

“It’s
essential
. Right now the lighthouse has some protection because it’s on state property. But what happens if some yahoo governor twenty or thirty years from now decides to fill his coffers by selling off parklands?”

Chloe winced. Wisconsin had a strong and proud tradition of preservation, but
…
it could happen.

“Pottawatomie deserves every ounce of protection we can provide.” Sylvie’s tone brooked no argument.

“I agree,” Chloe said, “but I’m not the best person to write the nomination. Someone at the Historic Preservation office in Madison can point you to an architectural historian. Someone who knows all the lingo, and has been through the process before.”

“I want someone who knows this place. Who
understands
this place.”

Chloe thought about all the work left to do on the furnishings plan—work that would have to be concluded on her own time, once she got back to Old World Wisconsin’s floodtide of curatorial needs. “What about the consultant who did the original structural report for you?”

Sylvie frowned, flapping one hand irritably. “He made mistakes. Told us we needed a specific type of paint for the lantern room and then ordered the wrong thing. He lost his work log and had to reproduce it from memory. I thought we’d hired a decent consultant, but—what an airhead!”

Chloe felt torn. She wanted Pottawatomie to receive federal protection as much as Sylvie did. But she truly believed an experienced architectural historian would be a better choice.

Then she glanced again at Sylvie’s implacable face. “Well
…
maybe,” Chloe hedged. “Let me give it some thought.”

“Good.” Sylvie shoved her chair back and got to her feet with an
Everything is decided
air. “I’m eager to get out on the lake.”

“In this fog?” Chloe glanced out the kitchen window. Visibility seemed to be getting worse, not better.

“Oh, I love the lake in all its moods. This one best of all, perhaps.”

Chloe had the sudden sense that she was talking with a kindred spirit. “I think I know what you mean.”

Sylvie turned to go, but paused by the photo of Emily Betts that Chloe had propped beside some reference books. “I always liked that one,” Sylvie said.

“I’ve been looking for more information about Emily Betts, but haven’t unearthed much.”

“Keep digging,” Sylvie said. “Emily Betts was highly respected around here. Surely something will turn up.”

I hope so, Chloe thought. For half a second she considered confiding in Sylvie, telling her that she felt inexplicably compelled to learn more about Emily Betts and her time at Pottawatomie. Then she imagined Sylvie reporting back to the RISC committee: “I thought we’d hired a decent consultant, but—what an airhead!”

“I’ll keep digging,” Chloe promised. “Thanks for coming by.”

Twenty-four: May, 1875

Dawn found Ragna staring
at the ceiling, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, heart scraped raw. She’d given birth to a premature daughter the day before—Christine, who’d lived less than an hour. Christine’s tiny body had been washed and dressed in the gown Ragna had sewn and decorated with
hedebosøm.
Ragna’s friends
tenderly laid the dead infant in the tiny coffin Mette’s husband had built. She would be buried that evening.

Emily had fallen asleep in the chair near the bed with her hands folded in her lap and her head resting against the wall. The women shouldn’t have fetched Emily, Ragna thought. Emily had plenty of her own work. Besides, the good fishwives of Rock Island knew how to tend their own. One brought broth, another wine. Mette even made
rødgrød
med fløde
with dried cherries and strawberries. Ragna’s mother used to make
rødgrød
too, in full summer when ripe red fruit made a juicy and sweet pudding.

Only Emily had tried to give Ragna hope. “Anders may yet be drifting, waiting for the sun to come up and burn away the fog,” she’d said. “Come, now. Don’t despair yet.” And such things did happen. More than once a fisherman had not come home, been mourned as lost, then turned up hours or days or even a week later.

But Ragna knew that all hope was gone. She understood that Anders was dead—and by Dugan’s hand. She’d told Mette and she, bless her wise heart, had not argued.

Moving slowly, silently, Ragna sat up in bed. The cottage was no longer
hygge
, no longer a home. Anders was simply
… gone
. His absence sucked the air from the room. I told him not to go out alone, Ragna thought, balling the sheet in her fists.

How had it happened? It was only too easy to imagine. Two men out on the big lake, each alone in a boat better tended by two. Anders had believed he’d found something to bring the law down on Dugan. Had Anders been so foolish as to confront Dugan with—with
whatever
that knowledge was? Had Dugan seen opportunity in the dense fog, silently rowed close to Anders’ nets, simply waited for the right moment? Had Dugan shot Anders? Hit him over the head? Out on the lake Dugan could easily dump a body, sink the Mackinaw boat, come home with nothing to show for what he’d done
…
except the look in his eyes.

Ragna winced as pain stabbed through her pelvis. At least the bleeding had stopped.
You can’t be weak now,
she thought. Anders was dead, and Christine too. Paul was still hers, though. Paul needed a mother.

And Ragna needed to deal with Dugan. If only Anders had confided in her! Then she might be able to take the tale to the sheriff, or at least to William Betts. In trying to protect her, Anders had withheld what she needed to protect herself.

Gritting her teeth, Ragna pushed to her feet and slowly fastened a cloak over her nightdress. Paul slept on, and Emily too.

The village was stirring. Men shouted from the beach as they loaded nets boxes, shoved their boats into the water. Somewhere a dog barked. The scent of wood smoke drifted through the dawn as women fried eggs and cooked oatmeal. Ragna kept to the trees as she crept south, weaving past the village. Many homes were empty now, and the fog had lingered, so it was easy to stay hidden.

She came upon Dugan’s cabin from behind. It leaned a bit, and the tiny garden patch grew as many weeds as potatoes and carrots. No smoke trailed from the chimney. The place looked deserted. Perhaps even Dugan knew he’d gone too far, and that he’d be wise to leave Rock Island. Perhaps, Ragna thought wearily, that is the best I can hope for.

Still, something compelled her to creep toward the cabin. When she was better rested and thinking more clearly, when the sun burned through the fog, she would not be so foolish. If I’m going to search Dugan’s cabin, Ragna thought, it must be
now
.