The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (14 page)

Twenty-five

After Sylvie left, Chloe
washed up and organized her research notes. Coming and going by ferry limited her time on Washington Island. She needed to make the most of it.

She enjoyed walking the forest trail to the dock while fog swirled through the trees, and she reached the boathouse with time to spare. A fishing tug with
Sylvie
painted in red on the bow was moored at the dock. Hadn’t Sylvie said she was heading out on the water?

The tug was a clunky-looking wooden boat with a long cabin—probably where the fish were stored and processed—and a pilothouse at the stern. As Chloe wandered down the dock, idly curious, she heard voices coming from within the tug. A man’s and a woman’s. Suddenly the man spoke more harshly, and louder too: “I swear to God, Sylvie, if you don’t stop—”

“You do
not
have permission to mind my business.” Sylvie’s voice rose, too.

Chloe turned silently and retreated to a bench on solid ground. A few minutes later a man emerged from the tug and strode up the dock—Garrett Smith. What on earth had Garrett been arguing with Sylvie about? Chloe hoped it had nothing to do with the lighthouse project. There was already tension between Sylvie and Herb Whitby, the RISC guy who’d come along on the first visit. It was disconcerting to think that Sylvie also had a troubled relationship with Garrett.

The park manager was almost upon Chloe before he noticed her sitting silently in the mist. He stopped, blinking. Chloe watched his clenched fists relax, as if he was making a conscious effort to switch into public servant mode.

“Good morning!” she said brightly. “I’m just waiting for the ferry. Heading over to Washington to do some more research.”

“Sounds good.” The
Sylvie
’s motor chugged to life. Garrett glanced over his shoulder, then gave Chloe a perfunctory smile. “Have a good day.”

He’d walked on before Chloe remembered that she’d meant to tell him about the brightly lit barge she’d seen. Well, now was clearly not a good time.

Chloe was the sole passenger on the
Karfi
’s first run back to Washington. She collected her car from the lot near the dock and headed across the island. Once at Jackson Harbor, she found a pay phone and called Old World Wisconsin. She wanted to talk with her intern, but Nika didn’t happen to be by her desk. “No, no message,” Chloe told the receptionist. “I’ll try again later.”

Thwarted, Chloe stood by the phone, hesitating. Then she fished
all the change she had from her wallet and stacked it on the ledge beneath the phone. This time she got lucky. “Ethan? It’s me.”

“Hey!” he sounded startled. “Why are you calling so early?”

“I’m not at home,” she began. She quickly told her best friend about her trip to the tip of Door County. “There’s no phone line on Rock, so since I’m here on Washington Island for the day, I—I just thought I’d call and say hi. See how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine. Things are pretty quiet at the moment.” Ethan was a fire-jumper in Idaho. “I’m glad you called, though. I’m about to go backpacking for a few days.”

“Chris going with you?”

“Nope. He’s gotta work. That’s OK, though. The last fire we got called out on—that one in Colorado—it was a bitch. I’m ready for some solitude.”

“I was too!” Chloe exclaimed. “Why do so many people think you’re weird if you need to be by yourself sometimes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Roelke’s not real happy about me staying at the lighthouse. And I’m in a state park, for God’s sake.” She didn’t mention finding the body on the beach. Ethan wouldn’t be any happier about that little factoid than Roelke.

“Is this trip causing problems between you two? That doesn’t bode well.”

“Ethan
…
”Chloe watched a pickup truck circa 1950 putter by. “I care about Roelke. I really do. But sometimes I wonder if
…
”

“If what?”

“I’m pretty good with people when I’m working. You know, talking to visitors, training interpreters, that kind of thing.” Not when dealing with her boss, but Petty was an ass, so that didn’t count. “But I don’t know if I’m meant to be in a long-term relationship.”

“You and Markus were together for several years,” Ethan observed.

Five. “Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

His laugh was low and familiar. “If Roelke cares about you, he’ll figure out that he needs to give you space from time to time.”

“Yeah.” Chloe felt her shoulders ease. “Listen, I’m about out of change. Have a good trip, OK? I’ll be home next week, so call me when you get back.”

She hung up the phone feeling immeasurably cheered. During their college days she and Ethan had often gone backpacking—sometimes the two of them, sometimes with a larger group of friends. When Chloe needed to escape on some mountain trail alone, all Ethan ever said was, “Have a good time. Call me when you get back.”

Satisfied that she was not being completely unreasonable, Chloe considered the day. She had Sylvie’s list of potential donors in hand, and it would be wise to try contacting them now. Time in the archives and local museums could happen around the visits.

She met first with an elderly couple who lived near Jackson Harbor. They’d offered a Hoosier cupboard that dated to 1905. “You’ve obviously taken excellent care of it,” Chloe told them. “It’s in superb condition.”

The woman beamed. “My parents bought it the year they got married. I’d love to see it on display at the lighthouse.”

“It’s a great candidate,” Chloe added carefully, “but I can’t give you a final decision today. I’ll make recommendations to the RISC committee, and then someone will be in touch.”

The second visit involved a basement full of furniture from the 1950s. Chloe made careful notes, and repeated her words of curatorial caution. “No final decisions have been made about the period that will be represented at the lighthouse,” she told the owners. “When that happens, someone will be in touch. We sure appreciate your generous offer, though.”

The third stop took her to the east side of the island to examine a library box. Chloe had no idea what a library box was, but she was eager to find out.

Mrs. Gunderson, the donor, was a thin woman with short white hair and a warm demeanor. “Please call me Ruth,” she said as she led Chloe to a back room in her ranch house. Standing on a card table was a battered wooden case, about two feet by two feet and eight inches deep. The front was a double door with brass fittings. “My grandparents were keepers at several lights in this area,” she explained. “Starting in the 1870s.”

The Betts era, Chloe thought, feeling a tiny tingle of anticipation. “What can you tell me about this box?”

Ruth turned on a lamp. “Can you see the lettering on the front? It’s pretty faded now, but still legible.”

Chloe squinted. “U.S.L.H. Library, Number 467.”

“The U.S. Lighthouse Service
had librarians fill these boxes, which circled from lighthouse to lighthouse.” Ruth opened the box to reveal two shelves which, amazingly enough, still held books. Old books. Very old books.

Chloe’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow!”

“My grandma used to say that getting a new library box was like Christmas. The librarians took great care to include a variety of books. Look at these—children’s books, poetry, history
…
a little bit of everything.” Ruth’s eyes filled with pride. “The lighthouse families were well educated, you know. They had lots of long quiet evenings, and read everything they could get their hands on.”

Chloe eased a volume from one of the shelves.
Around the World in Eighty Days
by Jules Verne, copyright 1873. “This trunk is like a snapshot in time.”

“The box was damaged.” Ruth pointed at one of the corners, which was split. “It must have been taken out of circulation right about the time my grandparents retired. That’s why it’s come down in my family.” She rubbed at an invisible spot on the trunk. “I became a librarian, and I suspect it had a lot to do with me hearing how much these boxes meant to the lighthouse families.”

“How very special.” Chloe shook her head with awe. She opened another book—poetry, this time—and a folded slip of paper fell to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry!” She gently retrieved it and squinted at the faded handwriting. On one side someone had scrawled
For Jeanette G.
On the other side, in the same handwriting, were directions for making a Danish apple cake.

“Jeanette was my grandma,” Ruth explained. “The lighthouse families sometimes tucked in little notes for the next families on the circuit. My parents left everything in this box just as it was.”

Treasure-treasure-
treasure!
“It’s wonderful to have a cake recipe documented to two different women who lived in local lighthouses,” Chloe exclaimed.

“And there’s a letter in this geography book.” Ruth extracted two pages of brittle stationary, covered with the same tight, slanting writing.

“Do you have a transcript of this?” Chloe asked. The ink was badly faded.

Ruth shook her head contritely. “No. I should have made a copy years ago, I guess.”

“No problem. You kept this collection intact, which is
incredibly
wonderful.”

The older woman looked relieved. “I’m glad you think so.” She touched the library trunk with a gentle hand. “My parents and I cherished this. Do you think it should go to Pottawatomie? I do want to support the lighthouse restoration project.” Her words were both sincere and hesitant. She gazed affectionately at the box.

“I can’t provide a definitive answer today,” Chloe began. “But I’m going to recommend to the RISC committee that they reproduce your trunk, instead of acquiring it. That way we can put a new-looking trunk on display in the lighthouse, and you can keep the original.”

Ruth’s face glowed. “That sounds perfect!”

Sometimes, Chloe thought, my work lets me do very good things. “With your permission, I’ll borrow these pages.” Ideally she would have examined them in greater detail there at Ruth’s home, but with a ferry-imposed deadline, she didn’t have that luxury. “I’ll copy the recipe, and see if I can make something of this faded letter as well.”

“Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” Chloe turned to the last page of the letter. The ink here was just as faded. Her gaze skimmed down the page.

Then her heart gave a little hitch. The signature, written larger than the text, was legible:
Emily B., Pottawatomie Station
.

“Was this written by Emily Betts?” Chloe leaned toward the window, squinting at handwriting faint and fine as a spider’s web.

“It was.” Ruth pinched her lips together thoughtfully, gazing blindly across the room. “My mother read the letter to me more than once when I was a child. I know Emily talked about two men who froze to death while trying to cross Death’s Door during the winter of
…
well, I don’t recall.”

“Eighteen seventy-six,” Chloe supplied helpfully. “I just read about that last night.”

“The story gave me nightmares as a child,” Ruth told her. “And let’s see
…
I believe Emily wrote of being worried about a Danish friend who lived in the fishing village. That recipe likely came from her.”

I
knew
there was a connection to the village!
Chloe thought triumphantly. “Do you recall why she was worried?”

Ruth spread her hands. “I’m afraid not.”

“No problem,” Chloe said again. “With some time and sunshine, I think I can make it out.”

Twenty-six: May, 1876

Emily was dusting the
portrait of President Grant in the parlor when movement caught her eye, and she glanced out the window. Horrified, she dropped the rag and ran to wrench open the west door. “Ragna!” she cried, hurrying to meet her friend. “What were you
thinking
? You shouldn’t be out of bed, much less trekking up here!” The two-mile trail to the lighthouse was rough and sometimes steep. Only three days had passed since she’d stood in the little village cemetery with her arm around Ragna. Emily had tried to buoy her friend, holding her upright as Christine was laid in a tiny grave and a final prayer was said for Anders.

Now Ragna was walking slowly, hunched over, one arm pressed against her belly and the other cradling a small tin box. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow. She let Emily help her inside.

After settling Ragna on the parlor sofa, Emily fetched a quilt from the bedroom to tuck around her shoulders. “Rest,” she ordered. “I made a custard for you this morning—I’ll fetch some. And I’m going to make you some tea.” She hurried into the kitchen, considering her supplies of medicinal herbs. She’d made a tincture of shepherd’s purse leaves to help stop Ragna’s bleeding on the night Christine was born. Chamomile and raspberry leaf tea today, she decided.

When everything was ready Emily carried a tray into the parlor. “Please, eat,” she implored. “You need to rebuild your strength.” She waited until Ragna reached for the spoon before retreating to her rocking chair. “Oh, Ragna. Why did you come? I was going to visit you this afternoon. And where’s Paul?”

“Mette is watching Paul. I need to talk to your husband.”

Emily blinked. “Why on earth
…
?”

“I found out,” Ragna said.

“Found out what?”

“I found out why Anders thought he could summon the law about Dugan.”

“And
…
what did you discover?”

Ragna told her. Emily listened with growing dismay.

“So I need to talk to your husband.” Ragna said again. “He’ll know what to do.”

Emily looked away, trying to collect her thoughts. She loved this room, and had tried to make it welcoming—lace curtains at the windows, a warm wool carpet underfoot. In happier times she and Ragna had whiled away pleasant afternoons here, Emily with her knitting and Ragna with her
hedebosøm
. But the lighthouse wasn’t just her home. It was a federal building, always open to the public, a tangible representation of law and government in this remote spot. This wasn’t the first time someone had come seeking William’s counsel.

“Is he here?” Ragna asked. She sipped some tea, using both hands to steady the cup.

Well, maybe William
would
know what to do. “He’s in the watchroom,” Emily said. “I’ll fetch him.”

Once summoned, William pulled a chair close to Ragna. “I am most sorry for your losses, Mrs. Anderson,” he said. “Now please, tell me how I can be of service.” He listened without change of expression. No one except his wife would have noticed the almost imperceptible stiffening in his shoulders, the tiny twitch by his mouth. As Ragna spoke, she showed William the contents of her box. He made no move to study what was inside.

“So please,” Ragna said. “Can you summon the sheriff ? This is proof that Dugan was breaking a law. He must be fined.”

“What you have proves nothing,” William told her gently. “You have no proof that it even belongs to him.”

“It does!” Ragna cried. “This scrap is white. Carrick Dugan is the only fisherman on Rock too lazy to dye his nets.”

“That may be. But this will not be enough to convince a sheriff to make the trip to Rock Island.”

Emily saw something change in Ragna’s eyes, as if a faint light had been snuffed and replaced with something dark and hard. Emily didn’t know what Carrick Dugan had or hadn’t done that foggy night. But Ragna believed that
she
knew. Emily was suddenly afraid of where that belief might take her friend.

“I’m truly sorry,” William was saying. “I will leave you to my wife’s tender care.”

When William was gone Emily sat down beside Ragna. “Oh, my dear friend. I know you’re disappointed, but William knows best about such things.”

“I thought you would help me.”

“I am
trying
to help you,” Emily insisted, a little stung.

“An arrest and fine wouldn’t be enough, of course,” Ragna said, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “But Dugan cannot be permitted to flout the law. Anders
…
Anders believed
…
” Ragna’s voice trailed away. Finally she murmured, “I think Anders was foolish enough to tell Dugan what he planned to do.”

“
I
think we’ll never know for sure what happened that day,” Emily said briskly. She believed in hoping for the best, but as the days passed she’d reluctantly accepted what Ragna had known from the start: Anders Anderson had drowned in Lake Michigan.

“They had fought, you know. Dugan was furious.”

Emily’s heart ached. “Ragna,” she said gently, “I’m sure your brothers will provide for you and Paul, but what do you want to do?”

Ragna, who’d been fiddling with her spoon, looked up. “I want to avenge my husband.” Ragna’s eyes were dry, her voice flat and calm. “And my daughter.”

Emily felt a sliver of ice slide down her backbone. God save us, she thought. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. Just like Miriam in that book you once read—”

“
Listen
to me,” Emily hissed. “You mustn’t say such things. It’s wicked!”

Ragna flinched. For a moment she regarded her friend with eyes that showed hurt and pain. Then her gaze went iron again. She rose slowly and walked to the window.

Emily knew she’d said too much. “I am worried for you,” she said, trying to find better words this time. “You would face a terrible punishment! You must think of Paul.”

Ragna didn’t answer.

An ache was growing beneath Emily’s ribs. “Please promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you will put aside your thoughts of doing Dugan harm. That won’t solve anything.”

“I will not abandon my son,” Ragna said at last. “Paul is all I have
left.”

Which did not, Emily thought, get to the heart of the matter at all.