The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (15 page)

Twenty-seven

Fog still overpowered the
sun when Chloe left Ruth’s house with the precious letter sandwiched safely between two pieces of cardboard. She bought a soda at Mann’s grocery, which gave her more change, and was heading out when she almost collided with someone who’d paused to look at the notices on a community bulletin board.

“Excuse me—oh, hey!” Chloe blinked at Tim Brown, the kayaker, with surprise. “I thought you and Natalie were long gone from these parts.”

“We paddled over to St. Martin’s Island, but decided to swing back south. I just hitched a ride into town so I could pick up some supplies.”

Chloe glanced at the notice he’d been reading, an advertise
ment
for a fishing tug. “You thinking of taking up commercial
fishing?”

Her words were light, so she was surprised when he shrugged. “Maybe. It’s not easy to break in, though.”

“I imagine that getting set up is expensive.”

“Yeah.” He looked again at the hand-lettered “For Sale” sign.

“Well, good luck,” she said, and watched him disappear into the store. She remembered Tim whittling a stick to use for roasting marshmallows the evening she’d met him and Natalie. Now he was dreaming about buying a fishing rig.

So, what’s wrong with that, she asked herself. But the real question was this: how long had it been since she’d made s’mores and dreamed of some new venture, however unlikely it might be? She sighed. Something about Tim made her feel old.

She circled back to a pay phone to try her intern again. “Tanika Austin,” Nika said crisply.

Yahoo. “It’s me,” Chloe said. “How’s it going?”

“Well, Petty convened a big meeting this morning. As lowly intern I wasn’t invited, but I got the scoop. The audit report came in.”

Chloe braced herself. “What did it say about collections?”

“Long story short? The site needs more resources to adequately care for the collection.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. What was the bottom line? Did the report provide more ammunition for the idiots who want to privatize historic sites?”

“I’m sure the people in favor of that will be able to use the
report that way. ‘A private enterprise focused on entertainment could do a better job of making money,’ blah blah blah.”

“What is
wrong
with these people?” Chloe demanded. Places like Rock Island State Park and Old World Wisconsin were state treasures, to be preserved and interpreted with integrity. She swatted irritably at a fly. “Anything else?”

“Not about the audit. A feature reporter from the
Milwaukee
Journal
came out yesterday. Petty donned historic garb and took the woman and her photographer around himself. Wouldn’t let them talk to anyone else. Guess whose picture ended up in the paper? The interpreters were pretty pissed.”

“Another Petty atrocity,” Chloe muttered. Suddenly she remembered she was on a pay phone, with limited silver on hand. “So, any luck finding information about archaeology projects in this area? I know I just talked with you yesterday, but—”

“I found quite a bit, actually.”

No surprise there. Chloe wedged the phone between ear and shoulder, slapped her notebook open, and waited with pen poised. “OK. Let me have it.”

“Well, there are two big archaeological grails up your way,” Nika began. “First, how much do you know about
Le Griffon
?”

“Um, not a whole lot.” As in, nothing.

“The
Griffon
was the first full-sized sailing vessel on the upper great lakes. It was built by La Salle—you know, the famous French explorer?”

“Sure.” This was firmer ground for anyone who’d gone through twelve years of Wisconsin public school.

“In 1679,
Le Griffon
disappeared somewhere up your way. As you might imagine, people involved in underwater salvage drool with lust about the prospect of discovering it.”

Chloe could imagine, all too well. “I have seen a barge or something, north of Rock Island, all lit up at midnight. Maybe some crew is searching for the
Griffon
.” They’d want to keep something like that a secret, right? So every other salvage diver in the area didn’t show up? They might want to hide from academics, too—historians more interested in documenting the past than profiting f
rom it. Chloe sucked in her lower lip, thinking. Did Brenda Noakes fit
into one of those categories?

“There’s more to the story,” Nika told her. “According to the legend, an Iroquois prophet placed a curse on the
Griffon
. Some people say the ship’s disappearance fulfilled that curse by sailing through a crack in the ice.”

“That does not sound pleasant.”

“And some say the
Griffon
still sails on foggy nights,” Nika added cheerfully. “Maybe that’s what you saw.”

“I don’t think so. I—hold on.” An operator had cut in, telling Chloe to deposit more quarters. “OK. What was the second grail you mentioned?”

“Proof that Vikings traveled through the Great Lakes. A couple of rune stones have been found, but some historians believe they’re fakes.”

“Some, but not all.” A raindrop hit Chloe’s cheek. She wrestled to pull up her hood without dropping the phone.

“Right. Oral tradition among one of the Native American groups in the area does include reference to a group of whites that was defeated in battle near present day Oshkosh, centuries before La Salle showed up. No physical evidence of that has been found, so obviously most historians don’t give that story much credence.”

“Obviously,” Chloe said dryly.

“That hasn’t stopped a few people from risking their careers by searching for evidence of Viking travel. If someone could turn up something definitive—a Viking ship or something—it would be huge.”

Chloe nodded. It would indeed.

“A friend of mine put me in touch with a friend of
hers
who works at one of the colleges up north.” Nika paused. “Ms. Noakes was on the faculty at U-Michigan for a while, but she left after some clash with a tenured colleague.”

Chloe leaned over, protecting her notebook from the drizzle. “It may be that her illustrious colleague got funding for a project and she didn’t. She’s a tad sensitive on that score.”

“Or it could be she’s on to something big, and the middle-aged white guys who run the world won’t like it.”

“That is also certainly possible.”

“She ended up at Escanaba College, a tiny school in the Upper Peninsula. About two years ago she published an article about Rock Island.”

“Yeah?” This sounded more interesting.

“In this article, Ms. Noakes talks about a murder,” Nika said. “Some guy got killed for a stash of gold coins, and she talks about the treasure-hunters still salivating over the missing stash.”

So much for new information. “Oh. Yeah, she told me about that.”

“Then she goes on to say that this well-publicized tale shouldn’t overshadow the other murder that took place on Rock Island.”

The other murder? Chloe thought. So Brenda
did
know about the murder that had been hinted at in the Thordarson letter. “What did she say? Do you have a copy of the article?”

“Of course,” Nika said calmly. “I had a copy faxed to my bank and I picked it up there. Just a sec.” A pause, a rustle of distant paper. “OK, here’s the bit: ‘The fate of James McNeil, and the fate of his gold coins, has long been discussed and debated by local historians. It is distressing to observe, however, that rumors of a second murder on Rock Island have been ignored. Could it be because the source was a woman? Even worse, a woman who’d gained her information from a young girl? The community of traditional historians must begin to—’”

“Please deposit more coins,” came a disembodied voice in Chloe’s ear.

Chloe didn’t have any more coins. “Nika?” she shouted, as if volume might prevail over the phone company’s meter. “I gotta go, but I’ll—”

Click
.

“Call you back soon,” Chloe told the dial tone. She replaced the phone and checked her watch. Three-fifteen. She still had some time before the last ferry of the day headed for Rock. The maritime museum Sylvie had told her about was in Jackson Harbor, very close to the
Karfi
dock. Why not take a quick peek at that? Munching a peanut butter sandwich that she’d made that morning, Chloe headed back across the island.

The museum had been established in two old fish sheds. A couple of tugs that looked almost identical to Sylvie’s boat were moored at the dock. One, the
Seahawk
, had a small rowboat tied behind it. Hand-painted letters noted that another, the
Welcome
, had been built in Jackson Harbor in 1926. History everywhere I look, Chloe thought.

The museum itself seemed deserted, and she paused to study some photographs on the wall: men grinning from their tugs, men mending nets, men cleaning fish. She was squinting at one when an elderly black man came through a side door and greeted her with a surprised smile. “Hello! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I just got here,” Chloe assured him. Then she pointed at the image of a fair-haired, weather-coarsened man in overalls, standing on a dock with a wooden net box in his hands. “Who is that? For some reason he looks familiar.”

The docent pulled off wire-rimmed glasses and leaned close. “Paul Anderson. He drowned in 1939—probably not too long after that photograph was taken. He was rowing from Rock Island
to Washington and capsized.” The man shook his head sadly.
“People on shore launched a rescue boat when they spotted him clinging to a pound net stake, but it was rough waters and he couldn’t hang on long enough.”

“I read about that!” Chloe said. It had been one of the stories she’d found in Chester Thordarson’s Viking Hall. “It’s terrible to imagine an experienced fisherman drowning within sight of both islands.”

“Bad years, the thirties, and not just because of the Depression. Smelt were making their way into the Great Lakes, which hit the herring and whitefish populations hard. Then there were all the rules the state kept laying down. Always tinkering with the mesh size.” The docent tapped the glass over Paul Anderson’s photograph with one gnarled finger. “Paul and a few of the men, they had a place on the island where they made illegal gillnets. Just trying to feed their families, you understand?”

“I do.”

“Paul got himself arrested a few times, and finally gave up fishing. He went to work for Chester Thordarson.” The man looked pensive for a moment. Then he put what difficult memories he had aside. “Well, now. If you’ll sign our guest book, I’ll be glad to show you around.”

Chloe signed the book and stuffed a five dollar bill in the donation can. “I don’t have much time,” she said contritely. “I thought I’d get an idea of what was here, and then come back another day.”

“Sure. I’ll be glad to answer any questions.” He gestured at the nearby displays with a big and calloused hand. The exhibits had obviously been put together with pride.

Chloe loved little museums like this, which said so much about local history and the people who worked to preserve it. “I can’t imagine being a commercial fisherman,” she said. “Being out in all kinds of weather
…
”

“Lord knows it gets bad out there.” The docent looked toward the lake. “It’s tough work, but I’ll tell you this: the men are tougher.” He grinned. “My father didn’t get past seventh grade in school, but he was the smartest, most capable man I ever knew. All the old fishermen are like that. They can read the weather, fix a diesel engine, handle wiring, repair woodwork
…
anything. And nobody understands the lake better than we do. DNR men in the cities talk about ‘lake ecology’ like it’s some new thing, but it’s all bookwork to them.”

“So you started fishing with your dad?”

“Went out with him when I was ten,” he said proudly. “I fished commercial for almost seventy years. I’m still game, but my wife needs me home more. I just volunteer out here a couple of afternoons a week.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Chloe said, with deep sincerity. “Volunteers make the museum world go ’round. And perhaps you left the business at a good time. With all the problems
…
”

He sobered. “It’s gotten nasty,” he agreed. “I hate to see it. I wanted my grandson to take my rig, but in the end, I advised him against it. He loves being on the water, but he’s also got a wife and baby now. He’s a paralegal down in Green Bay.”

The man’s tone was a poignant mix of pride and regret. Chloe touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it sounds like he’s doing well for his family.”

“He is.” The old man studied a scar on his left thumb, rubbing it absently. “I tried to fish right. You know, make a living and protect the fish populations too. I switched to gillnets with a bigger mesh or a smaller mesh, whatever the DNR said. In the end, though, it wasn’t enough to keep my rig in the family.” Suddenly he blinked. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to spout off like that. You go on and look around.”