The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (18 page)

Thirty-two:
November, 1882

Ragna sat by her
stove, trying to remember what Anders looked like. She remembered his energy, his joy, his bubbling laughter; even the feel of his hands on cold nights. But after six years, it was getting harder and harder to recall his face. Too many dreams, she thought. She often dreamed of him sinking into the lake, tangled in one of her fishnets, the stones she’d hand-tied along one edge pulling him down
…

She jumped when the door opened. Carl came inside and slammed it quickly to keep the icy wind from following him. “Where’s Paul?” she cried. Oh dear God—

“He’s fine,” Carl said. “He and Jens are down at the shed.” He frowned. “Did you let your fire go out?”

Paul’s fine, Ragna told herself. Paul’s
fine
. Then she checked the firebox. “It’s not all the way out,” she said. She blew on the glowing embers, added some kindling.

“Jesus, Ragna.” Carl sounded disgusted.

“I made pea soup and dumplings. Go help Paul and Jens with the catch, and supper will be hot by the time you’re done.”

Carl didn’t speak. He touched Anders’ pipe, still hanging on the wall where he’d left it the day he disappeared. He walked to the window, scratched a hole in the frost, peered out. Finally he pulled out a chair by the table and sat.

Ragna knew something bad was coming. She just didn’t know what. “Say what you have to say, Carl.”

“Jens and I are leaving Rock Island.”

“I see.” Ragna stood, stirred the soup pot, fussed with the damper.

“We would have left long ago if you’d been willing to come with us. We need a bigger boat, and a deeper harbor.”

Ragna reached for the bowls kept on a shelf.

“Come with us,” Carl said. “We’ll find a bigger place where all of us can live. You can keep house, and—”

Ragna wished she had the netting needle Anders had been carving for her. It had disappeared into the lake with him, but it would be nice to hold his last gift in her hand—especially when arguing with her brothers. “I will not leave Rock Island.”

Carl stood again, looming over her. “Why
not
? There’s nothing for you here!”

“Have you forgotten that my baby girl’s grave is here? And that Anders is
…
” She waved an arm toward the lake, blinking back tears.

“How could we forget?” Carl shot back. “I understand your grief,
Ragna—”

“You do not.”

“—but Anders would not want this for you.” He gestured vaguely around the room.

Oh, Ragna thought, but this
is
what Anders wanted. He wanted to stay right here.

Carl sighed. “Please, sister. Winter is coming down fast. Jens and I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“Anton Jacobson is still here with his sister and his boy. And a few others as well.” Not Mette Friis, though—her family had left two years earlier. Berglind Fridleifsdottir’s family had packed up the year before that.

“Ragna—”

“Go. You have my blessing.” Ragna folded her arms. “Paul and I will be fine.”

“Paul wants to come with us.”

Ragna’s knees went soft. “You have discussed this with him? How could you? It was bad enough that you took him back out in the boat after I
forbade
you to, but—”

“You can’t hold smoke in your hands.” Carl shoved his hands in his pockets. He was muscled and brawny like all the fishermen. Like Anders had been. “That boy lives to be on the water. You can’t stop him. Neither could Jens and I, even if we wanted to.”

“You are taking my boy.” Ragna pressed one hand over her heart, which seemed to be skittering very fast.

“I have to,” Carl said grimly. “You are poisoning him, Ragna. He lost his father young, which is harsh. But he needs to have a life of his own! He needs to remember Anders as he lived, not as he died. Yet all you do is fill him with bitter tales.”

They were taking her son. They were taking her boy. “At least wait until spring,” Ragna begged. “You can fish through the ice here as well as anywhere.”

Carl shook his head. “We’ve been offered work on Washington Island, trimming bark off cedar logs for telegraph poles. We start next week.”

Ragna felt a wave of nausea. It reminded her of morning sickness.

“Well, I’ve said my piece. I’ll go get the others.” Carl walked to the door and paused, hand on the latch. “Dugan’s gone, Ragna. He hasn’t been seen in six months.”

“He’ll be back.” He always came back.

“Are you staying to be near Christine and Anders?” Carl asked. “Or are you staying because of Dugan? Don’t think I haven’t seen you. You should be staying far away from the man, and instead
…
” He spread his hands. Fisherman’s hands, strong and scarred. “You’re taunting a boar, Ragna. There isn’t a sheriff on the islands. If you—”

“Go,” Ragna managed. “Just go.”

“Poison,” Carl muttered, and left.

Thirty-three

Stig insisted that Chloe
leave Rock Island with him and Spencer Brant. She agreed only because she didn’t want to argue in front of Spencer. The three of them walked in silence to the landing, guided by flashlight.

Stig made a radio call before they motored around Washington Island and on to the mainland. Another deputy was waiting at the dock.

“Good luck, Spencer,” Chloe said. She took one of his hands, squeezed.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you very much.”

“What will happen to Spencer?” she asked, when Stig rejoined her on the deck.

“He’ll get charged with failure to report an accident in a timely fashion, but it seems clear that the girl’s death was an accident. A stupid, senseless accident, but an accident nonetheless.” He sucked in a long breath, blew it out again. “Your instincts were good, Chloe. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, savoring his words. She hadn’t felt particularly good about her people skills lately, but she’d somehow done an OK job with Spencer Brant.

“If you’re not too tired,” Stig began, “We still need to talk about Sylvie.”

Chloe’s bubble of satisfaction popped.
Sylvie
. “I’m not too tired,”
she told him. “Is the actual sheriff coming up too?” She flushed. “I mean, don’t take that the wrong way, but—”

“Door County doesn’t have a sheriff at the moment. We’re waiting for Governor Dreyfus to appoint a new one. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Chloe sighed. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Where do you want to spend the night?”

“At the lighthouse.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Chloe gave him a pointed look. “Listen, Stig, I’m not a child, and I’m not stupid. I was ready to leave the lighthouse when we thought a serial killer might be on the loose. But there’s not some maniac drowning women in Rock Island passage. We know how Zana died.”

“That still leaves one unexplained death on Rock Island,” he said grimly.

“But Sylvie’s body was found over a mile away from Pottawatomie.” She kept her voice firm, rational. “Look, I was only given a week to tackle this project. I’m making great progress, but time is running out.”

“What difference does it make where you stay? The archives and museums are on Washington anyway.”

“I need to be at Pottawatomie.” If he didn’t understand that, she couldn’t explain it. “Is the park going to be closed tomorrow, do you think?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. The death will be in the news. Any potential visitors can make their own decision.”

That’s one more point in my favor, Chloe thought.

Stig stared over the water, purple-black in the starlight. After a long moment he said, “Do you have any coffee at the lighthouse?”

Victory. “I do.”

“Here’s the deal, then. We go back to Pottawatomie, you make coffee, I get your statement. If you insist on staying at the lighthouse, I at least want to make sure you’re locked up tight for the night.”

_____

An hour later Stig and Chloe were settled at the kitchen table in Pottawatomie Lighthouse. A lantern dispelled some of the shadows. Stig wrapped his hands around his Sierra cup of instant coffee, straight-up. Chloe had added cocoa powder and a peppermint to hers, and a dollop of honey too.

“So,” Stig said. “Give me the sequence of events that led to you finding Sylvie’s body.”

Chloe told him about the conversation she’d had with Sylvie that morning—Geez, had it just been that morning?—before she headed to the dock. Suddenly she paused, reluctant to mention the argument she’d overheard between Garret and Sylvie.

“What?” Stig asked, eyes narrowing. “Why are you hesitating?”

No choice but to tell the tale. She did.

“But you didn’t hear what Garrett and Sylvie were arguing about?”

“No. But Garrett
…
”

Stig frowned impatiently.
“What?”

“He seemed really upset about Sylvie.”

“They used to be married.”

“They did?” Chloe leaned back in her chair. “OK, I did not see that coming. When? For how long?”

“Decades ago, and not for long. Maybe four or five years.” Stig took off his glasses, rubbed his nose, replaced them. “They got divorced. A few years later, Sylvie remarried. She and her second husband were together a long time.”

Geez Louise. No wonder Garrett had been shaken.

“Back to your story,” Stig said. “What happened after you overheard Garrett and Sylvie arguing?”

Chloe summarized her day on Washington, taking the late
Karfi
to Rock, and deciding to circle past the meadow on the way home. “And then I wandered down to the beach, and was walking along the water, and—and there she was.”

He cracked his knuckles, gaze never leaving Chloe. “How did you get to the beach? Were you walking south, or north?”

Chloe picked up her cup, took a slow sip, wiped her mouth with a napkin. She imagined trying to explain that swirl of dark energy she’d felt in the grove to this jaded officer. Imagined his skepticism—maybe ridicule. No, some details she’d keep to herself. Her sensors were tuned to times long past. She had no reason to believe that the malevolence that had sent her fleeing to the beach had anything to do with Sylvie.

“Well actually, I was just wandering around,” she said at last. “Brenda Noakes described the village to me, and I was trying to picture it.”

He studied her over his mug.

“It’s important for my work,” she added, hoping she didn’t sound defensive. “So anyway, I sort of meandered into the grove south of the meadow, then ambled down to the beach.” “Amble” was quite the euphemism for her headlong plunge, and she realized belatedly that Stig would likely find evidence of her crashing flight through the underbrush. “So I was walking north along the water,” she concluded doggedly. “It was still foggy. I got pretty close to the body before I knew it was there.”

“Describe what you saw.”

She did. Then she wrote it down for him on a piece of paper torn from her notebook.

He folded it, tucked it into a pocket, and sat in brooding silence for several moments. “Do you have any idea why Sylvie would be wearing old-timey clothes? I can’t figure the costume.”

“She did tell me that she had a period outfit all ready,” Chloe said. “She wanted to wear it when she gave lighthouse tours. I can’t imagine why she’d be wearing it on her boat, though.”

“Me either.”

Chloe leaned back in her chair. “Stig, do you think it’s possible that someone would actually kill a fisherman—fisherwoman—
because of the new laws?”

He was silent again. Chloe watched a moth flitter around the lantern and imagined Emily Betts, sitting right here on countless dark and silent nights of her own, thinking through problems, perhaps watching ancestors of this very moth flit around
her
oil lamp. Finally Stig wiped a hand over his mouth. “Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Absolutely—
not
. Look, I know these people. I grew up with these people. Sure, tempers are flaring. But it’s a mighty long leap from fish guts left on a car to murder.”

“But you said her body showed no obvious sign of struggle. Doesn’t that suggest that someone she knew was involved?”

“I can’t speculate.” He shoved to his feet and prowled the kitchen. “Her death might have been accidental. That long skirt might have played some role. Anyway, what we
do
know is that someone tampered with her body, laying it out that way on the beach.”

“And pounding in the marker.”

“Right. That too.” He dropped back into his chair. “But we have no idea what that’s supposed to signify.”

“Did the carving on the stake mean anything?”

“Not to me.”

She fiddled with her spoon. “The marks reminded me of the Appalachian Trail logo.”

“The
… what
?”

“It’s a backpacking trail that runs from Georgia to—”

“I know what the Appalachian Trail is,” he growled. “What I don’t know is why you’re yammering about it.”

Chloe frowned. “There’s no need to get pissy. All I’m saying is that it looks like the same initials. An A over a T.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ellefson. I’ll keep that in mind.”

OK, dead-end there. Chloe reached for the pot, and refilled her mug. “Sylvie said she liked going out in foggy weather. I can understand that—it does make it easier to imagine historical events.” She flushed again. It was impossible to imagine Stig Fjelstul evoking his ancestors on misty afternoons.

“Hmmn.”

O-
kay
, no sale on that theory either. Chloe reached for the plastic bag of cocoa powder, spooned some into the coffee. “Is it possible that after Sylvie drowned—”

“You’re
assuming
she drowned. Only the ME can ascertain that.”

“My point is, do you think someone might have dressed her like that for a reason? Making some kind of a statement?”

“Can you imagine changing the clothes on a woman who just drowned?”

“No. But I can’t imagine arranging a body on a public beach, either.” Chloe grimaced. “What Sylvie was wearing seems key, though. Maybe her death had something to do with historic events.”

He crossed his arms. “Like what?”

“Maybe she ran into someone looking for those lost gold coins.”

Stig snorted. “Rock Island has been searched from shore to shore. Only an idiot would think they could find them now, a century and more later.”

“I’m a curator,” Chloe reminded him, “and believe me, I’ve known
such people.” She paused. “I’ve seen a large boat north of here a couple of times, very late at night, not moving but lit up.”

“A freighter.”

She shook her head. “I know the difference. I’ve heard about the
Griffon
. I’d imagine everyone from French nationals to college professors to treasure hunters would like to find that wreck. If someone did find it, they’d want to keep the location a secret, right? Maybe Sylvie went out in her tug and—and—I don’t know, saw something she shouldn’t have.”

Stig regarded her, not even wasting energy on a snort this time.
“And that would lead to a wooden marker being left by her body
…
how, exactly?”

“I don’t know. It just seems to me that the person involved was trying to send some kind of message—hey, wait! Do you suppose the marks on the stake are runes?”

“Runes?”

“You know, letters in ancient Scandinavian alphabets. Some people would like to prove that Vikings once traveled through this area, and—”

“What in Hades are you talking about?”

“Oh, never mind.” She waved a hand. Clearly Stig was not in the mood to think outside his little law enforcement box.

He sighed. “Look, tomorrow I’ll interview people, follow up on some leads. If we get lucky, the Coast Guard will locate the tug.” He got up and put his mug in the sink. “I’m going to head out. You sure you’re OK here?”

“
Quite
sure. Let me just make a run to the privy, and then I’ll be in for the night.”

Ten minutes later Chloe was alone in the lighthouse. Alone on the island. And I’m OK with that, she thought. She’d stay inside until daylight, but yes, she still felt safe here.

Chloe washed the two mugs, using as little water as possible. Emily, she thought, how on earth did you manage? Emily and William had a large family, a large home, a large garden, a cow, horses, and a Fresnel lens to keep spotless. It boggled the mind.

Chloe checked her watch. Only 9:30? The evening’s events had drained her, but the coffee was kicking in. She should have stuck with herbal tea. Once, months earlier, Roelke had made her herbal tea on a day that had sucked as badly as this one did. She smiled at the memory. He really could be a sweetie.

Then her smile disappeared. If Roelke learned that a murdered body had been found on Rock Island—by her, no less—he would freak out. If he knew she’d decided to stay alone in the lighthouse, against all advice, he’d probably get in his truck and start driving north.

Now that Stig was gone, and she wasn’t on the defensive, she tried to parse out her own reasons for staying—reasons that, unlike her wish to learn more about Emily Betts, she could use to defend her decision. First and foremost, she wanted to do a good job for the RISC members. A good furnishings plan, well researched and supportive of key interpretive themes, would lay the groundwork for future fundraising and programming efforts. Chloe relished the special magic of quiet times at Pottawatomie—just as she loved wandering Old World Wisconsin after hours. But quiet times didn’t impress auditors or legislators, and they didn’t pay the bills. Some office-bound bureaucrats wanted to privatize Wisconsin’s historic sites, and the same idiots might be hungry to build roads on Rock Island.

I made a commitment, Chloe thought, and I will do my damnedes
t to see it through. Once the lighthouse was open for tours and attracting more visitors to the park, even the urban boo-hoos might be convinced to leave the island alone.