The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (6 page)

“Couldn’t agree more,” Sylvie said cheerfully. “And we’ve got lots of local sources. In addition to the archives on Washington Island, there’s a farm museum, a traditional museum, and the new maritime museum in Jackson Harbor.”

Chloe was impressed. A lot of local energy was going into historical preservation and interpretation. That said very good things about the community.

“There’s also a small exhibit about Chester Thordarson—the guy who used to own this island—in the Viking Hall,” Sylvie added.

Five days here were obviously not going to be enough. “I’ll do as much as I can.” Chloe promised.

“In a day or so I’ll stop back with that potential donations list,” Sylvie promised. “And I should warn you, exterior work should have been finished by now, but Herb’s numb-nut contractors have put us behind schedule. The guy who did the tuckpointing around the stone did such a poor job that it had to be done over, and we still need to paint.”

Chloe tried for diplomacy. “Bringing a building back to its original glory can be
…
complicated.”

“Herb Whitby doesn’t know a monkey wrench from a monkey,” Sylvie said with a snort. Then her eyes grew serious. “Listen, I understand you found the body on the beach yesterday. Horrid way to start your visit.”

“It was,” Chloe admitted. “But mostly I’m just sad to think of the poor woman who drowned.”

Sylvie looked out over the water. “It’s not the first time a body washed up on that beach. Did you know that? There’s a little cemetery just up the path there—” she pointed to a trail Chloe hadn’t explored yet—“with the remains of a local family that drowned in sight of the island during a big blow back in 1853. And once seven strangers washed up on the shore. Never were identified.” She gave a fatalistic shrug. “Bad things can happen out there.”

Chloe remembered Natalie’s comments:
Rough water around here. Lots of tragedies over the years.
Anyone who spent time on the Great Lakes had to accept their grim legacy of grief. Chloe thought about that, imagining the emotional toll that must have taken on lighthouse families. They tried to keep the passages safe. When disaster struck, they also confronted the wreckage.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Chloe said. “I’ll pay my respects.”

Nine: May, 1872

The afternoon sunshine was
so inviting that Ragna decided to work outside. Cedar floats and stone weights had to be removed from the nets after each lift, and then reattached once the nets were dry. She had just started tying floats back onto the first net when she heard someone call her name. She smiled as Emily Betts appeared from the north path, swinging a basket.

Ragna waved. “
Velkommen!
I looked for you yesterday.”

“The inspector came,” Emily explained. She put the basket on the ground, looking pleased. “And hard as he tried, he could find no fault with the station.”

Ragna couldn’t imagine having a stranger arrive unannounced, set to poke through her cottage and fish shed, ready to criticize any fly speck or tarnished spoon. “I’m glad the visit went well.”

“He dropped off a library box, so I have a new book to share,” Emily added. She sat on a log near the fire and pulled the treasure from her basket. “
Miriam the Avenger
. I’ll read, and you stop me whenever there’s a word you don’t know.”

“That would be happy. Start with ‘avenger,’ please!”

Emily tipped her head thoughtfully. “Well, an avenger is someone who wreaks vengeance
…
” She tried again. “Suppose someone killed somebody. If the dead man’s brother found the killer and then killed
him
, he would be an avenger. He would get re-venge by a-venging his brother’s death.”

Ragna reached for her twine. What type of woman was this Miriam? “Very well,” she said. Emily settled on a log and began to read.

William Betts had been assigned keeper duty at Pottawatomie Lighthouse soon after Anders and Ragna settled on Rock Island. After Emily married William she visited the fishing village right away, introducing herself and inviting her new neighbors to tour the lighthouse. Ragna had fumbled to make conversation with this confident Yankee girl. “I can help you learn English,” Emily had offered.

Now Emily read two chapters before closing the book with a decisive snap. “Very good!” she said. “You knew almost every word.”

Not really, but Ragna didn’t want to admit that. She wanted to embrace everything about this new place.

“Do you want to practice writing?” Emily pulled a small slate and pencil from her basket. Ragna dropped the net in her lap and carefully wrote her name.

“I always have to remind myself not to say Rag-na,” Emily said. “That’s what it looks like in English.”

Ragna didn’t like the harsh sound of that. The Danish pronunciation,
Rhan-ya
, came from the back of the throat, with a much softer and lovelier sound.

“Now the rest of your family,” Emily prompted her.

Ragna wrote her husband’s name first. Then her brothers, Carl and Jens, who had recently arrived on Rock Island.

“Very good!” Emily beamed at her pupil. Then her smile faded. “The afternoon is almost passed. Anders and your brothers are still out?”

Ragna turned toward the lake. “They are.”

“No wind,” Emily said sympathetically. “That means a long day.”

“They say gillnet fishing is more bad than fifteen years. ”

“It would be better to say, ‘Gillnet fishing is the worst it’s been in fifteen years’.” Emily squeezed her hand gently. “How far out are they?”

“They set nets ten miles out,” Ragna said. “Not so difficult yesterday, with a good wind for the sail. Today, they had to row. Once they lift the nets and set new ones, they’ll have to row back.” Six hours of rowing, perhaps eight. Anders shared his Mackinaw boat with her brothers now, thank heavens. Carl and Jens could take turns at the oars.

“At least they can clean the fish in the boat,” Emily said. In rough weather, when pitching waves made knife-work impossible, dressing the fish couldn’t begin until the men reached shore.

For a moment both women were silent. Someone was chopping firewood nearby, and one of the Irish women sang a song in her native tongue as she filled net boxes.

“That new law from the State Fish Inspector is a
…
” Ragna paused, groping for the right English word.

“William said it was a nuisance,” Emily supplied. “He said it seemed designed to annoy and hinder fishermen to the fullest extent possible.”

Nuisance
. Ragna turned the new word over, tucked it away. “Anders wants to obey all laws, but we are so close to Michigan, Illinois
…
” Her thoughts moved faster than words. Fishermen caught selling fish out of the county would be fined. But if a steamer docked from Chicago with buyers on deck and ice in the hold, did the Wisconsin Fish Inspector expect the men to turn down a sale?

“It’s not practical,” Emily agreed.

“And with the whitefish becoming more few, the men sometimes argue
…
” Ragna tied a stone to the bottom of the net. Anders had argued with Dugan, she meant.

“I’m sorry,” Emily said softly.

Ragna forced a smile. “No, I am sorry. Anders and I am grateful to be here.”

“
Are
grateful,” Emily said. “But don’t apologize. You’re just sharing your thoughts with a friend.” Her eyes sparkled. “May I share a secret with you? I have applied to become assistant keeper at the lighthouse.”

“They give such jobs to women?”

“My mother was assistant keeper on Pilot Island,” Emily said proudly. “I helped my parents tend the light. I’m actually more experienced than William.” Emily’s hand flew over her mouth. “Don’t ever tell him I said so!”

“I would not!” Ragna exclaimed. “I keep your secrets. And—I will give you one of mine?”

“Of course!”

“I will have a child come. Anders wants a son, but I am hopeful for a girl.”

Emily clutched Ragna’s hands with pleasure. “When the time comes you can send for me, if you like.”

“Yes, I would like,” Ragna said. She hadn’t shared her news with the other women yet. Mette Friis was good and kind, but Emily’s good spirits and energy and Yankeeness were most welcome.

Emily gave Ragna a quick hug. “I really
must
go now.”

Ragna watched Emily walk away. She hoped that the lighthouse service did indeed appoint her friend as assistant keeper. She couldn’t imagine such a thing, but then—many things in America were unimaginable.

When the nets were readied and boxed, Ragna went inside. She ate a piece of bread and put a kettle of pea soup on her tiny stove so a hot meal would be ready for her men. Too restless to settle, she wrapped an extra wool shawl over her shoulders and walked down to the dock. Ice had not long been gone from the shoreline, and the air was cold. She nodded to two men lugging a barrel of salt down the beach, but kept her gaze on the horizon. There was no sign of her men.

And there probably won’t be, she reminded herself, for hours yet to come. Still she stood, and watched, and waited. Finally, when the sun was sinking, she turned for home.

A man stood on the beach behind her, hands in pockets. Carrick Dugan. He did this, sometimes
…
creeping up on her, watching, letting her know he had not forgotten or forgiven.

Ragna stopped, fingers working her skirt like bread dough. Then she steadied her fluttering nerves. Shadows stretched across the beach, but lamps glowed from windows nearby. Two of the American women were walking along the water’s edge farther down the beach. One had a baby on her hip.

Lifting her chin in the air, Ragna walked past Dugan.
No
, she told him silently. I will not let you frighten me.

“Men aren’t back yet?” Dugan called after her. “Maybe new-come farmers don’t belong on the lake. Especially new-come farmers who think they can tell other men their business. Bad things can happen out there, you know. You might want to tell your man so.”

Ragna stopped, turned back around, and looked him in the eye.
“Mr. Dugan,” she said, “you are a nuisance.”

Ten

After the RISC committee
left, Chloe thought about the people
who had washed up below Pottawatomie Lighthouse, past and present. Bad things can happen out there, Sylvie had said. It made Chloe intensely aware of feeling sunshine on her skin, hearing a hawk cry overhead, sucking in air that tasted of Lake Michigan.

All things that the drowned girl would never do again. I wish I had some way to memorialize her, Chloe thought. It was illegal to pick wildflowers within a state park, and they’d be dead themselves within hours anyway. But
…
she could build a small cairn from beach stones.

Chloe locked the lighthouse and went down to the beach. The more she thought about creating a natural and temporary memorial, the more she liked the idea. But as she approached the first rockslide she spotted a cairn already in place. Someone stole my idea, she thought indignantly.

So, who? She quickly looked around. The beach was deserted.

It is a public beach, Chloe reminded herself. Anyone might have wandered down the steps without her noticing, or arrived by kayak. She walked closer to inspect the cairn. The tower of stones stood about two feet tall. Someone with an artistic eye had placed each piece, sometimes balancing large stones on smaller ones. The effect was striking.

“Mine wouldn’t have been as pretty,” she admitted to two swans floating offshore.

Then she noticed something else. Someone had arranged tiny pebbles in a zigzag line in front of the cairn.

“Well, hunh,” Chloe said, borrowing Roelke’s
I’m-processing-new-information
response. The pebbles formed a capital
N
. Had the person who created this memorial known the dead woman’s name?

_____

Back in the clearing, Chloe fixed generic mac and cheese for supper, made palatable with basil, thyme, and chopped walnuts. A gray-haired couple wandered up from the campground, binoculars in hand, talking of broad-winged hawks and scarlet tanagers. Once the couple left Chloe washed her dishes and hung the dishcloth and towel on the clothesline tucked behind a lilac hedge in the side yard. She spent the rest of the evening sitting on the picnic table, watching birds and thinking.

She didn’t know what, if anything, to make of the stone sculpture she’d found on the beach. What would Roelke think? She and Roelke had sometimes talked through problems together. They were such different people that each brought a unique perspective to whatever knot needed untangling.

Well, Chloe thought, Roelke’s not here. Which was what she wanted, right? Space and solitude? Exactly.

She just hadn’t figured on finding a naked drowned woman on Rock Island.

When it got darker, Chloe moved inside and returned to her
research.
After Herb’s comments, she was perversely eager to
discover whatever she could about the women who’d lived at Pottawatomie. The first item she found: in the 1860s, one lighthouse wife taught school for some of the island children in the lighthouse cellar. “With the snakes?” Chloe mused. “Shocking.” Another wife, Paulina Capers, served as assistant keeper in the 1860s.

A new keeper arrived in 1870, William Betts. His wife, Emily, had evidently taught lessons for island children as well—and she was officially designated assistant keeper in 1872. “Excellent!” Chloe murmured. Even Herb Whitby couldn’t argue with an interpretive plan that included Emily Betts in the narrative.

There were a handful of papers in the Betts file, but Chloe
noticed a photograph on the bottom and pulled that out first. It was an eight-by-ten reproduction image showing Pottawatomie Lighthouse from the west. Three figures stood in the side doorway. Penciled on the back was a notation:
Mrs. Betts and two of her nine children
.

Chloe flipped the photo back over and leaned on her forearms, staring at the old image. If only the photographer had been closer! It was impossible to make out any details, much less Emily’s face. Still, there was
something
there
…
squinting, Chloe held her flashlight inches above the photo. Emily was barely discernable, and yet a message seemed to emanate from her steady gaze.

Tell our story. Get it right.

A fly dove at the flashlight. Chloe blinked and sat up straight. She was used to getting vibes from old houses, but a photo? And a repro at that?

OK. She was tired. Maybe her imagination—and her wish to trump Herb with fun female facts—was getting to her. She’d read more about Emily tomorrow.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter to midnight. Before turning in, it would be fun to climb to the tower.

Two sets of stairs led from the second story to the watchroom and lantern room—one steep, the next steeper. Chloe left her flashlight on the final landing and used both hands to help make the climb, and still managed to konk her head on the hatch leading into the lantern room. How had women done this in long skirts?

The lantern room was nine-sided, with only a narrow walkway surrounding the reproduction Fresnel lens. Chloe made another cerebral jotting:
Study the mechanics of light mechanisms
before
any lighthouse junkies show up for a tour.

She edged around the light so she could stand at the northern-most window. The view was spectacular. A million stars glittered in the sky. The silhouettes of trees showed black against the paler midnight tones of the lake and sky.

The modern Pottawatomie light blinked in the eastern sky,
offering automated guidance. And some kind of boat was in the channel. Chloe squinted. Not as big as a freighter, but definitely bigger than your average motorboat. Was it in Wisconsin waters? Across the invisible line into Michigan? She squinted, letting the boat’s bright lights blur in her vision, imagining a sloop or steamer instead—as Emily would have seen.

She stood right
here
, Chloe thought. She liked that notion, even though she knew Emily probably didn’t have much time to stand idle and appreciate the night.

“Good-night,” Chloe said to whomever might be listening. Then she backed carefully down the stairs, and got ready for bed.

She dreamed of laughter again. Children’s laughter. More than one child, this time. And this time, she was sure she’d come awake before the laughter faded into the silence of night.