The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (19 page)

But an unsolved murder on Rock wouldn’t do anybody any good.

Grabbing her notebook, Chloe sat back down at the table. Stig had dismissed the idea that past events had any connection to Sylvie’s death. OK, fine; he’d investigate all the obvious possibilities. But there wasn’t any harm in her considering other possibilities, right?

She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. Who might have wished Sylvie ill?

1. Wreck divers searching for
Le Griffon
.

According to Nika, that quest was a high-stakes gambit. Sylvie might have motored close to the mystery ship in the fog, and challenged someone pirating an underwater site of such significance. But if so, how had her body ended up back on Rock?

2. Some academic seeking evidence of Viking travel through the area.

Maybe Sylvie had challenged wreck divers who were after
evidence of a Viking ship at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Same problem as #1, though—why bring the body back to the beach for formal presentation?

Well, Chloe mused, finding a ship wasn’t the only way to prove the Viking theory. If Sylvie had surprised some unethical academic in the act of defacing her beloved Rock Island by chiseling ancient runic markings from a somehow-overlooked limestone cliff, things could have turned nasty. But again—Sylvie had been lake-bound.

Well
…
maybe that wasn’t an issue. Stig hadn’t speculated about time of death. Maybe Sylvie had gone out on the lake and then returned to the island before she died.

3. Treasure hunters looking for the lost “Yellow Boys” coins.

Sylvie would have confronted anyone she suspected of illegal digging. But Sylvie hadn’t been found by newly dug holes or a limestone cliff. She’d been found on the village site beach. The site where Brenda Noakes worked. Chloe thought about that for a while, but couldn’t come up with a way to connect the two women. Although it
had
seemed this morning as if Sylvie wanted to say something about Brenda
…
and then thought better of it. Chloe hoped that Sylvie’s moment of reticence hadn’t meant that a key piece of information had died with her.

Then there was that bizarre marker pounded into the beach by Sylvie’s body. Might the odd carved marks really be runes? Chloe drew the marks in her notebook. One capital
A
, with a vertical line extending from the A’s cross-stroke to form a
T
. Appalachian Trail. Or
…
? She sighed. Who knew? The initials hadn’t meant anything to Stig, and he was a local. Besides, maybe her familiarity with the hiking trail symbol had skewed her thinking. Maybe the letters should be read T. A. The phrase “teaching assistant” came to mind, but the initials otherwise had no meaning.

Remembering the mistake she’d made with the N/Z pebble tribute Spencer Brant had made, Chloe turned her page sideways. Viewed that way, the marks could be runes. Or, the A’s point became the tip of an arrow. On the stake, that tip had been pointing skyward. She couldn’t fathom why a murderer might leave such a sign.

“This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed. Stig was right; she should leave such contemplation to him. She slapped the notebook closed, pushed back her chair, and climbed to the second-story landing. She planned to recommend putting a rocking chair in this spot. It was easy to imagine a keeper sitting here to reflect on the day.

Chloe leaned against the window frame. To the west, a quarter moon cast a milky trail on the water. The scene was so beautiful that Chloe’s heart ached, actually ached in her chest. Tim’s girlfriend, Natalie, had spoken of tragedies on the lake. So had Brenda Noakes. Poor Zana had come to grief. Now Sylvie was dead too.

I shouldn’t be surprised, Chloe thought. She’d read many grim tales. William Betts had noted shipwrecks in his logbook, and included the horrid tale of the men who’d frozen to death in their boat. And
… yes
. When one of Chester Thordarson’s employees capsized while rowing from Rock Island to Washington, he’d clung to a pound net stake in the water before getting washed away. The docent at the Maritime Museum had told her the victim’s name: Paul Anderson.

Chloe stared at the marks she’d been trying to decipher. No way could she find a P, but the A was clear.

That might be important. Or it might have absolutely nothing to do with anything.

Chloe looked back out at the night, tired of mental debate, feeling inexpressibly sad. Finally she turned away from the window. Caffeine or no, it was time for bed.

In the bedroom she kicked off her shoes, pulled on her sweatshirt, and burrowed into her sleeping bag. Once cocooned in its warmth, she was asleep in moments
…

Only to be jolted awake again by the sound of childish laughter.

This is insane, Chloe thought. A young woman has drowned, an old woman evidently has drowned, and what do I hear? Children at play in the middle of the night. She sat up in bed. Perhaps the coffee had been a good idea after all. Her brain seemed sharp and clear, as if she’d never been asleep. She tipped her head, waiting. A few seconds later she heard the laughter again—a girl’s pealing laugh, a boy’s chortle. Previously, she had imagined the laughter to be coming from inside the lighthouse. This time, the sounds came from the lawn outside her window.

Chloe unzipped her sleeping bag and got to her knees on the mattress. The bed stood less than a foot from the window, and she rested her palms on the sill and peered through the pane. Nothing to see but darkness.

The laughter came again. Definitely from outside. And she seemed to be hearing the same laughter over and over again. As in, the
exact
same laughter—one high peal, one joyful chortle.

Chloe sucked in her lower lip. If she was hearing two of the Betts children tonight, only a few moments were echoing through time. On the previous occasions it had seemed that a slightly longer exchange between the children was resonating into the present from
…
well, let’s see, a century ago. More or less, anyway. She’d seen the Betts family tree, and if she was remembering correctly, William and Emily had four children by 1882. All very interesting, Chloe thought, but she had no idea what to make of it.

What she
did
know? Whether she liked it or not, she was hearing an auditory echo from times long gone. Besides the Betts children, she’d heard that scraping noise in the grove by the fishing village site. No one had been in the grove
…
except whomever was responsible for that sickening vortex of black energy.

Oh, Roelke, she thought, as if he might hear her. She’d been trying to decide if she was meant to be in a relationship. Maybe she was meant to connect only with history-junkies and elderly folks and yes, sometimes even the dead people whose lives she worked so hard to understand. What if she and Roelke were together and she started hearing things? What if he’d been with her when she sensed that whirlpool of evil energy in the grove south of the village site? Could she hide her feelings?

But that’s not the right question, Chloe told herself. She couldn’t deny who she was. Couldn’t change her gift of perception. Besides, every once in awhile that perception let her do something good that needed doing. It had happened once at Old World Wisconsin, and it seemed to be happening here on Rock Island as well.

She blinked back sudden tears. It would not be fair to date
Roelke without telling him what was going on. But how could she explain the unexplainable? At best he’d want to protect her. At worst he’d think she was whacko.

She got out of bed, grabbed her flashlight, and padded into the kitchen. She picked up the photo of Emily Betts and squinted at it in the yellow beam. The two children posed with Emily in the lighthouse doorway were so tiny and blurred Chloe couldn’t even tell if they were girls or boys.

Tell our story. Put things right.

I’m trying, Chloe thought a bit testily. What
was
the story? Did Emily want to be sure that the Herb Whitbys of the world, so focused on regulations and male keepers and the mechanical workings of a Fresnel lens, did not squeeze family stories from lighthouse tours? Or did Emily—like Brenda Noakes—want Chloe to remember that the long-gone fisherfolk and native people, without a structure to serve as stage, could easily be lost? Or had something even more important been buried in time?

Chloe took the photo back to the bedroom and propped it on the windowsill. The sounds of childish glee drifted through the old glass several more times before silence reclaimed the night. Chloe curled back into her nylon nest, still listening, thoughts swirling from Emily to Roelke and back again, waiting for daylight.

Thirty-four: July, 1884

In daylight, when Emily
could watch her children at play, she felt as she had when she’d come to Pottawatomie as a new bride—that the Lighthouse Establishment offered a wonderful life, that being industrious and surrounding herself with family and friends would always bring contentment in greater measure than worries or sorrow. But thirteen years had passed since her wedding day.
She was twenty-nine years old with five children and worries aplenty
.

It was nighttime now, and Emily sat in the rocking chair she’d placed by the window on the second-floor landing. Her family was asleep and she was on duty, helping William as she always did
…
even though she was no longer assistant keeper. Her joy in the switch from lard to kerosene had been short-lived, for the U.S. Lighthouse Service had used that change to justify abolishing her position. “Now that the work is significantly lessened,” the letter had read, “we believe Pottawatomie Lighthouse can be adequately maintained by a single Keeper
…
” Emily didn’t believe it for a moment. The inspectors knew that as William’s wife, she’d of course continue to help him. No one man could tend Pottawatomie’s light at night and tend to chores and visitors by day. The service wanted to save some money, and her growing family’s annual income dropped from nine hundred and sixty dollars to five hundred and sixty. It was difficult not to be bitter.

And William was growing bitter too. Emily had seen his latest logbook entry:
If the men who pretend to keep up repairs at the light station do not provide for a water supply before long, I shall quit this business. They make wells at other stations where water is handy without wells but neglect this place almost entirely.

She picked up her pen and continued the letter she’d started to her friend Jeanette, keeper’s wife at a nearby lighthouse.

The cisterns have failed entirely and the Service has declared they will no longer attempt repairs. With this drought our rainbarrels are empty too. We sometimes smell the smoke from forest fires. I haul water up the steps from the lake until my shoulders burn and my palms are raw. My sweet Jane used to help, but the cliff steps are in such disrepair that William and I have forbidden the children to use them. I sometimes despair …

Emily abruptly tore the paper into bits. She’d have to start over. No letter from her hand would speak of despair.

She sighed. Perhaps she should visit Ragna again. She sorely missed the time when they’d been able to talk about anything.

But those days were past as well. Ragna’s brothers and son visited her, brought her supplies, and helped chop firewood. Still, she’d had little but her own company in the past two years, and the change had not served her well. Last week Emily had walked to the cottage with a new library book and a crock of strawberry preserves. She’d found Ragna sitting at the table with a pistol in front of her.

“What are you doing?” Emily had gasped.

Ragna slipped the gun into her lap. “I need to clean it from time to time.” But there had been no cloth or other cleaning supplies in evidence.

Now Emily stood and stepped to the open window, gazing out at the strong steady beam cast by the Fresnel lens. The Rock Island passage was as safe as she could make it. The smell of smoke
drifted through the night, though, as if signaling worse times to come.

Thirty-five

At 6:30 the sun
rose over Pottawatomie Lighthouse, pouring through the windows, dispelling shadows and echoes and nocturnal musings. Chloe’s first thoughts were of Sylvie. I’ll do everything I can to help bring Pottawatomie Lighthouse back to life, Chloe promised silently, and—I’ll try to get federal protection, too. She imagined Sylvie’s impatient nod:
Of course you will.

Chloe thought next of Roelke. Did she have the courage to tell him what was really going on with her? About the Betts children’s lingering laughter; about the evil she’d sensed in the grove? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine that conversation going well. So
…
should she tell him they needed to stay friends? She didn’t like that idea any better. “Lovely,” she muttered.

Finally she forced away lingering sadness, striving to be resolute. She didn’t have to face Roelke today. Tackling the letter from Emily she’d borrowed from Ruth Gunderson was number one on her day’s agenda. It was Saturday already. On Monday she had to catch the first
Karfi
run back to Washington Island, cross back over Death’s Door, and head home. No amount of scholarly research at the state historical society could compensate for being here, in this place.

Outside, Chloe dragged the picnic table into the sun. She placed the letter on a clean T-shirt, and put the photo of Emily beside it before settling down with her coffee, notebook, and pencil. Between the faded ink and Emily’s tight, slanting script, transcription was going to be a bitch.

Chloe didn’t care. Squinting, mumbling words out loud as she deciphered them, she got to work.

July 1, 1884

Dear Jeanette,

I trust this finds you and family well. Was your station struck during the storm last week? From the tower, I watched the clouds boil black over the channel. How we hoped for rain! Since we have been unable to convince the U.S.L.S. to dig a well, rain is most agreeable.

Yes! Chloe thought. Finally, a personal glimpse of Emily Betts.

We expect to spend what William calls “the glorious fourth” quietly here at Pottawatomie. Often we can hear cannons from Escanaba. The children never tire of hearing their father’s stories from the war years. I …

“Good morning,” a man called.

Chloe allowed herself one frustrated sigh before looking up. Garrett lifted a hand in greeting as he crossed the clearing.

OK, Chloe told herself. This is Garrett. Park manager. The man
who saw his ex-wife’s body laid out on the beach yesterday. If he wanted to visit the lighthouse in the dawn’s early light, he was allowed.

His expression was haggard, and he wore civvies. “I figured you’d be up,” he said.

“Hey.” She carefully anchored the letter with her notebook. “Want some coffee?”

“Coffee would be good. Black.” He settled on the other side of the table. “I wanted to see how you were doing this morning. After the
…
the shock.”

She fired up her stove to heat more water. Gas escaping from the canister made a hissing sound before igniting. “I’m sorry too,” she told him fervently. “But I’m OK. How about you?”

“Not good,” he admitted. “I expect you know that Sylvie and I were once married.”

“I heard.” Chloe spooned coffee crystals into her spare Sierra cup.

“Obviously we had difficulties, or we wouldn’t have gotten divorced.” Garrett looked over the clearing. “But we made our peace long ago.”

You didn’t sound at peace when you were arguing with Sylvie, Chloe thought. She said, “I didn’t know Sylvie well, but I liked her.”

“People either liked Sylvie, or they didn’t. No middle ground.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “She was honest and direct to a fault, always championing some cause. She was a big advocate for
turning Rock into a roadless state park, for one thing. I don’t know
how many trips she made to Madison, haranguing politicians. She helped get the farm museum going, and she was involved in developing the maritime museum as well. Where some people saw obstacles, she saw opportunity. And if somebody didn’t agree with her, look out for squalls! She never backed away from an argument.”

The water started to boil, so Chloe turned off the flame. “She was certainly a wonderful advocate for the lighthouse restoration project.”

“That she was,” Garrett agreed. “When we started talking about the lighthouse project, the potential price tag was a bit
…
daunting. Some people felt RISC should focus exclusively on the Thordarson story and buildings. Ah, thanks.” He accepted the cup.

“She didn’t strike me as someone who’d restore the Viking Hall and ignore the lighthouse.”

“Sylvie?” Garrett snorted. “No, she loved this place. Last summer Herb hired a guy to do tuck-pointing between the stone blocks. The man did shoddy work—the plaster started crumbling within a month. Herb was defending the guy, hemming and hawing, and Sylvie finally said ‘Oh for God’s sake, Herb, if you’re not willing to grow a pair, I’ll hold the guy accountable myself.’ She did, too.”

Chloe watched a Buckeye butterfly flitting along the edge of the trees. Sylvie and Herb had been bickering the day she met them, too. I’ll have to mention that to Stig, Chloe thought. Geez, she
hated
this.

Time to switch tack. “Garrett, do you have any idea why Sylvie might have been wearing period clothes when she was found?”

He planted his elbows on the table. “Sylvie had
…
well, if she hadn’t been so ornery, I’d call it a romantic streak. Her people fished these waters for over a century. It’s not safe to fish alone, but once her husband died she went out by herself anyway. She set nets every now and again, and sold what she caught to a restaurant on the peninsula. She liked being on the water, carrying on the tradition. I can just picture her, heading out into the fog, dressed like one of her ancestors. That would be just her style.”

“It’s a nice image.”

“Fjelstul asked me to meet him at 8:30 in my office, so we’ll see if he’s come up with anything new.” Garrett held her eye. “Listen, Chloe, I wanted to ask again if you’d like to move over to Washington. There’s no need to stay here on Rock if you’re nervous or uncomfortable.”

Chloe imagined saying,
Well, I am hearing children playing when I’m alone here at night, but I’m not sure what it means—any thoughts on that?
Instead she said, “Is the park open today?”

“We can’t really close even if we wanted to, not when people can get here by kayak or boat anyway.”

That’s what she’d figured. “I really think it’s OK for me to stay. I’ll be careful, make sure the lighthouse is locked up tight at night. It just seems right to be here at the lighthouse while I finish up my survey.”

“Are you managing to make progress, despite everything that’s happened?” Garrett cocked his head at the photo of Emily Betts, and the letter.

“I am. I’ve started visiting potential donors. A lady named Ruth Gunderson has a lighthouse service traveling library box that I think we should replicate. And we found this letter inside. It was written by Emily Betts!”

“Really?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “I knew about the library box, but not the letter. What does it say?”

“I haven’t gotten too far with the transcription yet.” She gestured at the letter, her notebook. “It’s really hard to read.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Garrett rose to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Chloe got back to work. It would be really,
really
good if she could get through Emily’s letter before heading to Washington Island. Chloe leaned over, nose inches above the page, and picked up where she’d left off.

The children never tire of hearing their father’s stories from the war years. I shall bake a cherry pie, and whip cream.

Oh, Jeannette, I wish you were sitting in my kitchen right now. I’d serve
you
cherry pie and coffee and ask your advice. Do you recall the friend I told you about when last we met? The Danish woman in the fishing village? Since the tragedy, I grow more worried about her with each passing year.

Tragedy? Chloe thought. What tragedy?

I fear that—

A mechanical roar slid into the clearing, coming closer. The park’s small pickup truck jounced from the main trail with Herb Whitby at the wheel. A man Chloe hadn’t met was riding shotgun. The truck bed was filled with paint cans, tarps, tools. Herb parked right in front of the entrance to the summer kitchen.

“Um, Herb?” Chloe began. Then she paused. His face looked drawn, his eyes shadowed. Even if he and Sylvie hadn’t gotten along well, her death was no doubt a terrible shock. She put one hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about Sylvie.”

“Work must continue.” Herb nodded toward the man in stained
work clothes emerging from the far side of the cab. “Painting the lantern room exterior needs to get underway. Oh, and Garrett asked me to bring out some drinking water for you.” He reached for one of the Igloos loaded in the back.

O-kay, Herb did not want to talk about Sylvie. Chloe turned and gave Mr. Painter her brightest smile. “I’m Chloe Ellefson. Could you—”

“Ellefson?” He looked up from the paint cans he was unloading. “Any relation to—”

“Possibly. Listen, the other day I found a ladder and stuff right by the summer kitchen door. If you’ll be leaving any equipment overnight, could you put it off to the side? I’d really appreciate it!” She used her best we-are-in-this-together voice. “People who hike up here want to photograph the lighthouse.”

The painter gave a
yeah, whatever
shrug.

“A visitor could climb to the roof and get hurt if you leave a ladder standing against the building,” Chloe added. “Or the ladder could get blown over and cause structural damage.”

That pulled Herb into the conversation. “We can’t have that.”

“I’m glad we’re all in agreement.” She left the men to their task and returned to Emily’s letter.

Do you recall the friend I told you about when last we met? The Danish woman in the fishing village? Since the tragedy, I grow more worried about her with each passing year. I fear that she will do something beyond redemption.

Chloe straightened, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. What the heck
…
?

Well, I try not to dwell on such things. Whenever I feel sad or worried I simply sit and watch my children play.

Just this once, Chloe thought, it would have been nice if you
had
dwelled on such things, since I have absolutely no idea what you were talking about. Pinching her lips in frustration, she worked through the rest of the letter. Emily wrote only of William’s latest colt, delivering a baby, potato beetles.

Chloe straightened, stretching a kink from her back. These details of Emily Betts’ daily life were all very interesting, and could be used to flesh out both the furnishings plan and suggestions for interpretive themes—but all that paled beside the tantalizing hints of tragedy and hidden secrets.

The painter, who had ascended to the platform outside the lantern room, turned on a boom box. The volume suggested that he wanted the entire county to know that Joan Jett and the Blackhearts loved rock and roll.

“Did I give you two cans of that black, or three?” Herb bellowed. He was still on the ground.

Chloe made a sound that was half-rude, half-frustrated. She wasn’t going to accomplish anything else at Pottawatomie this morning. After loading her daypack, she set off for the landing. Halfway down the trail she remembered that she’d meant to ask Herb about the container of sulfuric acid she’d found in the cellar, but she didn’t have the heart to turn around. She’d catch him next time.

She was coming down the hill toward the Viking Hall and dock when Stig appeared in the doorway of the stone cottage used for the ranger’s office. “Got a minute?”

“More than a minute.” She followed the deputy inside. Stig sat at the desk and waved Chloe into a chair. There was no sign of Garrett. She hoped his interview with Stig had gone OK, although that seemed unlikely.

“I’d wanted to catch you, actually,” she said. She told him about the tension she’d observed between Herb and Sylvie during the RISC committee’s orientation visit on Wednesday. Avoiding Stig’s gaze, Chloe found herself staring at the horrid developers’ vision for Rock Island. That did nothing to ease her nerves, so she looked out the window instead. “And when I saw Sylvie yesterday morning, we had a nice relaxed conversation until Brenda’s name came up. Then Sylvie seemed sort of
…
I don’t know
…
hesitant.”

“Hesitant?”

Chloe spread her hands. “I felt as if Sylvie was about to say something about Brenda, and then decided not to.”

Stig scribbled something in a small spiral notebook. Chloe flashed on Roelke doing the same thing. Some company must make a lot of money selling little notebooks to cops.

“Has any new information come to light?” she asked. Through the window she saw a fishing tug in the distance. It left Jackson Harbor and headed toward Rock Island.

“Melvin Jenks said Sylvie’s tug headed passed the southeast end of the island at about 11:30 AM, heading east. He was over there clearing a downed tree. We don’t know what Sylvie was wearing at the time, though. The fog was so thick that he couldn’t see the boat, much less catch a glimpse of her inside.”