The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) (2 page)

Three

Chloe reached Door County—Wisconsin’s
geographical thumb extending into Lake Michigan—in under four hours. She passed more hotels and shops than she remembered from childhood, but the magic was still there: fields that overlooked the great lake, huge brick farmhouses in the old Belgian settlements, cherry orchards and second-growth forests.

As she drove north, Chloe felt a physical sense of lightening. She loved Old World Wisconsin, but her first few months on the job had been challenging. She cared about Roelke McKenna, but getting to know him had also been challenging. The unexpected arrival of her Swiss ex last summer hadn’t helped. The ex was gone now, back to Switzerland, but Chloe was emotionally exhausted. She needed time away from her job, and from Roelke. She craved solitude. When the request for curatorial assistance came from the manager of Rock Island State Park she’d pounced.

Besides
…
Old World Wisconsin was a magnificent site, but Petty’s constant criticism and make-work projects and micromanagement were wearing her down. Chloe was committed to honoring the often nameless and forgotten people she studied. Researching and interpreting their lives was fascinating; it also brought a
responsibility. A consultant gig like the one waiting on Rock
Island—one free of her megalomaniac boss’s scrutiny—would be joyful.

Chloe arrived at the tip of the peninsula just in time to see a
car ferry heading away from the mainland toward Washington
Island. “Are you off schedule?” she asked the woman in the ticket booth, handing her a twenty. “I thought I’d make the two o’clock.”

The woman counted change. “We had to make an emergency medical transport from Washington this morning,” she said. “That threw things off. We’ve had severe winds today, too.”

“Think I can still make it to Rock Island this afternoon?”

“Could be,” the woman replied cheerfully.

“Well, I’ll see how it goes,” Chloe said, with equal cheer. She liked places where nature was in charge.

Chloe pocketed her ticket, parked in the designated line, pulled on a sweatshirt, and walked down to the dock. A pay phone stood nearby, and she paused. She could call Ethan. During their college days, each got in the habit of calling the other before venturing out alone to go hiking or paddling or caving.

But I just don’t want to talk to anybody, she thought. Not
Roelke, not her mom, not even her best buddy Ethan.

She shoved her hands in her pockets and looked toward Washington Island. The six-mile-wide channel provided the shortest navigational passage from Lake Michigan into Green Bay, but sailors had to navigate among rocky-shored islands, hidden shoals, and dangerous currents.
Porte des Morts,
early French travelers called the channel. Death’s Door.

Chloe winced as she imagined birchbark canoes and wooden schooners pummeled to splinters in sudden squalls. Still, her spirits rose as she faced the passage. She was heading beyond Death’s Door. Perverse it might be, but in her present mood, that sounded appealing.

_____

Chloe managed to drive into her designated matchbox-sized spot on the ferry without embarrassing herself. The trip to Washington
Island was uneventful. She drove eight miles across the island
and parked in the small lot near Jackson Harbor. A much smaller, passengers-only ferry named
Karfi
waited by the dock. Rock Island was visible a mile away.

As Chloe approached the
Karfi
, a man and boy emerged from the pilothouse. “Are you making another trip today?” Chloe called.

“Are you the curator?” the man asked. He was dark haired, well-
muscled.

“That’s me.”

He offered a firm handshake. “I’m Jack Cornell, and this is my son, Jeff. We’ve been waiting for you.” He reached over the railing, grabbed Chloe’s heavy backpack, and swung it aboard with ease. “Don’t sit near the front unless you want to get wet.”

This trip was shorter and wilder. The
Karfi
bucked and slapped over the waves, tossing fans of cold water back over empty benches. Chloe zipped a jacket over her sweatshirt and hung on, grinning.

One of Rock Island State Park’s best-known features, a great Viking Hall, was visible across the water. The island’s last private owner had designed the red-roofed structure to honor his Icelandic heritage. The massive building marked the Rock Island landing, but Captain Cornell aimed well upwind of the dock. He gauged wind and currents perfectly, and coasted to a smooth halt beside the long pier.

“Nicely done!” Chloe exclaimed. Jeff jumped to the dock and moored the boat.

A sixty-ish man wearing the Department of Natural Resources’ tan and green hurried down the dock. “Chloe? I’m Garrett. Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Garrett Smith, park manager, was a trim man with the deeply tanned skin of an outdoorsman. His face was relaxed and friendly, his eyes watchful—a combination she’d seen before among park personnel who had to be both welcoming and vigilant, every moment. Same thing was true about staff at historic sites, come to think of it.

“We’ve got a lot of Ellefsons in the area,” Garrett said. “Any relation?”

“Nope,” Chloe said. Her mother, genealogist extraordinaire, had given her the name of someone who was Chloe’s father’s second cousin’s aunt. Or something like that. “In case you have time to connect,” Mom had said. Chloe didn’t plan on making contact.

“We’re excited about the lighthouse project,” Garrett told her. “Now that RISC is up and going—”

“RISC
…
? Oh, right—the Rock Island Support Circle.”

“They’re taking the lead on getting the lighthouse restored and interpreted.” Garrett thrust his hands in his pockets and jingled keys. “And God bless ’em for that. Damn budget cuts have my hands tied. Have you visited Rock before?”

“No,” Chloe confessed, making a mental note to refer to the island simply as “Rock” so she’d sound like someone in the know. “I’m eager to see Pottawatomie.” Pottawatomie Lighthouse, the oldest light station in Wisconsin. And she, Chloe Ellefson, had been asked to prepare a furnishing plan for it. How cool was that?

Garrett cleared his throat. “Just a couple little wrinkles.”

Chloe almost heard Roelke muttering
I told you so
. “Yes?”

“We tested water from the old pump last week, and it didn’t pass state standards. I asked Mel Jenks, our maintenance man, to leave you jugs of drinking water. You’ll have to haul water for dishes and cleaning up from the lake in buckets.”

OK, that qualified as little. “No problem.”

Garrett jingled his keys again. “One more thing. We’ve had some wicked storms this year. Erosion causes rockslides from the cliffs, and wind and waves work the rocks down the beach. Can’t have them crashing into the pier, so periodically we dredge.”

“OK,” Chloe said cautiously, waiting for the bad news.

“The dredger cut the phone cable yesterday. I’m not sure how quickly we’ll be able to get it spliced. That means no pay phone, no 9-1-1 callbox.”

“Ah.” This time Chloe could almost hear Roelke frantically shouting
Abort! Abort!

“Still game?” Garrett asked.

“Absolutely.”

His smile reached his eyes this time. “Good.” He handed her a key and pointed north. “Just head up the trail there. It’s about a mile.” He glanced at the
Karfi
. “I wish I could show you around, but the park boat is out of service, and my ride’s waiting. A few RISC people will be over on the one o’clock ferry tomorrow to meet you.”

“Sounds good.”

“There are several lanterns in the lighthouse, a bed in the keeper’s room on the first floor, and a couple of extra sleeping bags in case it gets cold. Outhouse is stocked.”

“Is the campground empty?” Chloe asked hopefully.

“Not quite. There’s an older couple in the main campground and a young couple in one of the remote sites on the southeast shore. Kayakers.”

Chloe tried to hide her disappointment. She’d never been alone on an island before. Well, she’d be here for a week. Maybe she’d still get her chance.

“The kayakers were set to head out today, but decided to wait. In good weather, it’s an easy paddle back to Jackson Harbor. When you mix this wind with the currents, though
…
” Garrett shook his head. “It can be too much for even experienced paddlers, although most of ’em don’t want to hear me say so.”

Chloe smiled. “Historic site visitors don’t want to hear me caution them against posing their toddlers beside oxen or tasting week-old stew, either.”

“It should be a quiet week,” Garrett said. “Labor Day weekend was busy, and things will ramp up again with the fall color crowd, so my ranger and naturalist are using vacation time.” He began backing toward the
Karfi
. “Have a peaceful evening.”

Chloe picked up her pack and shrugged into the shoulder straps. “Thanks.”

As the
Karfi
began bouncing back to Jackson Harbor, Chloe walked away from the dock. The main compound included several cobblestone buildings built by the last private owner, now used by park employees. Once beyond them she hiked uphill through beech and maple trees. Late afternoon sunlight slanted down as if through cathedral windows, illuminating lush stands of ferns. Two cedar waxwings flitted ahead of her. The air smelled ripe and loamy.

Chloe grinned. Life on Rock Island was going to be very good.

Finally the trail crested a rise and descended into a clearing. And there it was: Pottawatomie Lighthouse, standing on a cliff, silhouetted against the sky.

“O-oh,” she breathed, coming to a halt. The lighthouse was a massive cut-stone structure with a wooden lantern room, and a small frame summer kitchen attached at the south end. This was the building she was going to live in, learn about,
think
about, for the next week.

A skeletal metal tower rose from the woods to the west—the modern tower, fitted with a battery-powered light maintained by the U.S. Coast Guard. Even that modern intrusion seemed OK, though. It’s all part of the continuum, Chloe thought, as she walked across the clearing and hitched out of her pack. Pottawatomie people had built signal bonfires on the precipice. A century-plus of lightkeepers had tended lamps. Today, despite all the modern marvels of 1982 technology, ship captains still relied on the Rock Island light.

Chloe regarded the small Igloo cooler—her ration of drinking water—sitting on the steps beside two gleaming buckets. It would be a good idea to fetch wash water right away. Then she could truly settle in.

The beach trail led past a crumbling stone foundation—from
an old barn, maybe?—and descended into the woods. Chloe hadn’t
gone far before she noticed a small cave in a limestone outcrop off to her left. She hesitated, then kept going. Chores first.

Ancient stone steps led to the edge of the cliff, where a long wooden staircase dropped more steeply down to the lake. She counted: one hundred and fifty-four steps, all told. She’d have to be prudent with water. But she’d done that before, on countless dry-season camping trips in the Appalachians, and in northern Wisconsin too.

Chloe put the buckets down. Lake Michigan rippled restlessly north in front of her. The water was clear and looked green in the shallows near shore, darker blue farther out. Two merganser ducks bobbed nearby, but otherwise she was
alone
. Chloe spread her arms and tipped her face to the sky. This island was a perfect place to just
be
for a while.

After a moment she began picking her way along a narrow beach of cobbles and rubble stones, admiring stunted cedar trees and moist gardens of moss and ferns growing on the cliff’s jagged limestone walls. Just ahead, a tumble of sharp-edged boulders, gray with lichen, testified to Garrett’s comment about erosion and rockslides. A second slide was visible a short distance beyond the first. This one was more recent, the exposed planes of stone gleaming raw and white. One small uprooted cedar tree lay among them, forlornly pointing north.

Something lay between the two rockslides, right at water’s edge. Chloe frowned, trying to identify a strange
… thing
, long and pale, rocking back and forth as waves lapped at the shore. A dead fish? If so, it was one whopper. Sturgeon, maybe?

“Oh, geez.” Chloe sighed, some of her ebullience fading away. Death was a part of nature, but she didn’t really like to stare at it.

She started to turn back, then hesitated. Something didn’t quite make sense. She climbed over the first rock slide, then crossed her arms over her chest, squinting. The thing wasn’t a sturgeon. Not a fish at all. It was a dirty beige, and an odd texture.

Three more steps. Ah—she was seeing a fishnet. Layers and layers of fishnet, tangled around something. A log? But that seemed wrong, too.

One more step, and Chloe’s knees went mushy. Her stomach clenched. Something hot and bitter rose in her throat.

No
. It couldn’t be.

Another wave shoved the bundle with more force. Chloe stared at the fingers poking through the netting. Slender human fingers, white as a fish belly, curled as if imploring someone, anyone, for help.