The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) by Kathleen Ernst
Authors: Kathleen Ernst
Tags: Fiction, Mystery, Murder, soft-boiled, Wisconsin, ernst, chloe effelson, kathleen ernst, light keeper, light house, Rock Island
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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
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
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