The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery) by Kathleen Ernst Page B

contentment.

Twelve
    I’m losing it, Chloe thought early the next morning. Very early. She sat on the picnic table, drinking bad coffee, listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of avian choruses, trying to figure out what the heck was going on inside her head.
    Bottom line: she had no idea.
    Her own ideas about having children were tangled, but she surely wasn’t conjuring the sound of happy kids out of suppressed maternal instincts. She wasn’t sure she was ready for a romance, much less a family. Relationship issues aside, though, she was definitely hearing things at Pottawatomie Lighthouse.
    Chloe had never known what to call her mild receptive ability, tuning into the layers of lives come and gone in historic structures. Sometimes those emotions lingered, like perfume that only she could smell. But impressions from photographs? The sound of children’s laughter? Those were whole new talents she’d never asked for, never wished for, and she would have to keep hidden.
    “Oh, goody,” she muttered. Just what she needed. She didn’t want her powers of perception to grow stronger. She worked in the history field, for God’s sake! If her abilities were increasing, would she be able to keep little episodes like this hidden from colleagues?
    And … oh geez, what about Roelke? He could sniff out a lie or evasion at fifty paces. But she couldn’t imagine confiding in him, either.
    OK, she told herself. You don’t know how this new little nuisance will develop. It’s too soon to panic. For the moment, at least, move on.
    She switched over to thinking about the naked young woman she’d found on the beach. A woman whose name evidently began with N . Nancy? Nicole? Noreen? Natalie? An image of the young kayaker who’d gone for help, strong and capable and—thank goodness—quite alive, flashed through Chloe’s mind. May she always paddle safely on the big lakes, Chloe thought fervently.
    Maybe the N didn’t stand for a name. Chloe tried to think of a religious name or prayer that some curious stranger might have symbolized with the letter N. Something like Jesus or Allah or Mohammed or Buddha. There might be a relevant name in Pottawatomie or Menominee or Ojibwe, and there must be some Catholic saints with N names, but she didn’t know.
    One word finally popped into her beleaguered brain: Namaste . Her college yoga teacher always said that at the end of class. Chloe had never heard a literal translation, but it had to mean good-bye, go in peace—something like that.
    “There we go,” Chloe told a brown thrasher hopping through the grass. Some grieving yogi had built a cairn on the Pottawatomie beach to say good-bye to a young woman who had gotten drunk on a cruise across Lake Michigan, stripped naked, fallen overboard, and drowned.
    Right.
    Her mental gymnastics were so absurd that she welcomed the arrival of Maintenance Mel in the truck. After the ritual exchange of empty Igloo for full one, Mel paused. “You doing OK out here?” he asked gruffly.
    “Yes, thanks.” Except for the naked dead woman and children playing nocturnal games.
    “You’re pretty isolated out here. Anything could happen, and there’s no way to get help quickly if you need it.”
    Gee, thanks for reminding me, Chloe thought. But he was from another generation, and in his own way, he was probably trying to be nice. “I’ve done a lot of wilderness camping,” she said mildly. “I’ll be fine.”
    Once Mel left, Chloe felt edgy with pent-up energy. She wanted to talk to Garrett, and she had plenty of time before the first ferry arrived this morning anyway. Might as well take the long way down to the dock, circling around Rock Island’s east side. Chloe rinsed out her mug, laced on her hiking boots, and headed out.
    She came to the cemetery Sylvie had mentioned almost immediately. Chloe bowed her head in respect, then hurried on her way. She wasn’t in the mood to contemplate the final moments of anyone drowning in Lake Michigan.