praise for the chloe ellefson mystery series: “Chloe is an appealing character, and Ernst’s depiction of work at a living museum lends authenticity and a sense of place to the involving plot.”—St. Paul Pioneer Press “Greed, passion, skill, and luck all figure in this surprise-filled outing.”—Publishers Weekly “Interesting, well-drawn characters and a complicated plot make this a very satisfying read.”—The Mystery Reader “Entertainment and edification.”—Mystery Scene “A wonderfully woven tale that winds in and out of modern and historical Wisconsin with plenty of mysteries. Enchanting!”— Sandi Ault, author of the WILD Mystery Series and recipient of the Mary Higgins Clark Award “Clever plot twists and credible characters make this a far-fromhumdrum cozy.”—Publishers Weekly “Propulsive and superbly written, this first entry in a dynamite new series from accomplished author Kathleen Ernst seamlessly melds the 1980s and the 19th century. Character-driven, with mystery aplenty, Old World Murder is a sensational read. Think Sue Grafton meets Earlene Fowler, with a dash of Elizabeth Peters.”—Julia Spencer-Fleming, Anthony and Agatha Award-winning author of I Shall Not Want and One Was A Soldier “Old World Murder is strongest in its charming local color and genuine love for Wisconsin’s rolling hills, pastures, and woodlands … a delightful distraction for an evening or two.”—NYJournalOfBooks.com
“This series debut by an author of children’s mysteries rolls out nicely for readers who like a cozy with a dab of antique lore. Jeanne M. Dams fans will like the ethnic background.”—Library Journal “Information on how to conduct historical research, background on Norwegian culture, and details about running an outdoor museum frame the engaging story of a woman devastated by a failed romantic relationship whose sleuthing helps her heal.”—Booklist “[A] museum masterpiece.”—RosebudBookReviews.com “A real find … 5 stars.”—OnceUponARomance.net “Engaging characters, a fascinating (real-life) setting, a gripping and believable plot—this is the traditional mystery at its best.”— Jeanne M. Dams, Agatha Award-winning author of the Dorothy Martin and Hilda Johansson Mysteries
also by kathleen ernst Nonfiction Too Afraid to Cry: Maryland Civilians in the Antietam Campaign, Stackpole Books, 1999 Fiction Old World Murder The Heirloom Murders
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
The Light Keeper’s Legacy: A Chloe Ellefson Mystery © 2012 by Kathleen Ernst. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2012 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Kevin R. Brown Cover illustration © Charlie Griak Editing by Connie Hill Interior map by Llewellyn Art Department, based on Map of Rock Island State Park, Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources, Bureau of Parks Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ernst, Kathleen, 1959The light keeper’s legacy : a Chloe Ellefson mystery / by Kathleen Ernst. — 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-3307-4 1. Women museum curators—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Rock Island (Wis.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3605.R77L54 2012 813'.6—dc23 2012 017514 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
dedication For the Friends of Rock Island, and for park staff, past and present, with admiration and gratitude.
author’s note Rock Island State Park is a real place. I’ve tried to describe the island, Pottawatomie Lighthouse, the Viking Hall and Boathouse, and the site of the former fishing village accurately. The lighthouse has been magnificently restored by the Friends of Rock Island State Park, working with the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources. My husband and I have had the pleasure and privilege of serving as live-in docents at the lighthouse for several weeklong stints. Since this is a work of fiction, however, I fabricated events to suit the story—including moving the restoration process back in time by a decade. Chloe’s experiences as guest curator are completely imaginary. Most of the places mentioned on Washington Island are also real: The Jackson Harbor Maritime Museum, The Washington Island Farm Museum, The Washington Island Historical Archives, the Jacobsen Museum, and Nelsen’s Hall. You can learn more, and plan your own trip, by visiting these websites: Rock Island State Park: http://dnr.wi.gov/topic/parks/name/rockisland/ Friends of Rock Island State Park: http://uniontel.net/~cmarlspc/ Washington Island Visitors’ Guide: http://www.washingtonisland.com/visitors-guide/ You can also find photos, a tour guide, and maps of relevant places on my website: www.kathleenernst.com
cast of characters Contemporary Timeline (1982) Chloe Ellefson—curator of collections, Old World Wisconsin Roelke McKenna—officer, Village of Eagle Police Department Ralph Petty—director, Old World Wisconsin Nika Austin—intern, Old World Wisconsin Skeet Deardorff—part-time officer, Village of Eagle Police Department Mrs. Saddler, Penny Sloan—Eagle residents Denise Miller—EMT, Village of Eagle Fire Department *Jack Cornell and Jeff Cornell—captain and son of the passenger ferry Karfi Garrett Smith—manager, Rock Island State Park Stig Fjelstul – deputy sheriff, Door County; former game warden, WI Department of Natural Resources Brenda Noakes—archaeologist from Michigan; former Washington Island resident Melvin Jenks—maintenance man at Rock Island State Park; semiretired fisherman Herb and Lorna Whitby—members of the Rock Island Support Circle Sylvie Torgrimsson—member of the Rock Island Support Circle; part-time commercial fisherwoman Ruth Gunderson—potential artifact donor, Washington Island Natalie and Tim Ridgeway—kayakers who camp on Rock Island Spencer Brant—photographer who visits Rock Island Richard Dix—lighthouse enthusiast who visits Rock Island * real people x
Historical Timeline (1869–1906) *Emily Rohn Betts and William Betts—assistant keeper and keeper, Pottawatomie Lighthouse Ragna and Anders Anderson—Danish immigrants, Rock Island fishing village Paul and Christina Anderson—Ragna and Anders’ children Evert Anderson—Paul Anderson’s son Carl and Jens—Ragna’s brothers Carrick Dugan—Irish immigrant Mette Friis—Danish immigrant Berglind Fridliefsdottir—Icelandic immigrant *Anton Jacobson—last fisherman to leave Rock Island fishing village *James McNeil—murder victim Jeanette Gunderson—friend of Emily Betts; Ruth’s grandmother *Chester and Juliana Thordarson—last private owners of Rock Island *real people
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“This trip of yours is a very bad idea,” Roelke said soberly. Chloe Ellefson sighed. “You sound as if I’m disappearing into some trackless wilderness. Rock Island is a state park, for God’s sake.” They stood in her driveway. She’d already locked the old farmhouse she rented. “An island with no roads. No houses. With Labor Day past, there might not be anyone in the campground.” “That seems unlikely,” Chloe said, with sincere regret. She picked up her backpack and stowed it in her Pinto. “Now that school’s started, I imagine that lots of people who like peace and quiet are heading out for excursions.” “Weather on Lake Michigan can turn nasty with very little warning.” Chloe removed the tent pole she used to hold the Pinto’s hatch open. It slammed closed. “I know that. Remember, I’ve got a nice old lighthouse to sleep in.”
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He leaned against her car and folded his arms. “A lighthouse without electricity or heat or running water—” “Geez Louise, Roelke, I’m not a child!” Chloe frowned at him, trying to stifle her exasperation. Roelke McKenna was a cop. She knew he had good reason to anticipate trouble anytime, anywhere. Still. “Look, you’ve only known me for a few months, but I’ve done a lot of camping. In all kinds of weather, and in places a lot more remote than Rock Island. I’ll be fine. Please don’t go all Neanderthal about this.” “Are you sure this isn’t going to get you in trouble at work?” A sensitive question. Chloe busied herself by re-tying the ribbon on the end of her long blonde braid. She’d only been collections curator at Old World Wisconsin, the state’s largest historic site, since June. Her relationship with site director Ralph Petty might euphemistically be called “strained.” “I am still on probation,” she acknowledged. “But the request for research assistance came from another state agency, so I’m officially on loan. I get to be guest curator at a lighthouse! It’s a real honor.” “What about Olympia?” An even more sensitive question. Chloe kept her back to the house, afraid she’d see her kitten at the window with a frantic Please don’t leave me! expression. “Dellyn is looking after her.” Dellyn, a good friend, had jumped at the chance. “Well, I got you something.” Roelke fetched a book from his truck. “This one just came out. It is sort of a cop book, but the main character is a woman.” Chloe accepted the gift: A Is For Alibi, by Sue Grafton. “Thank you, Roelke. That was thoughtful. Just the thing for quiet evenings.”
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“Anyway.” He looked away. “I wish I could go with you. I wouldn’t mind a little R and R. There’s no way I can ask for vacation, though.” After four years of part-time status, Roelke had only recently been awarded a permanent position with the Village of Eagle Police Department. “I’ll only be gone for a week, Roelke.” Roelke tapped the heel of one hiking boot against the toe of the other. “Here’s the thing. I feel like we’re treading water. We can try being friends, or we can try going out. But I need to know which it’s going to be.” It’s a reasonable request, Chloe thought, even as she struggled with a flash of panic. “We’ll talk when I get back, OK? I promise.” She slapped her palms against her jeans. Time to get moving. Roelke straightened and stepped behind her. Chloe hesitated before letting him pull her against his chest. They were about the same height, but somehow her head nestled perfectly against his shoulder. She had no idea if she and Roelke had any kind of future. But she had to admit, they fit well together. Before she could get too comfortable, she pulled from his arms. “I’ve got two ferries to catch,” she reminded him. “Call me when you get home?” “I will.” She watched as he walked back to his pickup truck. He was off-duty today, wearing faded jeans and a snug blue T-shirt. In his own uptight way, Roelke McKenna was a good-looking guy. Chloe turned away and got into her car. Thoughts like that were exactly why she needed to get on the road.
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Ragna Anderson had not expected to quickly become one of the best net makers on Rock Island, but to her surprise, she had. Everyone said so. She needed only three days to make a gillnet, five feet by one hundred twenty. She charged a dollar each and no one complained. “A thing of beauty,” Anders declared each time she handed him a new net, whole and perfect. She learned how to pack a net too, floats on one side and weights on the other so they’d flow smoothly from their wooden boxes when he set them. The nets came back torn and fouled with lake weeds, algae, bark from the lumber drives, clinkers tossed from passing steamships. She found blood spots on the mesh as well—perhaps from struggling whitefish, perhaps from Anders’ wet and cold-cracked hands. Back in Denmark, Anders had grown wheat and potatoes, and she had excelled at hedebosøm—needle lace. When Anders took cartloads of produce to sell in the busy market near Copenhagen’s harbor, she brought table linens and handkerchiefs, folded into 4
muslin to keep them clean. Her lace sometimes graced wedding dresses and baptismal gowns. Her handiwork had made people happy. Anders had not expected to be happy in their new home, but to his surprise, he was. He took joy from being on the water and satisfaction from each lift. Ragna took pleasure in knowing that she and Anders had survived the journey and settled here in Wisconsin. They would work hard here, put down new roots. Their children would never go hungry or whimper from want of a warm blanket. Usually such thoughts were enough. Sometimes, though, as twine unspooled from her netting needle and her fingers danced among the mesh, all she saw was inevitable death.
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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 microman6
agement 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
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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, wellmuscled. “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.
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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.”
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“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.”
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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.” 11
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 centuryplus of lightkeepers had tended lamps. Today, despite all the modern marvels of 1982 technology, ship captains still relied on the Rock Island light.
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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. 13
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.
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