Page 13

13

“JONATHAN MARKS?” The historian nudged his glasses up his nose.

Shea watched the balding man from behind the counter. She’d left the lighthouse that morning in the guise of taking a walk, and she’d ended up three miles away in the small remnants of the once promising Silvertown. In the 1870s, the city had been expected to become the epicenter of a silver boom. In the end, silver had become a short-lived dream.

The historian unwrapped a piece of chewing gum, and the minty smell permeated the otherwise musty smell in the small house that doubled as the Silvertown Historical Museum. Two rooms really, with the main attractions being a wall filled with cheaply framed black-and-white photos and a taxidermic black bear in the far corner, along with a sign that boasted it was the largest bear taken in the twentieth century on the shores of Lake Superior.

“Jonathan Marks,” the historian repeated. He clucked his tongue as he chewed the gum. “I knew him back in the day. It’s been a while since I heard the name.”

Shea glanced at the name tag on the man in front of her. “Chuck, I’d love to hear about Mr. Marks.”

Chuck eased his short frame onto a stool and adjusted his position until he found a comfortable spot. It seemed every man she met of late was testing her patience. Shea looked around for her own chair or stool, but since there was none, she leaned forward on the counter.

“Yep.” Chuck nodded, oblivious to Shea’s search for a place to sit. “I went to high school with Jonathan. Then he left for the university and didn’t come back to this area until about 2000 or so.” Chuck’s mustache stretched as he smiled. His cheeks were ruddy, and the mustache made the middle-aged man appear like a mash-up of youthful pubescence and a man whose age had snuck up on him and caught him unaware. He laughed. “Jonathan was all about Y2K. Remember that? The computer chips weren’t set for the millennium change, and the world was going to experience a crash. He said he moved back here where he could live off the land. He bought the lighthouse, which at that time hadn’t been made into a historical landmark.”

“When was the lighthouse put out of commission?” Shea interrupted.

“The sixties,” Chuck answered. “There wasn’t any need for it. I’m surprised the government ran it that long since Silvertown never was a port. They kept it lit mostly for the potential of shipwrecks on some of the outcroppings and rocks. But now? There’s no need with all the navigational equipment on ships these days.”

“What do you know about Jonathan’s death?” Shea didn’t bother to tiptoe around her intentions.

Something flickered in Chuck’s eyes. “Yeah. That. Super tragic. Put a gun to his head and just pulled the trigger. My brother was with the police department then and was one of the first people on the scene. It was pretty gory.”

“Most gunshot wounds are.”

“’Specially to the head.” Chuck patted his hands on his knees for emphasis. “Brains and all, you know?”

“I know.” Shea grimaced. “Someone was telling me that Jonathan was anti-guns?”

“Yep. Had been since high school,” Chuck affirmed.

“So how did he come by a gun to end his life with?”

Chuck wagged a finger in Shea’s direction. “Now you’re asking the questions the cops asked. My brother, Tim, told me it was a 9mm handgun. The autopsy report said the gun was consistent with the angle of Jonathan holding it to his temple. But it was the right-side temple, and Jonathan was left-handed. So foul play was introduced as a theory based on that, as well as Jonathan being so anti-firearm.”

“Did he have a reason to be anti-gun?”

“Anti-gun?” Chuck’s voice went up a notch. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them in a shrug. “Not sure. I mean, it’s not exactly a popular opinion around these parts. We’ve a lot of hunters and the like.”

“But hunters don’t hunt with a handgun, do they?” Shea inquired.

“Not likely, but there’s still a use for them. Protection when you’re out hiking—wolves are making a comeback now. There are the black bears too, though typically they’re more scared of us than we are of them. Still, if you come up on a mama bear—”

“Where did Jonathan get this gun?” Shea asked, cutting him off.

Chuck lifted his hands in acquiescence. “No one knows.”

None of it made sense to Shea, and she voiced her skepticism. “It seems there would be some record somewhere. I mean, guns have serial numbers.”

Chuck’s expression told her he agreed with her. “Yep. They do. But he might’ve purchased the gun out of state. Like next door in Wisconsin, where you can sell your gun to a friend, and no one is the wiser. Jonathan could’ve bought a handgun somewhere and been legal about it but not have its serial number registered under his name. The bigger question was motive—who would want him dead? Jonathan wasn’t popular around Silvertown or Ontonagon. He riled folks up with his talk of how we were destroying the environment with the logging and mining, polluting the lake, and so on. He was also known for being a drunk. Spent every evening at the Dipstick Saloon. Man drank old-fashioneds like they were so old-fashioned they were going extinct. He’d always talk a lot when he did. Depression ran in his family, and a week or so before he died, he was at the Dipstick and going on about ways a man could off himself and leave behind the stress and darkness of the world. To be honest, he seemed a bit excited to die.”

“That’s awful.” Shea couldn’t fathom being that low in life as to wish death on oneself. But she knew it was a very real place all too many found themselves.

Chuck nodded emphatically. “But there’s the even weirder part about it.”

“What’s that?” Shea leaned her elbows on the counter to take weight off of her feet.

“About a month before Jonathan died, he mentioned to others in the Dipstick some very odd things happening at the lighthouse. Slamming doors, footsteps in the hallway, the water turned on in the middle of the night when no one was there to do it. He was determined Annabel’s ghost was really in the lighthouse, and she didn’t want him there.”

“Are you insinuating Annabel’s ghost killed Jonathan?” Shea had to find a human explanation for his death. Gone crazy and run himself off the top of the lighthouse? Sure, she could believe that. But Shea couldn’t wrap her belief around the idea Annabel’s ghost herself somehow pulled the trigger that resulted in Jonathan’s death.

Chuck slid off the stool and made a pretense of getting busy straightening a stack of brochures. “I think folks bring up that Annabel legend because it makes a good story. As if an old ghost could pull a trigger or would even want to.”

“What do you believe happened?” Shea asked.

Chuck matched her intent gaze. “I believe blaming a popular legend is an excuse. It sensationalizes Jonathan’s death and gives it a whole lot of attention and builds a mystery around it. Before you know, the authorities want to shut all the hoopla down, so they go with their gut and claim suicide.” Chuck gave the neat stack of brochures a kindly pat. “The bigger question isn’t whether Jonathan was killed by Annabel’s ghost, but if Annabel was haunting him, why it drove things so far as to have Jonathan end up dead? Either the haunting drove him to suicide, or it drove someone to murder him. There’s the rub if you ask me.”

“What’d you find out?”

Holt’s appearance just outside of the museum caught her off guard. Shea stopped on the porch and tried to temper her expression into the appropriate smile of a married woman, as she knew she should. Man, but it was hard.

“I’m sure it’s nothing new to you.” She widened her smile, unable to hold in the warmth.

“Chuck has always been in the murder camp when it comes to Jonathan Marks.” Holt tipped his head toward his pickup. “Need a ride back to the lighthouse?”

“Actually,” she answered, “I was going to head down to the Dipstick. Just to look around.”

“I’ll come with you.” Holt fell into place beside Shea as she skipped down the steps toward the gravel parking area.

The woods grew up all around them, and from where the museum was located, she could peer up and down the highway and see the entirety of Silvertown: the museum, post office, Dipstick Saloon, country store and gas station, and a couple of houses that looked to be half home and half boutique shop.

Their shoes crunched on the gravel as they hiked down the road toward the bar. No sidewalks were available, just the gravel on the edge of the asphalt highway.

“Soooo...” Holt dragged the word out long enough for Shea to have an idea of where he was going. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“We’re ... separated.” Shea wasn’t sure if that was the actual truth. If someone were to ask Pete, he’d probably have no clue that she was considering this trip a separation. A test.

“Ah.” Holt nodded. “Marriage is tough.”

“You’ve been married, right?” Shea cast him a sideways glance as the Dipstick Saloon came closer into view.

“Briefly. My high-school sweetheart and I got married, which is kinda what you do in a small town, eh?” They both laughed. “She left about a year later. The call of the city. I was too small-town for her by then. We were shortsighted teenagers, I guess.”

Shea didn’t elaborate about why she agreed with him, but her “Mm-hmm!” came out far more emphatic than she’d intended.

That was the thing that sucked about being in her mid-thirties. She was already well on the way to the midpoint of her life and yet her twenties were still visible in the rearview mirror, which meant she saw the foolhardiness of her younger self and yet—Shea stole a glance at Holt beside her—she still had enough impulsive youthfulness in her to want to be foolhardy all over again.

“Here we are.” Holt opened the door of the Dipstick Saloon for Shea, and she entered, immediately taking in the Upper Peninsula vibe of taxidermy, neon beer signs and mirrors, the smells of grease and cigarette smoke, a pool table, and a few pictures on the walls of the Porcupine Mountains.

Even though it was late morning, Holt shimmied onto a stool at the bar and gave the silver-haired woman behind it a grin that deepened his dimples.

“Holt boy, you son of a gun. Since when do you pop into the Dipstick for lunch?”

“Never. It’s always for supper. But today is different.” Holt slapped the bar in jest. “So serve me up a cheeseburger.”

“You serious?” Penny raised her brows, the crow’s feet beside her eyes deepening.

“Never more serious. What do you want, Shea? It’s on me.”

Shea approached and slipped onto a stool next to Holt. It was a bit early for lunch, she thought, but then—why not? “A cheeseburger is fine.”

“No, no. Get her a pastie. She needs to try one.” Holt negated Shea’s order with both authority and a sense of humor.

Penny turned green eyes in Shea’s direction. “You’ve never had a pastie, hon?”

“I don’t even know what that is.” Although Shea had to admit she’d heard of it since Wisconsin bordered the U.P.

“An Upper Peninsula delight, brought here by the Cornish miners, these handheld beef pies are perfection. With some rutabagas and potatoes chopped up in them? Mm-mmm!” Penny’s description had made Shea’s mouth water, until she heard the word rutabaga , which lent to some trepidation at the spicier root.

“But.” Holt leveled a stern look on Shea. “Do you dip it in gravy or ketchup?”

“Ummm.” Shea had no idea how to answer.

Penny burst out laughing and waved Holt away. “Don’t mind him, hon. That’s an age-old debate you’ll never give the right answer to.” Then she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Holt twisted on his seat. “Penny has been running the Dipstick since I was in my teens.”

“She seems like a nice person,” Shea said.

“She is. A local, and a good one to ask questions of.”

And that was what Shea intended to do.

When Penny returned to the bar, she wiped the counter with a damp rag, then tossed it into a bucket of soapy water on the floor behind her. “Okay, what are you having to drink?”

“Coke,” Shea answered.

“One Coke.” Penny turned to Holt. “And you?”

“Spotted Heifer.”

“One Spotted Heifer comin’ up.”

Shea was a bit surprised that Holt was going to have the Midwest ale at this time of day, but when she saw his callused fingers wrap around the bottle, it sort of completed the picture of the rugged Upper Peninsula man.

Penny interrupted her observation. “Holt told me yesterday you’re staying in Annabel’s Lighthouse.”

Shea nodded. “I am.”

“Seen her yet?” Penny’s eyes sparked.

Shea chuckled. “Well, no, not exactly. I did hear the floor creak the other night. That’s creepy enough.” She didn’t add that she could almost swear she’d heard Annabel respond when she told her to be quiet.

“And a lightbulb burned out on you, right?” Holt added.

“Oooooh.” Penny’s face contorted into a melodramatic look of caution. “Annabel is not a fan of modern conveniences. I’d light a lamp next time instead. Keeps her calmer.”

Shea smiled as she sipped her Coke. She liked the laid-back nature of today. Much better than yesterday and having her windshield shattered for no apparent reason. Which reminded her...

“I was talking to Edna Caraway yesterday,” Shea led.

“Oh boy.” Penny exchanged knowing smiles with Holt.

“Oh boy?” Shea said.

“No, no.” Penny shook her head, refusing to explain. Her little silver seashell earrings bobbed. “Tell me what story Edna told this time.”

Holt leaned over to whisper loudly, “Penny thinks Edna makes up half of her history.”

Penny swatted at Holt. “I just think she’s an old lady with nothing else to do but try to remember stuff an old lady can’t remember. She’s riddled with dementia.”

“She is?” Shea drew back. Edna hadn’t struck her as someone struggling with memory issues.

“That’s what Marnie told me. Her daughter. We went to school together back in the day.” Penny’s explanation made sense in a way, but then the fact Marnie hadn’t told Shea about her mother’s dementia seemed a bit strange. Maybe Penny wasn’t meaning to come across critical, but her blunt, inconsiderate declaration about Edna’s state of mind gave Shea a nudge of caution.

“Anyway”—Penny leaned her elbows on the bar—“what’d you learn?”

Shea didn’t want to bring up the broken windshield, although she had a feeling that Penny somehow already knew, and it dawned on Shea that Holt had to have heard from somewhere too, seeing as he’d shown up at the lighthouse last night to make sure she was okay.

“Well.” Shea hesitated, then decided to go for it. “Okay, so Edna mentioned that Annabel might be behind the vandalism to my windshield.” Stupid didn’t begin to describe how Shea felt after posing the idea.

“Ahh, yes. The ‘Annabel is protective of her story’ angle.” Penny dropped a wink in Holt’s direction. “That’s not unique to Edna, though, I will admit. It’s been said that after Annabel’s lover died decades after her own death, it always seemed as though Annabel never liked people nosing around and asking questions. Anyone digging into her story found themselves with strange things happening to warn them off.”

“Who was Annabel’s lover?” Shea had to admit, the story of Annabel and the lighthouse got odder every time she learned a little bit more.

“Shhh.” Penny’s expression lost its humor in a way that made Shea believe she truly was being serious now. “We don’t talk about it out loud. That’s the worst thing you can do. Speak of Annabel’s lover, and her ghost goes berserk.”

Shea offered up a nervous laugh and glanced at Holt, who took a draw from his bottle and raised his brows as if to say, You’re on your own on this one.

Penny’s eyes shifted left to right as though concerned someone might overhear them. She leaned closer over the bar. “The more you dig into the story of who Annabel and her lover were, the spookier it gets. Take Jonathan Marks, for example.”

Shea straightened.

Penny tapped the glossy bar with a long, red fingernail that was chipped on the end. “He went from being a smart conservationist, lobbying the government on behalf of the environment, to hiding out in the lighthouse and eventually shooting himself in the head.”

“Was he researching the lighthouse?” Shea asked.

Penny tugged on her shirt with its beer-brand moniker. “He wasn’t until he moved into it. His sole purpose for moving in was to get the place registered as a historical site and work on sprucing up the property. Of course, Annabel ... well, she seeps in slowly, like the tide, until suddenly you’re swept up in her story—good or bad.”

“I didn’t realize Jonathan Marks was into Annabel’s legend,” Holt admitted.

Penny glanced at him, her eyes wide. “Oh yeah. Jonathan used to come in here and tell me all the things he was trying to figure out. Then it went from research to an obsession. It was really strange. He came into the bar one night just before closing, around one in the morning. He was a mess, an absolute mess. He said he’d had a sense he was being watched as he tried to sleep. Someone hiding in his closet. He investigated further and said there was the shadow of a woman staring out at him as he lay on the lightkeeper’s bed, and when Jonathan sat up, the vision dissipated.”

“Every closet is haunted. We learn that when we’re kids.” Holt jabbed a hole into Penny’s story.

She jabbed the air back at him with her finger. “You may not believe, but I do. I saw Jonathan that night, and let me tell you, that man was all scientific and statistics before he moved into the lighthouse. Then to go and kill himself? I don’t believe it.”

“Did Jonathan have issues with Annabel too? I don’t mean haunting him; I mean like my windshield getting shattered?” Shea had to ask even though the stories were sounding more ludicrous by the minute.

“Mm-hmm.” Penny gave a curt nod. “Little things mostly. There was the time he was picking up his laundry from the laundromat in Ontonagon. Yeah, and there was black soot all through his clean clothes.”

“Soot?” Holt questioned.

“Yes. Like old coal soot from the stove back in the lighthouse. Only the clothes had been washed.” Penny held her palms up toward the ceiling. “Figure that one out. Someone sabotaged his laundry.”

“Doesn’t sound too ghostly to me.” Holt twisted his bottle on the bar. “Sounds like a kid’s prank.”

“So, essentially, the argument goes that Annabel’s spirit can’t rest in peace because people keep trying to find out what happened to her?” Shea summarized.

Penny’s red lips drew into a thin line, emphasizing the fine wrinkles around her mouth. “Partly. I think the lighthouse has secrets, more than we realize. That’s what makes it—and Annabel—an enigma. But she needs to be left alone.”

Penny cleared her throat as she took a step back from the bar to retrieve the cheeseburger and pastie for Holt and Shea. She hesitated, then spun and leveled a look on Shea.

“I will say this, though. Things got really weird with Jonathan when he uncovered the story about the girl who showed up at the lighthouse about twenty years after Annabel died. Rebecca, they called her. Jonathan found some mention of the girl in the copies of the lighthouse log. There wasn’t a lot of detail. A few pieces of historical documents said she was Annabel reincarnated, but the really strange thing? Silvertown went a little crazy about that time. It was right when the silver mining dream was ready to burst wide open, and the town was in the process of becoming a port. People started seeing Annabel more often. A miner even reported that Annabel’s ghost sabotaged the stamp mill to halt the miners from harvesting the silver ore. Jonathan was dead two days after he told me that little tale. He thought there was some connection there—between the lost girl and the dead Annabel.”

“What do you think?” Holt’s tone was serious, and Shea felt her breath catch in her throat.

Penny turned away to refill Shea’s soda. “Doesn’t matter what I think. I just know that one day Jonathan Marks wore a business suit and championed climate-change awareness and gun control. The next day he looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, drinking every night and telling others the lighthouse needed to be destroyed so that Annabel’s spirit would move on. And then he took a bullet to the head. Whether by his own hand or Annabel’s or someone else’s, who knows?” Penny’s eyes locked on Shea’s. “Fact is, he was the last person I know to try to understand Annabel and the lighthouse and, well, the cursed story killed him.”