Page 9

9

THE ENGINE PROTESTED. Grinding and moaning as though she were asking it to drive to Alaska, not just to Ontonagon.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Shea caught a glimpse of her frustrated face in the rearview mirror. Shadows under her eyes marred her features. She blamed Annabel for that.

A glance at her phone and she eyed the signal. All was calm in nature today, so apparently it had decided to allow her to gather one bar of signal that was coming from some random, unseen cell tower.

She snatched it up and, out of habit, dialed Pete. The long pause before the phone even connected was long enough for her to rethink her instinctive impulse to call her husband. Shea yanked the phone from her ear and was just about to end the call when she heard Pete.

“Yeah?”

She gritted her teeth and sucked in a breath, pleading for patience. She lifted the phone back to ear. “My car won’t start.”

No hellos. No pleasantries.

She could picture Pete, six hours away in Wisconsin, his flannel shirt hanging loose over his beat-up T-shirt. Grease under his fingernails and permanently embedded in his calluses. His nose, crooked at the end, and it wasn’t because of some cool sports injury—he’d just been born that way. His brown eyes, the whiskery face, the shaggy hair. The man was as Midwestern-rural as they came. She’d been attracted to him once. Years ago. Now?

“What’s it doing?”

Pete’s question startled her back into the present.

“It’s groaning.”

“Groaning?”

“I don’t know. Like it’s trying to start but can’t.” She hated trying to describe mechanical issues to Pete.

“Is the battery dead?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to check it.”

“It’s not making a clicking sound?”

Shea tried not to be irritated. In the end, this wasn’t Pete’s fault. “No. It’s—groaning.”

“Like a slow engine crank?”

“Sure?”

“I can’t help you if I can’t identify the issue.” Pete’s frankness was never meant to sound harsh, but she always took it that way. Why couldn’t he couch his statements in something nice, like I know you’re trying, and I appreciate it, but it’s difficult for me to identify the issue. Perhaps you could try starting the car and I could listen on this end ? But no. There was none of that. Just “I can’t help you if...”

“It acts like it wants to start, but then it runs out of energy and dies.” She made another attempt and then waited.

A pause.

“It’s probably the battery.”

She waited longer and then realized Pete wasn’t going to offer if she didn’t ask. “What do I do then?”

“You’ll need to have someone jump-start it. You should have cables in the trunk. I made sure they were there before you left.”

Shea winced. She was hard on him, but then in times like these, he always seemed to come through.

“I also checked the fluids in the car. I hooked it up to the reader and didn’t get any error codes, so it shouldn’t be giving you trouble.”

“I don’t need this right now.” Shea sagged in the seat and eyed the dashboard. It was ritzier than what Pete had wanted her to get. He preferred older vehicles that didn’t have so many electronics and things that could go wrong that weren’t fixable with a spark plug or an easy-to-get part.

“Want me to drive up and help?” His offer wasn’t unusual. That was Pete’s way. If she couldn’t fix it on her own, he’d just come and do it himself. She could never tell if he was okay with coming and helping or if he did it because he was her husband and had to.

“I can find someone to jump-start the car.”

“K. If you can’t, call me back. I could make it there by tonight.”

Anyone else might find Pete a tad heroic, but Shea knew better. It wasn’t her he was coming for; it was the car. Vehicles were his best friends. Mechanics. Tools. Grease. He lived for it. If Pete loved her as much as he adored his cars, she’d be as valued as his 1969 Javelin.

She’d give Holt a ring.

Shea ended the call with her husband and checked the phone’s signal. Still one bar. Barely enough. She rang Holt, and within seconds he answered.

“Sure. Man, that stinks. I’ll be right over.”

He hadn’t said anything much different from Pete, yet something in Shea had jump-started, even if her car hadn’t. She appreciated how Holt empathized with her frustration. It touched her soul. It was nice to have someone who cared about her.

Finally, the battery jump-started successfully, and Shea made it to Ontonagon without further incident. She was just in time for midmorning coffee at the diner, so she slipped inside and ordered a basic cup that was fast-served to her in the cream-colored coffee mug most diners had. The waitress smiled down at her.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“I was wondering.” Shea took the invitation, although she was sure it wasn’t what the waitress expected. “Do you have any idea how I would go about finding Captain Gene?”

“The captain?” The waitress’s crow’s feet beside her eyes deepened as a knowing grin stretched across her face and touched the graying hair at her temples. “You and everyone’s mother’s brother want to find Captain Gene. He comes out of hiding when he feels the mind to, not before.”

“Someone must know where he lives,” Shea said.

The waitress propped her hand on her hip. “You’d think, but no one does. Man doesn’t even have an address. Not even a P.O. box. He’s like a hibernating bear that pokes his nose out when he wakes up in the spring.”

“So he comes out in spring? Like about this time of year?” Shea straightened in her booth.

The waitress, whose name tag read Marnie , gave an offhanded shrug. “I was speaking metaphorically. I don’t know when he’ll pop up. He just does. Gets a can of Folgers from the market, matches, toilet paper, and peanut butter. The man is predictable when it comes to his shopping list. But that’s about as predictable as he gets. Why do you want to talk to him? Are you a reporter or something?”

Shea took a sip of the black coffee, which was burnt and desperately needed help. She shook her head. “No. I’m a writer. I’m researching for a book surrounding the lighthouse.”

Marnie threw her head back in understanding. “Oh, gotcha! Annabel’s Lighthouse? That makes sense. You should talk to my mother, Edna Carraway. She could at least get you started.”

“Edna is your mother?” Shea perked up.

“You bet she is. I live with her. We’re just about three blocks over. The little yellow ranch house with the rusty metal bike out front. Can’t miss it. Head on over and give the door a knock. Tell her Marnie sent you, and my mother will prattle your ear off with so much info you’ll probably want to run away.”

“Oh, you’re a gem!” Shea took another sip of the coffee to be polite, then pushed it away. “I’ll head over there now if you think your mom won’t mind?”

“Not at all!” Marnie waved her hand as if to brush away any inconvenience. “Small town, and we love company.”

Shea handed Marnie a five-dollar bill for the coffee and tip and then exited the diner. Meeting Edna Carraway’s daughter—who had to be in her mid-fifties—meant she had an instant in with Edna. Always a plus when it came to building rapport.

Within a few minutes and after a short drive, Shea stood in front of the Carraway house. Sure enough, the rusted bike was in the front, a basket hanging from its handlebars and a few small sprigs of marigolds freshly planted. She walked up the slanted and cracked sidewalk to the front porch, which was also cement and certainly not fancy. She rang the doorbell and waited until the door opened and the most adorable elderly lady peered out at her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her lenses were so thick they made her eyes twice their actual size. Her hair was white and permed into a short, curled cap on her head. Her skin was wrinkled and soft, her hands dotted with age, and her height came to the bottom of Shea’s chin.

“Yes?” Edna’s voice quivered with age.

Shea took a moment to introduce herself, quick to add that Marnie had sent her, and she was hoping Edna had some time to spare.

Edna’s door widened, and her eyes brightened. “Come in! Come in!”

Shea stepped inside and gave the front room a quick once-over. Rose wallpaper consistent with the nineties adorned the walls. The furniture was nothing special: a La-Z-Boy recliner, a brown couch, a purple crocheted afghan folded and hanging over the arm of a rocking chair, and a tube TV that still boasted dials for changing channels. A large painting of a dog hung over the couch—a spaniel with long ears and brown eyes that looked happy.

“That’s Ralph.” Edna pointed. “Marnie painted him about ten years ago right before he passed. Such a good dog, and once Ralph crossed the rainbow bridge, I just didn’t have the heart for another one.” Edna wobbled across the living room in such a tenuous fashion that Shea found herself reaching out in case the woman fell.

“Let’s head to the dining room and sit down,” Edna directed. Soon Shea found herself at a wooden table, sitting in a wooden chair, with a plate of store-bought cookies in front of her and a glass of milk. “I don’t drink anything with caffeine,” Edna explained as she eased herself onto a chair opposite Shea. “Doctor says it’s bad for my heart.”

“I understand.” Shea smiled.

“Tell me more about your book!” Edna folded her hands in front of her, and her buggy, faded blue eyes stared intently at Shea. “And speak up ’cause my hearing isn’t the best, and those silly ear things that are supposed to help me hear just fall out, so I don’t wear them.”

Hearing aids. Shea was absolutely in love with Edna already. The woman was pure joy in a petite bundle, and her forthright conversation eased Shea’s frayed nerves. She took a few minutes to describe her career to Edna, ending with how she was staying in Annabel’s Lighthouse and researching lore from the locals.

Edna’s eyes sparkled. “I can never talk about this area too much. So much history here, and so many tales. The lake is alive with them, you know. It breathes the ghosts of the dead.”

Shea pulled out her phone. “Do you mind if I record this?”

Edna glanced at the phone and lifted her hand in welcome. “Go right ahead. No reason for me to take everything I know to the grave with me. I highly doubt the worms and beetles will be interested.”

Shea bit back a smile as she opened the recording app on her phone. “Well, first and foremost, I’m really interested in learning about Annabel. Who was she beyond just the lore?”

Edna’s expression softened. “Oh, Annabel. Sweet thing. I imagine she was a tortured soul, and that’s the truth of it.” She picked at a piece of lint from the cuff of her sweater. “The way it’s been told since I was girl was that Annabel came here with her father. She was motherless, and seeing as most of the people in the area were either fur trappers or Chippewa ... well, she was a special little thing. Mining was just getting started. It was a time of change for this area, a move into the modern age. Well, modern for them, I suppose.”

Shea considered Edna’s words. “What was Annabel’s last name?”

“Oh, honey.” Edna’s already large eyes grew wider. “Nobody knows that . It happened too long ago, and her grave was lost to time. She’s just known as Annabel. Of course, the lighthouse was built not long after she drowned. Just a wooden structure at first, until they rebuilt it as you see it mostly today. I think they rebuilt it in the 1860s, and then the new keeper took it over.”

“And what was that keeper’s name?” Shea knew names would be helpful as she pieced the story together.

“Edgar. Edgar Wolf. He was of German roots, so his surname sounded more like Voolf . Anyway, he ran the lighthouse until the early 1880s, I believe, and then a younger man took over—Abel Koski, I think his name was.”

“And when were the sightings of Annabel first recorded?” Shea found excitement growing inside of her. The lightkeepers’ names were golden.

Edna’s lips pressed together in a thin, knowing smile. “Well, from the moment she drowned really. Her lover—and some say Annabel was also married, so that in itself was scandalous— claimed to have seen her the very next night. ‘An aimless wandering’ were the words used. After that, various sailors would spot her on the shoreline, or a miner would notice her slip behind trees and vanish into the forest. Once the lighthouse was built, she seemed to take up residence there.”

“Why do you think that was?” Shea wasn’t sure if Edna was a firm believer in the existence of Annabel’s ghost or merely an intrepid storyteller.

Edna chuckled. “That’s all been conjecture for decades. Some say she moved into the lighthouse to haunt the keeper and anyone else who lived there. That she made it her mission to keep them from sleep so that none died or drowned on their watch. Others claim Annabel moved into the lighthouse because she had an attachment to someone who once lived there. Probably one of the keepers.”

“Was one of the keepers perhaps her lover?” Shea speculated.

Edna nodded. “That’s been the theory. You see”—she leaned forward—“the same way Annabel’s identity was lost to time, so too was her lover’s. No one really knows the truth of it outside of the tragedy of her drowning.”

What Edna shared matched what Shea had already researched and what she’d learned from Holt. But she couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed. She had imagined Edna would know more specifics and not just embellishments to the legend.

“And what can you tell me about Jonathan—”

Shea’s inquiry was cut off by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass.

Edna cried out. “Sweet dandelion stems! What was that?” Her hands clutched at her throat.

Shea shot up from her chair, sweeping the living space with investigative observation. None of the house windows were shattered, but the front ones were open, allowing the warmer spring breeze to freshen up the house.

She patted the air between her and Edna. “Stay here. I’ll go look.”

“Oh, be careful!” Edna was struggling to rise from her chair, ignoring Shea’s instructions. “I’ve never heard the likes of that before!”

Shea hurried through the front room and cautiously pushed open the door. Her eyes caught sight of her car parked on the road just yards from the house.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” She sprinted down the walk to approach her car from the front. The windshield was completely shattered. Glass decorated the inside of the car, the windshield boasting a large hole dead center.

“What happened?” Edna had emerged from the house, and she held tightly to the fence post at the end of the walk. “Oh no. Is that your car?”

“Yes.” Shea’s answer was curt, but not because she blamed Edna. She knew before she looked inside the vehicle that someone had launched something hard through her windshield. She yanked open the door and surveyed the inside. There was nothing. No stone, no item that would explain the gaping hole in the windshield. Shea struggled to pull her emotions into control so she didn’t cry or scream, or worse, swear like a sailor. That would probably make Edna’s eyes pop right out of her head. Shea had a strong feeling that Edna Carraway never swore. Ever.

She reached for her phone in her jeans pocket. She’d call the police. This was absurd.

Edna teetered up beside Shea and laid a hand on Shea’s wrist. Edna’s head began to shake from side to side. “You’ve ruffled feathers, Miss Radclyffe.”

“Ruffled feathers?” Shea dialed the police. “Who on earth would want to vandalize my car? And where did they go?” She looked around as if the culprit would be standing there to take ownership of the act.

Edna lifted enormous eyes and pushed her wire frames higher up her nose. “Annabel has a reputation, you know.” Edna clucked her tongue as though Shea should have foreseen this happening. “A nice ghost, for all sakes and purposes, but if anyone asks too many questions, well now, Annabel doesn’t like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Shea was losing patience. The story was cryptic enough without adding another level of ludicrousness to it.

Edna’s features turned stern, her mouth set in a grim line. “Annabel’s history is sacred to her spirit. She’s a private ghost, Miss Radclyffe, and she wants to have a voice in things.”

Shea eyed the elderly woman. “You’re saying Annabel traveled from the lighthouse all the way to Ontonagon in order to break my windshield to keep me from asking questions about her life?”

Edna offered a wobbly shrug. “No one ever said spirits can’t travel.”