“What’s going on?” asked Dad. “Everything okay?”
Alicia looked at me and nodded, and I gave him an abbreviated version of our encounter with Thorn Walker.
“You think he has a boat in the harbor?” asked Dad.
“He said he did, and I’m not surprised,” said Alicia. “He used to sail competitively.”
“What’s he after?” Dad asked with a frown.
“We don’t know, exactly, but my guess is it’s nothing good,” I said.
“Does this have anything to do with the protestors? They were giving me an earful down at the harbor.”
“What protestors?” I asked.
“Some of the boaters at the yacht harbor think the island should have been made into a public park,” answered Alicia. “They weren’t happy with the deal Ellis struck with the state.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “I remember there were protestors at the last renovation project I did with you, as well. You deal a lot with this sort of thing?”
She shrugged. “I work for a high-profile billionaire. It’s part of the cost of doing business.”
She had me there.
“Why would a bunch of rich yacht owners care so much about this place?” I asked. “Can’t they buy their own islands?”
“In this case, ‘yacht owners’ doesn’t mean super rich,” said Dad. “Most of them have little sailboats, that sort of thing. A ‘yacht harbor’ simply refers to a harbor that’s not big enough for cargo ships.”
“Ah. Okay, I guess I’m not up on my yacht harbor parlance.”
“Anyway, they were asking about you, and the project. Jeremy and Waquisha are down there now. Let me introduce you around; you can explain to them what you’re up to.”
“Are you up to chatting with a group of unhappy sailors?” I asked Alicia.
She gave a game, determined nod. “Of course. Let’s go.”
We walked across the courtyard, passed by the foghorn building and supply shed, then headed down a rocky path toward the natural cove. The harbor’s facilities were minimal: the docks and a shack with a water faucet on the outside, and a toilet within. Ellis’s supply boat usually tied up closer to the lighthouse buildings, at a small wharf off a rock wall. A winch hoisted supplies to the property above the dock, and there was a ladder to the side.
I hadn’t yet gathered my courage to climb that ladder, and always requested I be dropped off here at the harbor. But I was so focused on work when I arrived this morning that I hadn’t paid much attention to the other boats, much less their occupants. Now I took note: There were half a dozen craft moored at the docks. One was a simple sailboat with no indoor area at all; the others appeared to have small cabins for storage or sleeping. As my father had noted, none of them looked particularly posh: There wasn’t a true “yacht” in the bunch.
On the docks I spied two men and one woman standing with Jeremy and Waquisha. Waquisha was in her early twenties, tall and plump, with curly black hair and big, intense brown eyes. A six-foot Raphaelesque model in overalls. She was naturally reserved and had barely spoken word one to me, but I had been so excited to have another set of double-X chromosomes working the jobsite that when Jeremy said he knew a young woman looking for work, I jumped at the chance to put her on the payroll. So far she seemed efficient and capable.
Still, I couldn’t help but hope she’d start speaking up soon; I hated being the only snarky woman on the jobsite.
“Here they are now,” said Jeremy. He wasn’t a big talker, either, preferring to focus on getting his work done well, and in a timely fashion. Maybe it was a carpenter characteristic.
“Mel, this is Major Williston,” Jeremy introduced me to one of the strangers, a good-looking man in his thirties with an athletic build and an unnaturally deep tan.
“You’re in the service?” I asked.
“No, Major’s my name.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I have a brother named Lieutenant, and another named Colonel,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll have to take it up with my father.”
“Let me guess, his name’s General Williston?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Glenn, actually. But he has a passion for military history.”
“And this is Paul . . .” Major gestured toward a large, hale blond man with a badly peeling nose; he looked like Bamm-Bamm, all grown up. His fair complexion didn’t seem up to the rigors of sailing.
“Paul Halstrom, nice to meet you,” he said politely, and we shook hands.
“And Terry,” he said, gesturing to a thirtyish woman with a deep tan. Her short hair was slightly spiky from the wind, or with gel, it was hard to tell. She wore designer sunglasses and had a yellow sweater tied around her shoulders. She put me in mind of a short-haired Katharine Hepburn: brash and sporty and capable.
All three sailors looked strong, as though they spent a lot of time in the gym or, I supposed, handling rigging and sails.
“Terry Re,” the woman said, stepping forward and putting out her hand. We shook; her palm was warm and dry, her grip almost uncomfortably tight. “That’s spelled R-E, as in ‘do-re-mi.’”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
The lyrics Doe, a deer, a female deer . . . from The Sound of Music began running through my head. Great, I thought. Chances were that earworm would stick with me for the coming week.
“So,” said Major Williston, presenting himself as the spokesperson of the group. “Are you the person we talk to about retaining free access to the island?”
“I’m really not, I’m sorry,” I said. My eyes slewed over to Alicia, who was studying the horizon. She was the one they wanted, but she’d been through enough today. “I’m the general contractor on the project, so the most I can offer is to unstop your toilet.”
No one said anything. I really had to find a more appreciative audience—or a better caliber of jokes.
“I just mean that you’ll have to address any overarching concerns to Ellis Elrich. Or perhaps to the state, or the Coast Guard, or whoever made the deal with Elrich in the first place . . .”
Major continued smiling, his tanned skin crinkling fetchingly in the corners of his eyes. He had an easygoing manner, but something told me it could turn on a dime.
“It doesn’t make sense, you building here,” said Major with a slow shake of his head. “This island should be entirely open to the public, as it has been for decades.”
“Actually, while part of the island has been open to boaters and hikers, and will continue to be, the rest of the island has been officially off-limits,” I replied. “There are NO TRESPASSING signs posted all around the lighthouse buildings.”
“My point is, our taxes pay for this place,” Major continued, his tone growing testier.
“Given the current state of the buildings,” I said. “I don’t think anyone’s taxes are paying for much of anything at the moment.”
“You should think long and hard about this,” Terry jumped in. “There are too many logistical issues to building here; the costs will be prohibitive.”
“That’s our concern, not yours,” I said. “And really, any concerns you have should be addressed to El—”
“Aside from everything else,” Paul interrupted. “There are some . . . special problems you should be aware of.”
“What kinds of . . . special problems?”
Paul, Terry, and Major exchanged significant glances, and then Major announced, “Mostly at night, we’ve heard . . .” He paused and we all leaned in just a tad. “I don’t want to feed our imaginations, but there’s something seriously disturbing about that lighthouse tower. Something . . . off.”
Chapter Four
“Such as?” I asked. I had my own misgivings about that tower, but was going to keep them to myself.
He hesitated, then wiped a hand over his chin and the back of h
is neck. He exchanged another glance with his fellow yachters. Finally, he said, “It’s almost like . . . well, I know this sounds crazy, but it appears to be . . . haunted.”
Dad rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, and strode away.
Dog looked longingly after him, then back at me, as though torn. He hated it when his people separated. Finally he trotted after Dad, no doubt hoping a snack of some kind would be involved. Other than his humans, food was a priority for Dog. Food, and squirrels.
“Your dad afraid of ghosts?” Terry asked in a loud whisper.
“Not particularly. But . . . he doesn’t like to hear about them. He doesn’t really believe.”
“Neither did I,” said Major. “Not until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What did you see, exactly?”
“There were lights in the tower.”
“It is a lighthouse, after all,” said Waquisha. I was so surprised to hear her speak that for a moment I lost the thread of the conversation.
“It wasn’t the lamp,” said Paul. “We’re not talking about the lighthouse light. It was more as if . . . as if someone was climbing the stairs, maybe with a flashlight or a candle. You see it first in one narrow little window, and then the next. And you hear the clanging of the metal stairs.”
Terry and Major nodded.
Waquisha piped up again, a decidedly cynical edge to her voice, “And you’re saying no human could make such a noise, or carry a light up the stairs?”
“Look, lady, when you’re the only person on this island, just you and your boat, who the hell’s climbing the spire?”
I knew, better than most, that ghosts were real. I also knew how unsettling it could be to encounter one. Still, out on a secluded island, featuring a lighthouse no less, a person might be prone to misinterpreting simple sights and sounds: moonlight glinting off windowpanes, the wind moaning as it passed under loose doors, the lapping of the bay waters echoing in the night.
In this case, of course, I happened to have seen a spirit throw herself off the lighthouse balcony not twenty minutes earlier. But I wanted to deal with this tormented apparition on my own, not with an entourage of sailing enthusiasts who, I was going to assume, didn’t know the first thing about being sensitive to a suicidal woman. Even if she was already dead.
A piece of paper skittered along the rocks, flapping up against the side of my boot. I leaned over to pick it up. The yellowing, slightly crumbly paper showed what appeared to be a hand-drawn map of the island. Scrawled behind the foghorn building was a large “X.”
It looked like a . . . treasure map?
I looked up to find Major’s eyes on me. He inclined his head and said, “We’ve found several of those scattered about.”
“There’s a treasure on this island?”
He scoffed. “No. It must be some sort of kid’s prank, or a game, or something. Ignore it.”
“It looks old.”
“My kid did a project like that when he was in Boy Scouts; all you have to do to make paper look old is burn the edges a little and soak the whole thing in tea. So anyway, as we were saying: It’s going to be tough to convert this place into a hotel and restaurant with ghosts running around. And we’ve all seen it; we’re not crazy.”
I nodded as I rolled up the map and stuck it in the pocket of my coveralls. “Okay, duly noted. Thanks. By the way, we ran into someone earlier, named Thorn Walker. Any of you know him?”
Nods all around.
“We’ve met. Seems like an okay guy,” said Paul. “Came into harbor the other day, but left just a little while ago.”
“What was he up to here, do you know?”
Paul shrugged. “Hiked around the island a little, but mostly just hung out. This is one of the few public harbors where a person can stop for a few days in the middle of the bay, enjoy the peace and quiet and spectacular views. And there’s never a crowd. Doesn’t get much better than this.”
I nodded. “True.”
“So, in the meantime can we use the island?” asked Terry. “We won’t get in the way.”
“I wouldn’t advise it. It’s going to be a construction site soon. Lots of comings and goings. So while you are of course free to use the harbor, for health and safety reasons the lighthouse site will be off-limits.”
Paul’s already red-hued face deepened with anger. “This is so totally bogus,” he growled. “We’ve had the run of this place for years, and now you folks think you can just walk in here—”
“C’mon, Paul, calm down,” said Major, putting a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll call Elrich directly, see if we can talk some sense into the boss.”
I gave Major the phone number of Elrich’s public relations person, a man who had grown up in West Oakland, was almost as broad as he was tall, and used to work security detail with Buzz. I thought it was no mistake that he was the new public relations face of Elrich Enterprises.
Paul glared at me some more, Terry nodded good-bye, and Major shook my hand and said he was sure he would be seeing me around. Then they headed back to their boats.
“Think they’ll be trouble?” Jeremy asked.
“Maybe. But once they see we won’t impede their access to the harbor, they should be fine, right? I think they’re just annoyed that the island’s not their own personal playground anymore.”
“I’ve got all my notes and measurements and photos,” said Dad as he and Dog rejoined us. “I’ll work up the quotes at home. Time to head back; have to get supper started.”
It was only three in the afternoon, but Dad didn’t mess around when it came to having supper on the table at six. Dog wagged his tail wildly and nosed Dad’s thigh; though his vocabulary was limited, it was mostly food-related. “Supper” was one of his favorite words.
“Okay, Dad, and thanks,” I said, kissing his cheek. Even though he claimed to have given up smoking, he smelled vaguely of tobacco, and I suspected he’d snuck a cigarette out behind the shed. “Tell Duncan I’ll need another hour or so.”
Duncan was the eternally patient skipper of the little motorboat Ellis Elrich had arranged to ferry passengers to and from Lighthouse Island from nearby Point Moro.
“Don’t push it, babe,” Dad warned. “This time of year you’ll lose the light by four thirty, or thereabouts. And there’s more rain expected soon, El Niño and all that.”
After several years of drought, this winter the Bay Area had been drenched by storm after storm. Out on the island it was chilly and gray during the mornings, sometimes hot in the afternoon, and cold enough for a real jacket at night: winter, California-style. Not exactly perfect timing to tackle an island renovation, but construction timelines did not wait for weather.
Once Dad, Dog, Jeremy, and Waquisha left, I turned to Alicia, who was absorbed in yet another set of blueprints.
“I hate to say it,” I said. “But I should check out this haunted tower.”
“Allegedly haunted,” she mumbled, still focused on the plans.
“Pretty sure we can go with ‘haunted,’” I said.
That got her attention. “You saw something?”
“Yup.”
“Do I want to know . . . ?”
“Probably not. Besides, I’m not really sure what I saw,” I prevaricated. I didn’t want to tell Alicia she had a suicidal ghost on her hands. Watching someone jump to her death, even if it was only happening in the spectral plane, was genuinely horrifying. “I’d rather not say more until I get a better sense of what’s going on, okay? You wait here, and I’ll be back before you can say ‘abracadabra.’”
“No can do, Mel. Safety first, remember? That means the buddy system until we whip this place into shape. Besides, you won’t be able to make it up that tower alone. I’m going with you.” She pressed her lips together in a signature move, and marched off in the direction of the lighthouse.
Desp
ite my desire to keep my new fear of heights to myself, I had been forced to fess up to Alicia when she noticed I was avoiding the lighthouse tower. My family and work crew had also caught on pretty quickly to my new phobia, and word had spread.
“Wait, Alicia—you had a bit of a shock earlier,” I said, hurrying after her. “We can explore the tower another day.”
“Absolutely not, Mel. I will not allow that . . . person to dictate my life anymore,” she said, her voice steely-edged and determined. “Nothing will spoil this project for me. Not ghosts. Not unhappy boat owners. And certainly not my loser of an ex-husband.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “You are Woman. I hear you roar.”
“Damn straight.”
As Alicia and I headed toward the tower, my phone rang. Frankly, I was relieved to hear it. Cell phone reception was sketchy out here on the island, which made me nervous. As a general contractor I needed my phone. I was typically juggling several projects at once; my foremen had to be able to contact me, suppliers had to check orders, and my office manager, Stan, had to consult me about paperwork issues. Without my phone, business ground to a snail’s pace, which could not happen if I wanted to make payroll each week.
“Sorry, Alicia, give me one minute? I have to take this call.”
“No problem,” she said. “I’ll meet you inside. And Mel? We’ll go up those stairs together.”
I smiled and nodded, but doubted it was that simple. If acrophobia could be cured by having a good friend at one’s side, I would long ago have conquered my vertigo.
Still, I would give it a good old college try.
I lingered on the path outside the tower and answered the call from Stan, who had some questions about a workman’s comp case. The reception kept cutting in and out, but I understood the gist of it and we got it straightened out. Stan also mentioned fielding calls from people who couldn’t get through to me on my cell phone, which meant I would have a taller-than-usual stack of phone messages on my desk when I got home tonight. After hanging up, I checked the phone and saw that several people had tried calling but hadn’t gotten through, so I sent text messages—for some reason those went through even when calls failed—answering questions and notifying people I would get back to them as soon as I could.
A Ghostly Light Page 3
