A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  The woman paled and shook her head, reached a far wall, and tripped a fire alarm. Alarms blared and lights flashed.

  The City Hall security forces weren’t kidding around.

  A mechanical voice announced, “Please make your way to the nearest exit.” The well-dressed crowd chattered excitedly but obeyed, pouring out the front doors.

  The woman had vanished in the melee. I couldn’t find Landon, either. Uniformed security officers herded me outside with the others. The predicted storm was moving in, causing the winds to whip up and a light rain to fall. The beautifully dressed people squealed and called frantically for valets to fetch their cars.

  I finally found Landon leaning up against a tree in the plaza across from the City Hall.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said as I drew near.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay. I couldn’t find you in the crowd. So, was all of this”—he gestured to the chaos—“your doing?”

  “Sort of.” I leaned up against the tree next to him, and we watched as well-coiffed folks scurried around like rats on a sinking ship. “Landon, I’m so sorry. I made us miss the cocktail party, and now I’ve ruined the after-party. At least I didn’t mess up the actual ballet.”

  He smiled down at me. “I have the distinct impression that any man worthy of you is going to have to get used to this sort of thing.”

  “You, sir, are a wonder.”

  His eyes ran over my damp form. “I fear your lemon chiffon is going to get ruined in this rain. Alas, my umbrella’s in the car.”

  “One thing I can say about Stephen’s designs, they’re wash and wear. Hey, did you see that Major and Terry were here?”

  “The sailors from Lighthouse Island?” He frowned. “They followed you here?”

  “No. We didn’t talk a lot, but I got the impression they were after our mystery woman, as well, so she must be connected to the lighthouse. What in the world do you suppose is going on?”

  Landon was scanning the crowd, looking for Major or Terry or ersatz Ida. Then he shook his head. “I don’t see them anywhere. Nor do I see the doppelgänger in red. And with this storm rolling in . . . I think it’s time for us to head home.”

  • • •

  Half an hour later we pulled up in front of Dad’s house. It was raining in earnest now, big fat droplets that hit the car with a splash. Landon came around the car to open the door for me.

  As we turned to rush into the house, a figure emerged from behind a hedge.

  I jumped back. Landon rushed to my side, putting a protective arm around me.

  “Waquisha?” I breathed. “What are you doing here?”

  She was drenched by the rain so it was hard to tell, but I thought she was crying.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I . . . I’m sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to talk to you. About . . . everything. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, honestly. This is the best job I’ve ever had. I love carpentry, creating stuff by hand. My dad doesn’t like me to use his equipment because it’s all he has. I don’t want to lose this job. Please don’t fire me! I—”

  “Let’s take this inside, shall we?” suggested Landon. The wind was picking up, blowing the rain this way and that and rendering the umbrella virtually useless.

  “Good idea,” I said. Part of me worried that Waquisha was somehow involved with Thorn’s death, but I didn’t really think so. For one thing, the police had cleared her and, after all, I had absolutely nothing concrete to suggest otherwise. And I was with Landon, and Dad and Stan and Caleb and Stephen were in the house. I liked our chances.

  We hurried down the walkway at the side of the house and entered through the back door. Dog met us with wild barking and flailing, curling around and wagging his tail so hard he slapped himself in the face. The kitchen smelled of roast meat and potatoes, though dinner was long since over and the dishes cleaned up.

  “Smells good in here,” said Waquisha. “Like home. But I’m gonna drip on everything.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Waquisha, really,” I said, handing her a towel from the bathroom off the kitchen. “We’re pretty informal around here. Have a seat. Want some tea? Or are you hungry? Dad always has leftovers.”

  “Oh, thanks, just tea would be great.”

  Dad and Stan were in the living room watching TV. I poked my head in to say hello, and to let them know we had a visitor. Then I returned to the kitchen, fixed us all some tea, and sat down to listen to her story.

  “You guys look really nice,” said Waquisha. “Were you at the opera or something?”

  “Close,” Landon said. “The ballet.”

  “No kidding? I love dance. I’ve never seen a real ballet but I love all kinds of dance.”

  Tired of the small talk, I cut to the chase. “How did you know Thorn, Waquisha?”

  “He . . . I met him on the docks, at Point Moro. My dad basically kicked me out. We’ve never really gotten along, and he didn’t have room for me on the boat anyway. I was pretty desperate. Thorn told me I could probably get a job with the new project out on the island. And then . . .” She trailed off and played with the tea bag.

  “Then what?” I urged.

  She let out a long breath. “He paid me for information.”

  “What kind of information?” Landon asked.

  Waquisha was a tall, powerfully built woman, so somehow I had missed how young she was. Looking at her now, I realized she was probably in her early twenties, just a couple of years older than Caleb.

  “He wanted to know what was going on out there, and asked about Alicia, who he kept calling ‘Amy.’ He said he knew her when they were kids. It didn’t seem . . .” She trailed off and looked around the kitchen as though searching for inspiration. “I guess it didn’t seem that weird at first, but later I started wondering why he didn’t just call her if they were such old friends. But anyway, once I told him that the docks were public, I didn’t hear much from him after that. Just saw him once or twice in Point Moro.”

  “Did he mention anyone else he knew on the island, or anything like that?”

  “No, he said he was from out of town. The only person he mentioned was Alicia. How’s she doing, anyway? I heard she was arrested? I’m so sorry.”

  “You told the police about this?” I asked.

  “Yeah, they kept me in the interrogation room for a long time. It was like something out of a TV show.”

  “What about the others hanging around the island, Major or Terry or Paul?”

  She shook her head. “I only knew them from the island. Terry asked me once if we got anything good out of the house, but that was about all. Oh, also she asked me about books. That was weird.”

  “What about books?”

  “If we’d found any. She said she would buy them from me, ten dollars a pop. Seemed like a lot for a bunch of moldy old books.”

  • • •

  After I assured Waquisha that she was expected at work on Monday, she apologized again, and called for a ride home.

  Despite our exciting night, or perhaps because of it, I once again had trouble sleeping. I couldn’t stop thinking about Alicia. I felt like I had failed her. And Ida’s grief had been so overwhelming it was practically tangible. I wanted to help her, too. So while Landon slept, I climbed out of bed, grabbed the Bay Light’s keeper’s logs, and took them downstairs. I flipped through the volumes until I found the entries I remembered reading the first day I found the logs in the attic. They were from 1905.

  In George’s hand:

  October 5 Wind NNE. Commenced blowing at two o’clock a.m. Noon, blowing a gale and a heavy sea running over the wharf at three p.m.; washed away lower portion of steps.

  October 8 Wind NW. La Belle France spotted, apparently in distress. Docked, repairs made. Set sail for San Francisco before nightfall.

  In
Ida’s hand:

  October 9 Wind NE, cold, light, foggy. Sustained an injured ankle. My search is fruitless. My heart is broken. Several vessels have passed. Mr. Vigilance has fallen.

  October 10 Wind NE squally. Still I search.

  October 11 Wind SW. Search is fruitless. I shall not relinquish hope.

  October 12 Wind S. Light haze. Since Mr. Vigilance has departed this earth, keeping the lamp has fallen to me. Continue to search.

  As I reread the words, something occurred to me: La Belle France had docked on October 8. If Ida had been locked in the attic that day, terrorized by her abusive husband, and Franklin had gone missing . . . could he possibly have been playing stowaway? Living out his favorite books, looking for adventure on the high seas? Never imagining that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back?

  Olivier had suggested the little boy apparition by the shore might have been a projection, not a true ghost. Had Ida’s yearning for her child been so strong that she’d created a version of him, forever playing in the sand?

  And if so, was it possible little Franklin hadn’t died on the island? If he had stowed away on La Belle France, could he have ended up in San Francisco when the ship pulled into the raucous, busy port of the Barbary Coast? If he was too young to tell people his full name and where he belonged . . . what might have become of him? Could he have survived, grown up, and had children of his own?

  Might tonight’s doppelgänger in the red dress be a direct descendent of Franklin Prescott Vigilance?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I slept in until eight thirty the next morning. I felt like a sloth.

  I found Landon and my dad downstairs at the kitchen table, reading the Sunday papers. Half a fluffy veggie and sausage omelet was in the cast-iron skillet on the stove. Outside, the storm raged, wind and driving rain. We didn’t have enough inclement weather in the Bay Area to grow blasé about it; it was rather thrilling to witness the strength and majesty of a rainstorm.

  “Good afternoon,” remarked Dad, eyebrows raised. And I wondered why sleeping until eight thirty made me feel so lazy. “We already ate, but there’s plenty left.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Maybe in a bit.” I gave him a kiss on the head, said hello to Landon, and headed for the coffeepot.

  “I found her,” announced Landon.

  “Found who?”

  “The mystery woman in red. Your doppelgänger is named Annalisa Alva.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  He rattled the newspaper. “Society pages.”

  “The San Francisco Chronicle has society pages?” I asked.

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Half your clients show up in those pages on a regular basis. You should make an effort to keep up with the local news.”

  “Sure, Dad, I’ll get right on that. I’ve been looking for a hobby to fill all my spare time.”

  “Smart aleck,” Dad said, smiling.

  “Besides, as long as I’m available to patch their roofs and plunge their toilets, our clients don’t seem to care if I’m current with their goings-on. It’s not as if we socialize.”

  “Anyway, doppelgänger?” Landon said. “Anyone?”

  “Sorry! Yes, of course,” I said. “So, who is Annalisa Alva?”

  He turned the paper around to show me. There she was, among the slew of photos of the beautiful people who had shown up for the ballet gala. She had been one of the organizers.

  “I looked her up online; she’s married to a successful businessman, has a six-year-old boy, lives in Noe Valley, and describes herself as ‘at least a third-generation’ San Franciscan.”

  “What does she mean by ‘at least’?”

  “That is one of many mysteries. First I’d like to know whether she’s actually a doppelgänger.”

  “We’re kidding about this, right?” said Dad, coffee cup halfway to his lips. “You keep saying doppelgänger like it’s a real thing, but it’s a joke, right?”

  “This woman looks remarkably like Ida Vigilance, who used to be keeper of the Bay Light,” I explained.

  “So?” Dad demanded. “I’ve been told I bear a startling resemblance to Clint Eastwood. Doesn’t mean I’m the reincarnation of the guy.”

  “First of all, Dad,” I said. “You’re a handsome guy but you look nothing at all like Clint Eastwood. Second, as far as I know, Eastwood isn’t dead so you can’t be his reincarnation. And third, we’re not talking about reincarnation anyway. It’s just . . . if this Annalisa woman is a descendant of Ida’s sister, or something, maybe she could tell us a little about the family history.”

  Dad shrugged. “You sure you don’t want some omelet, babe?”

  “Not yet, thank you,” I said. “Coffee’s fine for now. And actually, I had another idea last night: What if Ida’s little boy didn’t die on the island?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What if, instead, Franklin stowed away on a ship that came into the docks that day?”

  “You mean he ran away?” Landon asked.

  “Not intentionally. It would have been an accident, probably. He was so young, barely five years old. Kids that age live in a world of make-believe half the time. He loved stories of adventure, and loved to play pirate. What if he thought it was a game to play stowaway, but then got lost and couldn’t get back home?”

  Dad and Landon glanced at each other.

  “It’s possible, right?” I said. “And maybe this Annalisa person is one of his descendants, and thus one of Ida’s descendants?”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” said Landon.

  “Worth asking about, in any case,” said Dad. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “So . . . what do I do now?” I asked. “Try to track down Annalisa’s phone number, and call her up, out of the blue?”

  “I have a better idea,” said Landon, folding the newspaper and setting it neatly on the table. “Why don’t you take the day off, and leave Annalisa to me.”

  “You think I’ll scare her off?”

  He paused for a beat. “I think I might have better luck.”

  “You’ve got yourself quite the diplomat, there, Mel,” said Dad, nudging me. “This one’s a keeper.”

  • • •

  Landon, the eminently respectable math professor from Berkeley with the charming, barely-there English accent, was on the case of Annalisa Alva. I didn’t take it personally; he was right. I had already spooked her at the gala. Or perhaps it was Major and Terry that spooked her. What had they been doing there?

  In any case, it felt good to leave this in Landon’s oh-so-diplomatic hands. He made a few phone calls, then took off to San Francisco armed with the photo of Ida Prescott Vigilance holding her young son in her lap, as well a few of the keeper’s logs to show Annalisa Alva.

  I was under strict instructions to take the day off, to spend a lazy Sunday relaxing. Which was all well and good except that I had a friend in jail, facing trial for a crime she didn’t commit. And now that I knew about the potential value of the copy of Treasure Island I found on the island, I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was what Terry—and Major?—had been after all along. Could there be something else in that attic I had overlooked—preoccupied as I was with Ida whenever I was there—that would help explain why Thorn had been killed and therefore point to a likely murderer?

  For the time being I had stashed the book in our home safe, alongside our account books and petty cash.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wished I had retrieved the rest of the books from the attic of the Keeper’s House. We had left the attic alone during the demolition, while I figured out how to mollify Ida’s spirit. So unless Terry and her pals had found a way to get into the attic without Ida scaring them off, whatever it was they were looking for was probably still there. After showing Cory Venner Treasure Island, he had taken a look at the other books
, and while he didn’t think they were worth as much, they were nonetheless collectible. Perhaps the others were, as well. Maybe together they added up to a small fortune. A literary treasure.

  I wanted to check out the other books from the attic, and anything else that might be worth money.

  I phoned Duncan to see if he’d be willing to ferry me out to Lighthouse Island. He agreed, adding that since the ride was so short we should be fine despite the inclement weather. Next I spoke to Buzz, who reluctantly agreed to meet me in Point Moro. I felt bad asking him, since I was pretty certain he didn’t feel he could refuse without incurring the wrath of Ellis Elrich. But I needed backup. I wasn’t going to go out on that island all alone. Even I wasn’t that stupid.

  In fact . . . I tucked my father’s Glock into my jacket pocket. I wasn’t licensed to carry, but I knew my way around a firearm. Dad had taken us to the shooting range when I was a kid, and bought me my own .22 for my tenth birthday in the hope that I would join him on hunting trips. This is what happened when the Fates gave people like my father three daughters and no sons.

  I told my dad I was going out to run some errands—which was sort of true—and set out for Point Moro. It was still raining but not nearly as windy as it had been. The bay showed whitecaps, but I thought: How bad could it be?

  I found out once we were out on the water. The Callisto was tossed about like a leaf in the wind. I wore my life preserver without complaint, and gripped the side with all my strength.

  Duncan and Buzz, on the other hand, stood at the helm, apparently unbothered by the swells and dips.

  “I like the name of your boat,” said Buzz.

  “Isn’t it pretty?” said Duncan. “It was my mother’s name.”

  “Callisto was the woman who got changed into Ursa Minor, right?” asked Buzz.

  “Ursa Major, actually. I see you know your Greek mythology,” Duncan said.

  “A little,” Buzz said with a shrug. “My dad used to teach us about the constellations, so I like to read the myths associated with them. I bet you could see a lot of stars out on this island, back in the day before city lights and cars and everything.”