A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Have you ever been to Lighthouse Island?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’d love to go, though. Anytime. Just say the word.”

  “You don’t happen to know of any ghost stories from there, do you? Rumors, maybe? Something that didn’t make it into the book or on the Internet?”

  “Let me see if we can shed some light on the subject,” said Dingo, bringing out the huge journal where he kept notes. “Get it? Shed some light on a lighthouse?”

  Dingo was a great fan of bad puns.

  Olivier rolled his eyes and went back to organizing shelves.

  “Let’s see, now . . . ,” said Dingo as he riffled through the pages. The process took a while. He didn’t have an index or any other apparent system of organization for his handwritten notes, but I knew he kept some juicy tidbits in this well-thumbed tome.

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . Hmmm. All’s I see is the usual: A few folks take a boat over there, sneak around the old buildings. Supposed to be off-limits but you know how that goes.”

  “And what did they see?” I was trying to read upside down, but Dingo’s chicken-scratch handwriting didn’t lend itself to legibility, even right side up.

  “Ghost in the tower. The usual.”

  “Nothing more than that? Just a ghost in the tower?”

  “Oh, here’s something: A few years back a man was hired to repair a broken window in the attic, but he got scared nearly off his ladder. Almost fell off. He claims another one of the panes cracked and then full broke, right in front of him. Refused to go back, and when the folks went into the attic to assess the damage, the pane was whole again, but inside the attic, glass shards had been swept up into a nice little pile.”

  “A housekeeping ghost?” Not long ago I’d had experience with a ghost who cleaned her kitchen incessantly. A big part of me thought this wouldn’t be such a terrible arrangement if one could broker a deal, like a sort of housekeeping service from the afterlife. Housework wasn’t my strong suit.

  “Something like that. They say there are never any cobwebs up in that attic, nothing like that.”

  “Is there any kind of description of what she looks like?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  Because of the typical gender roles of yesteryear, housekeeping ghosts were most often women. But there was no way to know whether this spirit was the same woman I had seen at the top of the light tower.

  I remembered Alicia mentioning there were furniture and books and even old keeper’s logs in the attic. Amazing that vandals hadn’t broken in over the years and stolen or ruined everything. Unless . . . could the ghost have been keeping them out?

  My phone rang. Though it seemed rude to answer the phone while in the middle of a conversation, I made an exception for SFPD homicide inspector Annette Crawford.

  “Where are you?” she asked without preamble.

  “Jackson Square.”

  “I’m not far away. Meet you in ten. Where exactly?”

  I considered lying, but finally told the truth, “The Ghost Supply Shoppe, on Gold Street.”

  There was a short pause. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m really not.”

  I heard what sounded like a sigh. “I’ll meet you in ten minutes. Outside.”

  “Roger that.”

  I hung up and slipped the phone back into my bag.

  “All righty, then, Dingo, I’ve got ten minutes. Talk to me about lighthouses.”

  “The lantern room is at the top of a lighthouse tower, of course; that’s where the lens is. Most times it’s a metal and glass room on top of a masonry or wood tower. The dome is made of metal and topped by a lightning rod.”

  While he spoke, he pointed to a detailed illustration from his lighthouse book.

  “Below that is the lower watch room. That’s where the clockworks for the rotating optics—”

  “Clockworks?”

  “Oh, sure. How d’ya think they get the light to go round and round before electricity?”

  “I guess I never thought about it.”

  “The Bay Light still has its original mechanism, right?”

  I was loath to admit that I hadn’t yet been up the light tower. “Um, yeah, sure it does,” I mumbled.

  A structural engineer—and my father—had carefully inspected the integrity of the lighthouse tower and the winding metal stairs. Since the light was still in use, it had been kept in much better condition than the residence and outbuildings. Lighthouse towers were built to endure inclement weather and to survive the ages. My crew had replaced a few rusty bolts, but other than that the structure was remarkably sound. The only unsafe part was the exterior catwalk, which would have to be replaced. At the moment it was off-limits.

  To all but the suicidal specter in a white gown, that is.

  Soon, I hoped, I would be able to climb that tower myself, take in the views, and allow myself to be buffeted by the bay winds. But for now I was going to take the structural engineer’s word for it.

  Dingo kept speaking. “Also in the watch room are the fuel tanks, and that’s where the keeper cleaned the lamp chimneys and prepared the lantern for the coming night. The optic section is surrounded by storm panes; there are handholds on the exterior to grip while standing on a ladder cleaning the exterior sides of the windows.”

  “There’s a lot of cleaning, it sounds like.”

  “Oh, sure. Gotta keep the light as bright as possible. Can’t have dirty windowpanes, or a smudged lamp face. The keeper had to wear a linen smock, no rough wool that might scratch the optic or lens. He had to clean the interior and exterior of the lantern panes, clean the optics with vinegar, and once a year polish the lens with rouge. The clock weight was wound and the clockworks cleaned and oiled. And get this: All these preparations were to be completed by ten in the morning.”

  “Why so early?”

  “Rest of the day they dealt with supplies or making other repairs. And if something went wrong, they had all day to see to it—to go ashore if need be, that sort of thing. At night, the keeper would climb to the lantern room and check the direction of the wind so he could adjust the vents to allow just enough draft into the lantern to keep the temperature down, and to suck out the fumes from the burning oil. During the evening the keeper had to wind the weights and trim the wicks of the lamp, as necessary.

  “You know, lighthouses are ancient—ever hear of the lighthouse of Alexandria? Built a couple of hundred years BC. Back in the day, they used parabolic reflectors. But it was with the invention of the Fresnel lens in 1820 that they got really good—”

  “Putain!” Olivier swore in French and threw up his hands. “She does not want to hear all of this. Is it that you know anything specifically about the haunting of Lighthouse Island light, Dingo?”

  Dingo pushed out his bottom lip, then shook his head. “Not really. But like I say, I think it’s likely they’re all haunted by one keeper or another, who just keeps climbing that tower, tending to his light. Hey, Mel,” Dingo said in a loud whisper, gesturing toward Olivier with his head. “You should take him out to the island with you. Let him meet the ghosts. You know, boost his confidence.”

  “This isn’t a game, Dingo,” I said. “A man was killed there yesterday.”

  “Not much of a loss, sounds like. Don’t take to wife beaters.”

  “You’re not going to get much of an argument from me on that point. But a human life was taken. That’s a big deal, and besides, the island’s still a crime scene.”

  “Yeah,” said Dingo, dropping his voice. “But it would be neighborly of you to let Olivier tag along.”

  I watched for a long moment as the French ghost buster rearranged some spirit photography books. Dingo was right; there was a decidedly defeated slant to Olivier’s shoulders.

  “All right,” I said. “I don’t know when I
’ll be allowed back on the island, but when I am I’ll give Olivier a call and see if he wants to come along.”

  “Hot damn!” Dingo slammed his hand on the counter so loudly everyone in the shop looked around to see the ruckus. “That’s the ticket.”

  “Hey, Olivier, let me ask you something else: Have you ever had a sense of déjà vu when you go into a house? What would that mean?”

  “Déjà vu doesn’t usually mean anything much,” he said.

  “But in this case it continued as I walked throughout the whole house. That’s what was so weird. I felt like I knew what was around every corner.”

  “You could be channeling someone, perhaps.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Channeling. A ghost could be using you as a capsule, to experience things.”

  “Whoa, Nellie,” I said, aghast. “Seeing ghosts is one thing, communicating with them I can deal with. But I am not up for being their capsule. That’s like . . . like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something.”

  “Good movie,” said Dingo with a nod. “Course, I like the original best.”

  “I’m not sure it’s up to you, Mel,” Olivier said. “You’ve always been hesitant to embrace your abilities to communicate with the beyond, but spirits have reached out to you anyway. Perhaps this is simply a different kind of communication. Did you do the body scan and prepare yourself before entering the building?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I wasn’t really expecting . . .” What had I been expecting? A standard, run-of-the-mill ghost, I supposed. I realized that now that I was an old hand, I was getting a little jaded about the ghostly experience. Maybe even a little cocky.

  “You mustn’t skip that part, Mel,” Olivier said, taking my hands in his. “I’m very serious, don’t underestimate the spirit world. We never know—” He cut himself off, squeezed my hands, dropped them, and turned away. “I just want to urge you to be careful, at all times. Don’t be careless with yourself. It’s the only self you have.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Outside, a cop was standing by my car.

  I wasn’t getting a ticket. It was homicide inspector Annette Crawford. Annette was in her fifties, curvy and strong-looking, with a regal posture and a definite no-nonsense manner about her.

  She held two cardboard cups in her hands, and handed me one.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, wary.

  “What?”

  “You’ve never bought me coffee before. Is there bad news?”

  “Not a lot of news at all, actually,” she said, leaning down to greet Dog. “You see? That’s what I get for trying to be nice.”

  “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “Anytime.”

  “So . . . you haven’t heard anything about the case? About Alicia Withers?”

  “Detective Santos is checking out known associates, talking to anyone and everyone on or near the island, seeing if somebody might have followed the victim to the island to settle a score. I hate to say it, Mel, though you’ve probably already figured it out: There’s a real issue of opportunity here. As in, who was on the island, and who knew and hated the victim enough to kill him? He’s not even from this area, is he?”

  “He was from Tacoma,” I said. “But surely a man like that would have a lot of enemies, wouldn’t he?”

  As Inspector Crawford had pointed out to me before, people with a criminal bent did not tend to be law-abiding in their daily interactions. They weren’t only bank robbers or murderers or rapists, they also littered, broke the speed limit, parked in handicapped zones, cut in and out of traffic, and refused to pay their tickets. By and large they believed the rules the rest of us followed were for chumps, and ignored them. Which was a boon for law enforcement because violent criminals were often caught doing something stupid, like jaywalking or speeding, totally unrelated to their greater crime.

  “True,” said Annette. “But not local enemies.”

  “I suppose I should look into Thorn’s life recently. He mentioned he’d been at the Palm Project, up the coast, near Green Gulch Farm. Seems as good a place to start as any, especially since I don’t feel like hopping a plane for Tacoma.”

  “No, you don’t need to go talk to the Palm Project people, Mel. Must I remind you yet again that you are not in law enforcement? Leave it to Detective Santos. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “But you once told me yourself that if the police have a suspect they’re pretty sure they can nail, they stop looking.”

  There was a pause. We both knew Alicia was the obvious suspect. Who else could have been up in that lighthouse? Not to mention she had grabbed the knife, and was covered in Thorn’s blood. She couldn’t have set herself up worse if she’d tried.

  “I’m serious, Mel,” Annette said. “I don’t want to hear you were sticking your nose into this investigation by going up to the Palm Project. Promise me.”

  “Mphhh,” I mumbled, but nodded.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone else leaving the tower?”

  “No one. I wish—oh, how I wish—I had been paying more attention.” I thought back on that nightmarish scene. “One of the bodyguards, Buzz, was freaked out and thought he could revive the extremely dead Thorn. Alicia was practically catatonic. It was all so . . . fraught, and we were focused on Thorn. Frankly, it didn’t occur to me to guard the entrance until afterward.”

  “You’d think by your fifth murder you’d be a little savvier.”

  I gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’m better with the ghosts than I used to be. At least I’m making progress, in that regard.” As I said this, I recalled Olivier’s words and my own earlier thoughts: Perhaps I’d become too casual with the ghostly realm.

  After all, if ghosts were simply humans on a different spiritual plane, then some would be real jerks—or even homicidal.

  A few of the ghosts I’d encountered had been unpleasant but not truly malevolent. But suppose I ran across one that was? Not that I was prepared to blame Thorn’s murder on a ghost; I still believed the perpetrator was a living human. But perhaps a malevolent ghost could cause other kinds of havoc.

  What about the woman I saw at the top of the tower? She had made me feel truly awful, sick to my core. At the time I thought it was because of the vertigo. But could it be something else? Something worse? Still . . . since Thorn wasn’t able to tell me what happened, perhaps I should try to make contact with the woman in the tower. If she was forever vigilant, as Dingo had suggested, maybe she could tell me something. Often, I had found, the ghosts that appeared to me were connected with the current crime. Or, at the very least, their past somehow mirrored the present.

  In any case, I needed to get back on that island. Annette would be no help in that regard. She was a cop first, my friend second.

  “Anyway, there are a lot of other suspects,” I said. “Really, given the island setting, there are a surprising number of suspects. Some of the people in Point Moro are pretty sketchy. And if you ask me, the guys moored in the harbor were a little fishy.”

  “That wasn’t a pun, was it? I hate puns.”

  “Sorry. Unintentional.”

  “So in what way are the boaters suspicious?”

  “Just for starters, one of them is named Major. That’s not his title, it’s his name. Doesn’t that seem sort of disrespectful to our men and women in uniform?”

  “Mel, my friend, I think you’re reaching.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit there’s nothing overtly suspicious about any of them. But the other one, named Halstrom, was not happy when he was told to stay away from the lighthouse buildings due to construction. He glared at me, more than once. Also, immediately after the murder, we went down to the harbor, and no one was there. They didn’t show up until quite a while later. Claimed they had been out fishing.”

  “What makes you think they hadn’t been? Besides, you seem to
be suggesting they were in it together. Stabbing a man and pushing him down the stairs is rarely a group activity.”

  “I only met Thorn once, but he was pretty annoying.”

  “I’m certain Detective Santos is checking them out, but if you think you have anything to add to his assessment, you should call him.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  “What is it?”

  “Detective Santos is sort of . . . scary.”

  “So am I.”

  “Not in the same way.”

  She chuckled. “That’s only because you’ve taken the time to get to know me. Find a few more ghosts and bodies in Richmond, and let Santos be your man.”

  “All right,” I said, kicking my tire.

  “Mel?” Annette said, her voice taking on a serious tone. “I was just kidding about the bodies and ghosts. Stick to San Francisco from now on, so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I guess you’re right. I gotta say, so far this lighthouse isn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be.”

  “Hang in there. So, how’s it going with the fear of heights?”

  “How did you— What, is there a billboard someplace with my face on it?” I sketched a big poster with my hands. “‘Mel Turner has acrophobia!’”

  “Almost.” She smiled. “Ran into your father the other day at the youth center. He may have mentioned it.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath.

  “Hang in there, Mel,” Annette said quietly. “What happened to you up on the roof of Crosswinds was no walk in the park. It’s not surprising you’d be traumatized by it. But you’re strong; you’ll conquer this. I have faith. And as for Lighthouse Island, I’m sure it’ll all work out for you.”

  But would it work out for Alicia?

  • • •

  As Dog jumped into the car, I told myself that Annette was right: I should call Detective Santos. But I hesitated—was I flat-out too cowardly?