A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

“No, that you wouldn’t.”

  “So go teach your eager students about branes and whatnot,” I said, giving him a kiss full of promise. I dropped my voice. “And I will see you tonight.”

  “First Friday?”

  My stomach dropped. First Friday was an art-and-food-and-music walk that had started in uptown Oakland a few years ago. The once-mellow celebration of a vibrant urban core had become a boisterous and sometimes unruly street festival. It was great fun, but the sort of thing I had to gear myself up for after a long day at work.

  “Oh, uh, right . . . ,” I stammered. “It’s just that with everything going on, and we have plans tomorrow, and . . .”

  Landon smiled. “Never mind. There’s always next month. As long as you’re mine for the ballet gala tomorrow night, I’m a happy man.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Dressed to the nines in lemon chiffon, apparently,” Luz chimed in, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands.

  “This I’ve got to see,” Caleb muttered, rinsing his cereal bowl at the sink.

  “Will she ever,” Stephen said, beaming. “You have no idea what I’ve cooked up for our fair lady.”

  “You see?” I said, worried now at just what Stephen had planned. “I’m going to dance all night.”

  “Actually, at the ballet it’s usually the professionals doing the dancing,” said Landon. “But I do like your spirit. Caleb, Stephen—please keep an eye on Mel today. Just in case.”

  “We’re on it,” Stephen said. “I may not look big and tough, but I can scream like nobody’s business.”

  “That’s true, he can,” Luz confirmed. “I have witnessed this phenomenon.”

  “The Turner Shuttle is leaving,” I said, grabbing my things. “All aboard.”

  I dropped Luz off at the Fruitvale BART station, then Caleb, Stephen, and I headed north to Point Moro. As we came around the switchback and headed down to the harbor, Caleb pronounced the little village “kind of wack, but cool.”

  I didn’t respond. I was too distracted by the sight of the harbor’s limited parking area jammed with police cruisers and a forensics crew. Officers were swarming over a small boat at the end of one dock.

  I parked on the hill above the harbor, and we walked down the rest of the way. Fernanda was standing at the railing outside the café, watching the scene. When I met her eyes she glared at me and turned away.

  Sure, some bossy stranger from Oakland barges in here, opens her big mouth, and ruins everything for the Point Moro pirates.

  A uniformed officer was keeping a very unhappy group of local residents away from the docks. I joined the crowd, and after a few minutes Detective Santos broke free from a clutch of cops and approached me.

  “Is anyone hurt?” I asked. There was no ambulance—or coroner’s wagon—in the lot, but I feared they might already have left.

  Santos shook his head. “It’s just a search. Keith Barnes’s boat.”

  “Is that Waquisha’s father?”

  He nodded.

  “But . . . how is he involved?”

  “He’s not, that we know of. But he’s got a record. And he knew the victim, and got squirrelly when asked for his whereabouts the day of the murder. Worth a shot.”

  “Did you look into Major Williston?”

  “This the guy you say ripped off the archive?” Detective Santos tilted his head; his dark eyes were still indecipherable. “I gotta be honest with you, Ms. Turner, that little tidbit did not exactly shoot him to the top of the list of persons of interest. Besides, he has a good alibi. Better than yours, as a matter of fact.”

  “If his alibi is that he was out on a boat with two good friends, couldn’t they be covering for him?”

  “Even if they were, what is it about pilfering a cache of historical documents that makes you leap to the idea that he might be a cold-blooded killer?”

  “What if there’s a treasure on that island, somewhere, and Major Williston, Terry Re, and Paul Halstrom have been looking for it? They tried to shut down the renovation of the buildings so they could have the run of the island. And I saw a shovel in one of their boats! What if—”

  “This have to do with the treasure map you gave me?”

  I hesitated. “Maybe. Or it could be something else, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What about the Palm Project? Thorn Walker was a recent graduate. What if he met someone in the program, and they got close, and he knew about something valuable on the island, and they followed him here but then refused to tell. I was thinking maybe Lyle Burgos had been—”

  “Look, Ms. Turner,” Detective Santos interrupted. “I’ve got work to do. Thank you for your theories. They’re . . . interesting. Crawford tells me you’re actually good at this sort of thing, so I’m gonna take her word for it and give you the benefit of the doubt. But Lyle Burgos has a good alibi: He was with his wife in the delivery room at Alta Bates hospital the afternoon of the murder. I’ll have another chat with Mr. Williston and his friends, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I wanted to ask Detective Santos straight out about the case against Alicia, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me. The police asked the questions, not the other way around. It was saying a lot that he had even entertained any of my “theories,” as he called them.

  When Olivier arrived, weighed down with several bags’ worth of ghost-busting equipment, the police allowed us to meet the Callisto at the end of the dock.

  “Good morning! Mel, Stephen!” Duncan called out, taking off his cap and waving it. “And who are your friends?”

  I introduced him to Caleb and Olivier. He shook both their hands and helped Olivier load all his gear in the boat.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, gents! Sorry to say, but you have to put on these lovely orange life vests. Boat rules.”

  Five of my construction crew also climbed aboard, and Duncan told me they were the last of the lot; he had already made a run out to the island with the rest. Waquisha, however, had not shown up to work today.

  The day was cold and gray, and we all huddled in our sweatshirts and jackets. The Bay Area is gorgeous, but it isn’t the California nonresidents usually think of: the endless sandy beaches and warm water and volleyballers in bikinis. That was a Southern California thing. Here in Northern California, the water off the beaches might be warm enough to swim in for a month or two in late summer, but even then one risked hypothermia by spending too long in the water without a wetsuit. This time of year, in January, the air temperature rarely got above fifty-five degrees out on the water. It wasn’t Canada, but it was cold.

  “What’s with all the police, Mel?” Duncan asked me in a low voice as we pulled away from the dock. “Isn’t that Waquisha’s father’s boat?”

  I nodded. “That reminds me: On the day of the murder, did you give Waquisha a ride back from the island?”

  “The police asked me that very question this morning. I’m sorry to say . . . I don’t really remember. My impression is that she came back with the others, but I couldn’t swear to it. I just don’t remember every run on that day. I didn’t realize it might be significant, of course, until much later.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Not well. Acquaintances more than friends. Met her at the Gentleman’s Café, where I like having breakfast. Her dad lives on his boat there in Point Moro, and she was staying with him for a while.”

  I pulled up Thorn’s image on my phone. “Do you know this man?”

  He glanced at the photo, but kept his focus on his driving. “That’s the fellow who died, right? The police asked me about him, too. I guess I might have seen him around, but I never gave him a ride, I know that much. I remember the face of everyone who boards my boat . . . just can’t remember exactly when, unfortunately.”

  “Did yo
u ever see him in the café, or at the docks, with Waquisha?”

  He took the phone and held it up, one eye on the water. “It’s possible, but . . .” He shook his head and handed me back the phone. “Sorry, Mel. Wish I could help; I remember seeing Waquisha with a man at the café a couple of times, but I didn’t really pay attention. They were always deep in conversation so I didn’t want to bother her.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  Caleb was showing Olivier the copy of Treasure Island, which surprised me. My stepson was a video game aficionado and extremely bright, but he was not a big reader. I almost reminded him that the book was too old to be treated so casually, but bit my tongue. It would embarrass him if I said anything, plus he was reading. I should encourage that.

  “I didn’t realize you brought the book with you,” I said.

  “Luz made me start reading it last night. And then, like, I sort of got into it. Read until really late.” As if to illustrate his point, he yawned. “And then this morning I started thinking, like, maybe it could tell us something about what was going on, out on the island.”

  My heart swelled. I didn’t think Treasure Island would clarify much about a modern-day island, but I loved that he wanted to help. And his astute observation about the handwriting last night had been spot-on. Maybe I was raising a junior detective.

  Then my heart sank. I didn’t want my boy to be exposed to life’s seedy underbelly, to meet folks driven to kill out of greed, envy, or jealousy. Better he not follow in my footsteps in this regard.

  “Good book you’ve got there,” Duncan said to Caleb. “I remember the first time I read Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic.” Duncan’s memory of a favorite childhood novel sparked another man in the crew to jump into the discussion with his first encounter with Treasure Island. Stephen chimed in, and suddenly we had a floating book club.

  While the men chatted, I opened the manila envelope Olivier had picked up for me at the California Historical Society, and found a neatly typed memo from Trish summarizing her research into Ida Prescott Vigilance.

  Dear Mel,

  I spent a little time yesterday searching for references to Ida Prescott Vigilance. The easiest avenues of research—naturally!—turned up nada; she didn’t publish anything, and wasn’t elected to public office (not surprising since, being a mere woman, she couldn’t vote until 1911).

  But I had much better luck with the federal census as well as state and local records. In a nutshell, here’s what I was able to cobble together:

  Ida Prescott was born into a Quaker family in Indiana, in 1878. Her father died when she was young, and her widowed mother decided to relocate to San Francisco, where a brother (Ida’s uncle) lived. At some point Ida met George Vigilance, a native San Franciscan who grew up on Bush Street, right near the Chinatown gates. According to an early twentieth-century history of lighthouse keepers—which virtually ignores Ida’s tenure, mentioning her only once, as “Mrs. George Vigilance” (Widow)—George had always wanted to study lighthouse design. He and Ida married in 1899, when she was twenty-one and he was thirty.

  Shortly after they were married, George received his commission as a keeper, and they moved to Lighthouse Island where their son, Franklin, was born the following year. Coast Guard records indicate assistant keepers were stationed on the island for short periods over the years, but from 1899 to 1915 it was just the two—and then the three—of them.

  George Vigilance died in 1905, cause of death listed as “accidental fall.” Ida Prescott Vigilance passed away in 1915. A death notice in the San Francisco paper referred to “Ida Prescott Vigilance, former keeper to the Bay Light, Lighthouse Island, off Point Moro, native of Indiana, age 36.”

  As part of their compensation, the keepers were provided with rations, which were periodically delivered by tender. The annual allowance per “man” in 1881 was:

  Pork: 200 pounds

  Beef: 100 pounds

  Flour: 2 barrels

  Rice: 50 pounds

  Brown sugar: 50 pounds

  Coffee: 24 pounds

  Beans or peas: 10 gallons

  Vinegar: 4 gallons

  Potatoes: 2 barrels

  Quite the list, no? Anything else, including fresh fruits and vegetables, had to be purchased from their own pocket and arrangements made for delivery by the tender. I’ve included copies of some of the extra supply slips—look how much liquor they ordered! That’s a lot of booze for just the two of them—and if you consider Ida was raised a Quaker, it’s likely she was a teetotaler, which means it was probably just George partaking.

  I looked up from Trish’s memo, taking in the sight of the island as we approached. If this place felt isolated now, with motorboats and texting and even a community and café—however humble—just a few minutes away, how must it have felt in Ida’s day? As Caleb had pointed out, there were no convenience stores back then. Supplies had to be ferried over by the tenders from San Quentin, everything from thread to motor oil to extra water if the cistern hadn’t collected enough rain.

  And whiskey, apparently, was high on the list of must-haves.

  I thought of Ida arriving here as a young bride. Had she been excited? Was she enthusiastic about starting her new life with her new husband on an island with spectacular views of the bay, listening to the caw of the seagulls, the moan of the foghorn, the crash of the waves during a storm? Was she thrilled to find a lovely Victorian home waiting for her, with its gingerbread trim, charming drawing room, and wraparound porch? Had she polished the furniture with lemon oil, sewn cheerful muslin curtains, and gathered bouquets of wildflowers to put in a Mason jar on the fireplace mantel?

  Or had she been lonely for the company of women, her dreams of a loving and affectionate marriage dying as her husband’s drinking increased?

  Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. For all I knew, Ida was the party girl, whooping it up every night on Lighthouse Island, and sliding down the tower banister into the arms of a pirate lover.

  But really . . . how had it been, day in, day out, just the two of them? Had George and Ida gotten on each other’s nerves? Did they yearn for company, for conversation? Had they waited impatiently for the tender to arrive with the supplies and the news and perhaps a crate of books? And what had she done when she got pregnant? I tried to imagine a twenty-one-year-old woman giving birth out here on this rock, with no doctor, no hospital, no older and wiser female friend or relative at hand to lend assistance, to teach her what to expect, to tell her everything would be okay.

  But then, as Landon had said to Caleb, people had been made of sterner stuff back then, if only because they had no other choice.

  Since we weren’t ferrying supplies today, just people, Duncan brought the Callisto straight into the yacht harbor, for which I was grateful. I hadn’t mentioned my newfound fear of heights to Olivier, and didn’t really want to.

  There were three sailboats docked in the harbor, but no signs of life. On the island, all appeared calm.

  Before disembarking, I reminded Duncan that the electrician and plumbing journeymen would need rides to the island later this morning. I had told them that if Duncan wasn’t on the Callisto—reading, usually—he could be found in the Gentleman’s Café. The pilot promised to keep an eye out for them and to bring them over promptly.

  “Hey, Olivier,” I said as we started up the road toward the keeper’s buildings. “I meant to ask you: Dingo mentioned a man working out here had seen a ghost in the attic window. Do you know how I might get in touch with him?”

  “I don’t know how, specifically, no,” said Olivier.

  “I wonder if Dingo would know . . .”

  “Why does this matter?” Olivier asked.

  “It’s probably not important, but I’d like to ask him a few questions. For instance, I was wondering why there was a fair amount of glass on ground below the attic window, but ver
y little on the attic floor.”

  “You are suggesting the window was broken from within?”

  I nodded. “That’s why I’d like to ask the worker what he saw.”

  Stephen and Caleb were chatting with a couple of the crew about my ridiculous insistence upon keeping anything even remotely useful or of historic interest in the house. Caleb was backing me up, and to emphasize his point brought out his copy of Treasure Island to show everyone that a woman who had lived in that house had written in it, like, more than a hundred years ago and wasn’t that kind of connection with the past kind of awesome?

  Seems I had created a monster.

  “Mel, you should know . . . this worker, the man who claims to have seen a ghost in the attic, developed an interest in ghost hunting afterward,” said Olivier. “He even started his own ‘spiritual consultancy,’ as he calls it. But I find him very unprofessional.”

  “Even so, he might know something useful about the island. Is he local? What’s his name?”

  “Halstrom. Paul Halstrom.”

  “Get out of here,” I said.

  “I will not . . . what? We just arrived.”

  Olivier was French. I forgot he sometimes took things literally.

  “Sorry, I’m just shocked. You’re saying Paul Halstrom was the guy who saw the ghost in the attic—and he’s now a ghost hunter?”

  “If you wish to call him that. Personally, I don’t believe he deserves the title.”

  “But . . . he’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Paul Halstrom. One of those boats down at the harbor is his. He’s here with a couple of friends, as well, Terry Re and Major Williston.”

  Olivier swore in French. “I don’t know those last two names, but if Halstrom’s here, he’s looking for ghosts.”

  “I assumed they were hanging out and wasting time, or perhaps looking for buried treasure. It never dawned on me they were here on a ghost hunt.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Not, he didn’t,” I said as my mind began considering the implications of this new information. “They said they had seen ‘something’ at the top of the tower, but weren’t very specific, and offered it as a warning, trying to get us to stop the project. That’s very . . . interesting.”