“She wanted to see the frontispiece. I didn’t even know what that meant.”
“Could I see?”
He handed it to me. “Look, Mel . . . I don’t really want to go look for a little kid’s body. I don’t . . . I mean I just . . .” Caleb trailed off with a shrug. He didn’t meet my eyes.
I slid down to sit next to him. “I’m sorry, Caleb. Of course you don’t have to go search. It is a little . . .”
“Gnarly. Bootsy. Wack.”
“Okay,” I said with a soft chuckle. “I was going to say plain old weird, but any of those will do. Anyway, we’ve got plenty of people already, so there’s no need for you to go. It’s a long shot, anyway.”
“You think it will help her?” he asked, looking off toward the water.
“It might.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “We moms get pretty attached to our kids, you know.”
He nodded but kept his eyes on the bay. I flipped the book open to the frontispiece. Some of the other books from the attic had nice marbled endpapers, but this one was a plain matte black. Still, there was a reproduction of Stevenson’s famous treasure map on the frontispiece, with a tissue guard. The captions were printed in red, brown, and blue.
“Is this what she was looking at?” I asked. “The treasure map?”
He shrugged. “And the inscription, I guess. She seemed pretty excited about that.”
I flipped to it and read it again.
To Franklin, my little pirate,
on your fifth birthday.
Love you forever and ever,
Mama
If Terry was working with Paul Halstrom to document the ghosts on this island, maybe she was excited to see something Ida had written, back when the keeper was a full-fledged, living, breathing person. Was it that simple?
I was about to set out to search with everyone else when the electrician showed up, and on his heels the plumber. So I was delayed for another forty-five minutes, going over the project and the schedules with them. They would be bringing teams out to whip through this project, so once they started they would make good time—especially now that we’d opened up all the walls.
Once I finished with them, I checked in again with Caleb, who had helped himself to a sandwich from one of the coolers and was sitting in the sun, fully enmeshed in the adventures of Jim Hawkins and the mutineers. Then I went to find Olivier, who was searching the cove behind the lighthouse, not far from where Landon and I had dug for treasure.
Olivier was waggling his head, looking to his right, then back again.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I approached.
“I keep thinking I see . . .” He trailed off as he looked back toward the rocks once more. He shook his head. “I keep thinking I see someone over there. By the rocks.”
I listened and heard a little piping voice singing its off-tune shanty: “Yo ho, yo ho . . . across the deep blue sea!”
“Can you describe him?” I asked Olivier.
“Like . . . a little boy. Wearing a red-and-white shirt and a little hat. Just as you described the little boy who died. Could this be . . . ?”
I took out the little mirror I’d started carrying in my pocket along with my mini-flashlight and tape measure, and held it up. Little Franklin was standing on the rocks by the water with his pail, collecting rocks and shells.
“Here,” I said in a low voice, handing Olivier the mirror. “Sometimes you can’t see them straight on, but you can if you use a mirror.”
Olivier accepted it from me, holding my gaze for a long moment. Then, angling the mirror, he looked toward the rocks.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered, his hand shaking as he passed the mirror back to me. A look of awe came over his face. “Is that the boy you’re looking for?”
“Franklin Prescott Vigilance,” I murmured, nodding. “Presumed drowned in 1905.”
“What a tragedy. Poor little boy. Have you been able to talk to him? Couldn’t he take you to his remains?”
“Worth a shot,” I said. I edged closer to the rocks, watching the boy in the mirror. “Franklin?” I called. He looked at me, but didn’t say anything.
“Franklin,” I continued. “I’m a friend of your mother’s. I was wondering . . .” Just how did a person go about asking a child—even a dead child—where his body was? “I was wondering if you can remember the very last place you were, here on the island? The last thing you can remember, before everything changed.”
He stood stock-still, gazing at me with that solemn, serious expression. Suddenly I was sorry I hadn’t left him to play at will, to gather things in his little pail and sing his ditties without being bothered by grown-up concerns.
“Franklin—”
He disappeared.
I went over to where he’d stood, looked around the bases of the rocks, in a small crevice. I pushed aside a few rocks and dug in the wet sand, but found nothing. No sign of the little boy anywhere. Disappointed, I rejoined Olivier.
“He only communicated with me once,” I said. “And not through words but by pointing toward the tower—turns out, it was right before Thorn Walker fell down the stairs. What do you suppose that meant? A warning, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Olivier asked to borrow the mirror again. He kept looking back to the actual spot where he’d seen the apparition, then returned his gaze to the mirror, as though trying to figure out why he hadn’t been able to see Franklin straight on. “More likely it was in response to a surge of energy, of violence. Spirits tend to be very sensitive to such things.”
“Hey, here’s a question for you: We found a photograph of this boy, Franklin, when he was three. Stan said it might be a death portrait.”
“Oh, really? Those fascinate me.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty interesting concept, in an Addams Family kind of way,” I said. “But this boy looks at least five, doesn’t he?”
Olivier nodded.
“Also,” I said as I tried to think this through, “the Treasure Island Caleb is reading was inscribed to Franklin on his fifth birthday, so it couldn’t have been a death portrait.”
“Unless his mother continued to give Franklin gifts even after he died—it would not be unusual. You know, it’s possible the figure of the boy we’re seeing is a projection. I’ve read about this. Sometimes enough energy is actually generated by someone through their thoughts that it creates a sort of ghost shadow.”
“You mean the boy’s not a ghost? That his mother, Ida, is manifesting a vision of her son?”
“It is possible. There is much we do not know about ghosts, Mel. So very much. What I am suggesting is a theory based upon the evidence, what I have read. The boy hasn’t been able to communicate in any way but rote, right? Singing the same song, or pointing to an energy source. It is therefore possible that what we are seeing is not a spirit with its own agency, but a projection.” Olivier’s explanation made him sound like his old self.
Dingo was right, I thought. I was glad I’d invited Olivier out to Lighthouse Island. Hanging out with the island ghosts seemed to have boosted his spirits. So to speak.
“But wait, that still doesn’t make sense,” I said. “If it was a death portrait, then why is Ida still searching the island for him? She would have known exactly where his body was. In the photo she had him in her lap. What, did she lose him en route to the funeral?”
“It’s possible she lost her mind, from the grief,” he said in a gentle voice. “Or maybe it just looked like a death portrait. It might not have been one. I have to say, it’s hard to tell with those old photos unless the death was documented elsewhere. In any case, I’d love to see it.”
“Of course,” I said as we walked back toward the buildings. “It’s also the only photo I’ve found of Ida Vigilance herself.”
“That’s how you recognized her in the attic, then?”
I nodded. “She has a distinctive look about her—pretty, but strong.”
“Well, this has been an incredible day for me, Mel. I’m sorry you haven’t found your murderer, or figured out the ghost story, but for me it’s been . . . incredible. Incroyable. You know, I’ve never actually seen one before, not like this.”
“Seen one what?”
“A ghost.”
“What do you mean you’ve never seen one?” I stopped in my tracks. “You’re the ghost guy.”
“I mean . . . I’ve heard things, seen stuff move, felt the presence. Interacted, to an extent. But never an actual apparition. This is incredible.”
“What are you talking about, Olivier?” I asked, stunned at this revelation. “You’re my ghost mentor. You own a ghost-hunting supply shop. You teach classes on ghosts. What do you mean you’ve never seen one?”
“Perhaps I have exaggerated my spirit interactions to some degree; I am, after all, a businessman. And a person doesn’t actually have to see ghosts to believe in them. That’s why I’ve been searching for so long. I want to thank you, Mel, for bringing me here, for making it possible to know that what I have believed is true.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for helping me so much with ghosts, especially since you never actually saw them until today.”
He smiled. “Even before, I never stopped believing. And you must not lose faith, either. You will find this killer and help your friend Alicia, I am sure.”
“Thanks, Olivier.”
But in a way, my friend’s faith in me made it that much harder.
Chapter Twenty-four
Searches concluded, my crew had returned to the courtyard. Although everyone seemed to have enjoyed exploring the island, no one found anything resembling a human skeleton or a rotted old red-and-white shirt or remnants of an old shovel or pail. I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment even though I’d known it was a long shot.
After a snack, courtesy of the woman who probably, even now, was sitting in jail for a murder she didn’t commit, we got back to work.
Unfortunately, Thorn’s ghost appeared and started trailing me. I tried to ignore him as I went from one part of the jobsite to the next, helping to determine exactly how to run the plumbing lines and sketching out the new electrical outlets, while still respecting the original Victorian built-ins and trim.
This ghost, I couldn’t help but notice, Olivier did not see. I wondered whether Halstrom and his crew had ever picked up any readings on Thorn. I didn’t feel comfortable telling him to go away because I didn’t want it to seem like I was walking around talking to myself, at least not any more than I usually did.
Thorn stuck to me, moping and sighing audibly, so I finally went into the storage shed and shut the door behind me.
“What is it, Thorn? I have work to do.”
“She pushed me down the stairs!”
“Who?”
“That woman! The one in the white gown. I don’t know her name.”
“You’re saying Ida killed you? Ida Vigilance? The ghost?”
“No, not the first time. I can’t remember who did that.”
“Too bad. Alicia could really use your help right about now, and frankly, you owe her. It might help make up a little for what went before.”
He looked interested. “How do you mean?”
“Has it occurred to you that maybe the reason you can’t move on is because you owe something to Alicia? You made a lot of her life miserable. So this is your chance: Help me figure out who killed you, and get her off the hook. She’s been arrested for the murder.”
“But . . . Alicia didn’t kill me. Did she?”
“No. I’m certain she would have told me the truth, if she had. “
“So how am I supposed to help find out who did kill me?”
“I’m really not sure. I don’t really know how things work in the . . . afterlife, or whatever you call the place where you are. But you’re a ghost, after all, no one—but me—can see you. Why don’t you poke around, listen in on conversations, that sort of thing?”
He nodded. “I could do that. You’re right, there have to be some advantages to this ghost thing. Let me see what I can do.”
“Oh hey, one more thing: Has anyone you met at the Palm Project been out here to the island?”
“Sure.”
“Really?” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked him earlier. “Who?”
“Bear.”
“First name or last name?”
“Palm name.”
“Palm name? What do you mean, Palm name?”
“We didn’t use real names in the program. Our Palm names allow us to be completely open and honest with each other. A lot of people choose an animal name as a totem, sort of.”
Rats. Why was nothing ever easy? “Okaaaay, so what does Bear look like?”
He shrugged. “Just regular.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“White guy, in his forties.”
“Coloring? Or . . .” I thought of Lyle’s tattoo. “Is he bald? Does he have piercings?”
“Not bald, no piercings or anything like that. Brownish hair, I guess. Like me.”
That eliminated Paul Halstrom, at least. And Terry Re. Could he mean Major Williston? “Have you seen him here on the island?”
“It’s . . . strange. It’s like I’m here but not here, you know what I mean? I mean, I’m on the island all alone, and then suddenly someone shows up. Like you, popping up right in front of me.”
“Funny, that’s how you appear to me. Maybe it’s mutual.” I’d never thought about how living humans must appear to ghosts, how they experienced our presence. Sometime soon I should give that some thought. “What about before the change, when you were alive?”
He was shaking his head. “Everything’s all mixed up. It’s really hard to remember stuff, and it’s getting harder. All I can remember is Amy.”
“You need to forget Alicia, Thorn. She deserves a life. Without you.”
He took a swing at me. Just like that. It didn’t connect, of course, but it’s still a funky feeling to have a spirit hand move through you.
“Knock it off,” I yelled.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Thorn said, closing his eyes and muttering something that sounded like “bend like a palm in the wind . . .”
“Listen, if you happen to see Bear, would you please point him out to me?”
“Sure, but . . . why?”
“I’m trying to figure out who hated you enough to kill you. Besides the obvious.”
“Why would Bear hate me? We were roommates. He showed me the newspaper with Alicia’s picture in it. It was like a sign. Once I saw it, I knew where I needed to be.”
“And you don’t remember any other distinguishing feature about Bear?” He kept shaking his head. “Tattoos, an accent, anything at all?”
“Bear was a good listener. And not someone you’d think tried to kill himself.”
“He tried to kill himself?”
Thorn nodded. “I don’t really get suicide, do you? Who would do something like that? Speaking of which, could you get that lady to stop pushing me down the stairs? I know I can’t die again, but I can still feel pain and fear. I’m only human.”
“Former human, actually, but I get your point.”
On the one hand, Thorn getting pushed down the stairs, over and over again, sounded like a fitting purgatory for a man who had terrorized his wife. But if he was going to help us, I supposed I should let him off the hook.
“I’ll talk to her. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to her. It’s possible she has some unresolved rage where men are concerned. Oh, hey, Thorn, one more question: what was your Palm name?”
“Whack-a-Mole. Because you can never keep me down.”
• • •
Later that afternoon, as the workers were finishing up their projects and storing their gear, I went back over the papers in the manila envelope Trish had given me.
I remembered something Trish had mentioned about the death of the light keeper, George Vigilance. In her official report to the Coast Guard, Ida claimed that George thought he spotted his son from the top of the tower, and in his haste to get down the tower stairs, fell and broke his neck. According to Ida, she had found him, dead, at the bottom of the stairs.
But if so, how did she know he had seen Franklin and was hurrying to him?
I supposed it was possible he had shouted something to her from the top of the tower, and she had assumed the rest. But what if Ida had lied? What if George had hurt Franklin, and Ida had pushed George down those stairs, just as she did Olivier and Thorn? And then invented the story to cover up her guilt?
One way to find out. Maybe.
I climbed the little staircase to the attic, noting again the multiple brass locksets on the door. Had they been placed there to keep people out—or to keep someone in?
Once inside the attic, I inspected the window with the broken panes. There were gouge marks on the interior sills, as though someone had tried to pry the window open. And on the exterior of the windows were a series of small, weathered holes. Had the windows once been nailed shut?
Had George locked Ida in the attic? And while she was there, had little Franklin wandered off? The first time I saw him, I’d thought he was too young to be playing by himself near the water.
If Ida had been locked up here for some reason, might she have broken the window in an effort to free herself?
I peered down at the ground two stories below. It was a long way down from here. She might well have broken an ankle, or worse, in a jump from this height. But a mother’s love was strong.
If this was true . . . could Ida be eaten up with guilt for not having found her son in time? Did she spend another ten years tending to the lamp at night, and ceaselessly searching for her son during the day? And had her constant yearning for him, for more than a century, generated the “shadow ghost” I had seen playing with his pail by the water?
A Ghostly Light Page 23