Even though there was only one window halfway up and just a handful of small light fixtures along the way, the openness allowed plenty of light to penetrate. It only took a dozen steps for Gage's right knee to burn with excruciating pain, like a thousand hot needles jabbing from all sides each time his weight came down on the joint. By two dozen steps, he began to have serious doubts about his refusal to see an orthopedic surgeon.
He heard the hum of the machinery as they approached the top. The service room was a fairly tight space surrounding the electric engine that rotated the Fresnel lens above them, the shiny mirrors that he could see by peering up through indoor gangplank. The access to the very top, and presumably the outdoor gallery, was an extremely narrow staircase in the corner blocked by a chain.
"Well," Harold said, "make it quick. Not sure what you think you'll find that the police didn't."
"In my experience," Gage said, "the police usually miss a whole lot. And that's when they're trying to find things."
"Hey, my brother-in-law is a cop. A good one, too."
"There are always rare exceptions."
Searching the area, Gage didn't see any obvious clues. Of course, they wouldn't be obvious, would they? A heavy gray drop cloth covered some equipment in the corner, but looking under the cloth revealed nothing but paint cans, varnish, lots of brushes, files, and other tools, just what Gage would expect to find for restoration work. Dusty white walls. Four paned windows, one on each side. The machinery was interesting, but otherwise the area was so empty and plain that it was hard to ascribe any romantic wonder to the place, as would befit something that had graced so many postcards over the years.
Yet there was still something about the lighthouse that appealed to Gage, all those solitary hours of routine, providing vigil, making sure everything was working because lives depended on it. As Harold had said, almost all lighthouses worldwide were automated now, and Heceta Head was no exception, but if Gage had been born a hundred years earlier, he could easily see himself a keeper of a lighthouse.
He saw no obvious footprints. No signs of struggle—scuff marks, scratches, that sort of thing.
"Was the note left up here?" Gage asked.
"Note?"
"The suicide note."
"Oh, right. Yeah. I didn't see it, but I heard they found it by the stairs there, the ones to the top."
Gage went to the stairs, peering up at the locked door. "And you say the same key works on that door there?"
"It does. Not that any of us ever use it."
"This is the part where I ask very nicely one last time if you can take us up there."
Harold smiled. "And this is the part where I say again that I can't do it. But maybe the police could, you know, with a search warrant, that sort of thing."
"Now you're just taunting me," Gage said.
"Sorry. You done?"
"Give me just a second."
Gage leaned against the outer wall, thinking. The brick felt cold and rough even through his jacket. The wind whistled against the windows. He heard the gulls. It was hard to imagine a killer going to all the trouble of committing a murder in the lighthouse. Perhaps it was committed elsewhere, and then the killer dragged the body up to the top? That was even harder to believe. It was no easy feat to carry even a small man on level ground who wasn't aiding the effort. It wasn't just the weight. It was the ungainly nature of the human body. Add in all the steps? Not impossible but certainly quite a challenge.
No, if it was a murder, it most likely occurred on the gallery, or at least where Harold and Gage stood. But why would Ed agree to come here with his eventual murderer? Was it against his will? Did he know the person, and he had no reason to suspect what was going to happen? Suicide seemed far likelier, but Gage was finding that possibility increasingly difficult to believe, especially now that he'd been here. It wasn't just the short fall. It was also how difficult it would be to land headfirst, even if someone was trying. Forty feet would almost take a master diver, and then amazing willpower to suppress the normal instinct to flail or at least get hands in front of the face.
But if someone was held out over the rail by their legs, someone who was already dead? That body might drop like an arrow.
If, for example, Ed had been poisoned or strangled up here, that fact could easily be obscured unless a full autopsy was done—which nobody was doing, because everybody assumed it was suicide.
Gage was mulling all of this over when something small and red caught his eye. It was directly underneath the stairs to the top, partly obscured by the shadow of the step, an object no bigger than a thumbtack. He would have missed it completely if he hadn't been looking straight at it. When he bent down to study it, he found that it was a tiny red pebble. He picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It was light and rough, speckled with tiny holes.
"What's that?" Harold asked.
"Lava rock," Gage said. "Pretty common east of the Cascades, but not so common around here. Except for decorative purposes, you know, in yards as a ground cover. There's nothing like this around the lighthouse, is there?"
"No. Not that I've seen, anyway. You sure it's not a piece of red brick? You know, like from the walls?"
"No," Gage said. "Red brick is usually made by cooking clay in a kiln. This is definitely lava rock. So who comes up here?"
"Well, maintenance personnel are supposed to be doing some inspections so we can open it up to the public, but I take it they haven't been up in a month or so. We're all hoping that changes soon, so people won't be disappointed when they come for a tour. Otherwise, only if there's a problem."
"And there hasn't been a problem lately?"
"Not that I know of. At least, not in the month since I've been coming here."
"Mind if I take it?"
Harold shrugged. Gage slipped the rock into his jacket pocket. If it had been stuck to the bottom of Ed's shoes or the shoes of the person he might have been meeting up here, it might prove helpful.
At the bottom, Gage took one last pass around the perimeter but didn't find anything, and then the two of them walked to the gift shop. The door to the squat, plain building was locked, but Harold used his key to let them into a dim room with a low ceiling, packed with Oregon coast sweatshirts, Heceta Head snow globes, key chains, bookmarks, shot glasses, and every other kitschy thing one might expect in such a place. An incense candle that smelled of cedar burned on the front counter, only partly masking the faint odor of mold.
Maggie, a short firecracker of a woman with freckled, pale skin and long white hair braided down her back, teared up when Harold explained who Gage was and asked whether she remembered anything else about Ed, but it turned out she didn't have all that much more to say—only that he was exceptionally kind but didn't say much, and he always clammed up when she asked any personal questions. No, he never mentioned family.
Gage asked if they had a list of other volunteers, including contact information, and after some hesitation, they copied it from a laminated sheet behind the counter onto a yellow pad for him. Gage bought a postcard of a seal for Alex and a book on Heceta Head history for himself. After locking up, they walked outside. A group of five was approaching the gift shop, and Maggie stopped to explain to them that everything was closed. Harold walked on with Gage.
"One last thing," Harold said.
"Yes?"
"If I give you my email, will you promise to write me to tell me how this all turns out? Maggie and I are heading south to the California Redwoods day after tomorrow."
"I would," Gage said, "but there's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"I don't have email."
"Oh."
"I'll get the news to you some other way, though. Would carrier pigeon work?"
Fortunately, Harold laughed.
Chapter 13
Like many Oregon coastal towns, much of what lay along Highway 101 was not very interesting. After passing the Fred Meyer at the edge of town, which backed u
p to the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area—huge, sloping hills of yellow sand—Gage drove his van past the usual suspects of gas stations, fast food joints, and other bland stores with the typical cookie-cutter architecture. The ocean, far from where the town was situated, wasn't even visible.
The Florence Police Department was located only a few minutes from the highway, as almost everything not on the highway was, a one-story tan and brick building that looked like an elementary school. Though he had little hope they'd help him, Gage couldn't leave town without at least trying.
He was right to be skeptical. A grizzled detective named Monroe wouldn't release any information other than to say it was designated a suicide. He didn't buy Gage's cover story about writing a book, and after a little give and take, it became clear he knew full well who Gage was. Gage had a certain notoriety in Oregon, after all, and unless he could be a little more forthcoming about who he was working for and why, Monroe couldn't say any more.
If Gage thought they actually knew something, he might have taken the risk, but he got the sense Monroe was just fishing. He did make sure to let Lady do her business on the grass in front of Monroe's window, however. Bonus points.
Next, with the sun a low orange orb in the sky and a stiff wind buzzing against the windows in the Fred Meyer lobby, he used a payphone to call the numbers on the volunteer list. For those who didn't answer—most of them—he left messages saying he was writing a book and Ed Boone was mentioned in it. He left Alex's phone number and told them if they knew Ed at all to reach out. For those that answered, two were in Eugene, and they didn't know him any better than Harold or Maggie. Three of the volunteers were local. Getting the same spiel from them—nice guy, not very talkative—Gage was about to say goodbye to the last of the three when she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh wait, there is something!"
Unlike most of the volunteers, Brittany Folsom was not a retired person with plenty of time to burn but a busy high school kid who fit in volunteering at the lighthouse between basketball practice and violin lessons. She'd only met Ed once, when he stopped by the gift shop to buy a bottle of water.
Outside the Fred Meyer lobby, someone was using a leaf blower to clear the sidewalk—it seemed silly in such windy conditions—and Gage had to cup his hand over his left ear to hear her better.
"What's that?" Gage asked.
"I almost forgot. When he bought the water, he smiled and said I reminded him of his daughter."
Gage felt a tingle up his spine. "A daughter?"
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's what he said."
"When was this?"
"Oh, maybe a year back. I haven't volunteered much lately, and really I just help out in the gift shop when they have a big load of stuff come in or when they're really short on the weekends. I only remember because he kind of got weird about it. I asked him how old she was, and he started to say something but then stopped and shook his head. Then he walked out without saying anything. I got the feeling it might be a sore subject or something."
Gage was now desperate to see how much Brittany looked like Nora, which made him ask his next question with perhaps too much excitement. "Can I come see you?"
There was a long pause. Silently, Gage castigated himself for coming off like a dirty old man trying to put the moves on a teenage girl. He heard the sound of screeching tires in the background, then gunshots. A video game?
"Um …"
"I can wait until your parents are home, it's no problem. I can even call back and talk to them before you give me your address. When will they be home?"
"Well, Mom will be home any minute, but I guess I don't know what else you want to talk about. It's really all I know. Why, does it mean something?"
Unsure if the parents would be all that willing to help him unless he divulged at least a little bit of the truth, he decided to get a running start by being more honest with Brittany. "It might. I'd like to see what you look like."
"What I look like?"
"Right."
"Well, you don't need to come over for that. Just find today's newspaper."
"Excuse me?"
She laughed. "I've had a good year on my basketball team. The paper ran a story on me, and there's a good shot of me standing at the free-throw line."
* * *
It was dark by the time Gage knocked on Nora West's motel room door. The moon, full except for a hint of shadow, spread its silvery light generously on the railing, the concrete walkway, and the tops of cars. It wasn't quite bright enough to read by, but if Elliott Younger or anyone else had been trying to hide in the parking lot below, Gage was fairly confident he would have seen them. The wind, so strong earlier, had died to almost nothing, and the surf was loud enough that it sounded like it was all around them.
He heard footsteps, then a pause. Looking through the peephole? Good girl. He heard the rattle of the chain and the sliding of the deadbolt. When she opened the door, he lifted the plastic bag of Chinese food.
"Oh, you're a lifesaver," she said. "I'm starving! Come in."
She locked the door behind him. It may have been a subconscious move, but he was glad to see that. They could no longer afford to mess around with her safety. The decked-out woman who led him into the kitchen had completely transformed herself from the harried creature in T-shirt and sweatpants he'd seen that morning. She'd been beautiful then anyway, to be sure, but the black turtleneck sweater, the designer jeans, and the brown leather boots all fit her perfectly, presenting her curvaceous figure in the best possible light.
When she looked at him, her eyeliner made her eyes pop even more than usual. She smiled.
"What?" she said.
"You haven't gone out, have you?"
She retrieved a couple of plates from the kitchen. "No, no. Really desperate to walk on the beach, but I did what you said and stayed put. Sometimes I just feel better when I gussy myself up a bit. What's that under your arm? You brought me a newspaper?"
Gage had forgotten about the newspaper. After placing the bag of Chinese food on the kitchen table, he held up the newspaper for her to see.
"It's the Florence paper," he explained.
"Okay. Why?"
"I'll explain in a little bit. Let's start on dinner first. I'm hungry too. But before we get to that either, I do have to ask you about something else. How do you feel about dogs?"
"Dogs?"
"Yes."
"Why do you ask?"
"Are you okay with them?"
"Of course! I love dogs. I had a dachshund for a few years, but it was just too hard when I was on tour. Jewel took him home to her kids, who love him, and I get to visit now and then. Wait a minute. I'm getting the sense this isn't a rhetorical question."
Gage shook his head, then explained who was waiting in the van. When he told her Lady had apparently belonged to Ed Boone, Nora insisted Gage bring her in at once. Gage, who'd felt bad about leaving the dog in the van for such a prolonged period, especially since she'd been cooped up in the van on and off most of the day, had been hoping Nora would say that.
Careful not to be seen, he fetched her from the van. The motel may not allow dogs, but Gage rationalized his rule breaking by telling himself that Lady was so small she barely even qualified as a dog. Nora lavished Lady with all kinds of attention, and the dog wagged her tiny tail and soaked it up.
Nora put out the plates and he opened up the boxes of chicken chow mein, steaming white rice, fried pork, egg foo young, and more, a wide assortment because he hadn't known what she liked. Turned out he had no cause to worry; she took heaping spoonfuls of all of it. Between bites, he filled her in on his conversation with Brittany Folsom. When he mentioned Ed's comment about Brittany's resemblance to a daughter, Nora froze, the noodles she'd been lifting to her mouth slipping off the chopsticks. On the floor next to her, Lady watched the noodles with rapt attention.
"He actually said the word daughter?"
Gage, never having mastered the art of eating with chopsticks himself, put down his
fork and wiped his hands with his napkin. He turned the newspaper to the sports page and held it open for Nora.
"Notice anything about her?"
"That's Brittany?"
"Yep."
"Oh my."
"Looks a lot like you, doesn't she?"
"She … does."
There was an excited tremor in Nora's voice. Gage glanced at the photo, then back at Nora, and in person the resemblance was even greater. Curly, dark hair, bosomy figure, eyes that popped. Even the slightly round face—the resemblance was strong enough that Brittany could have been Nora's little sister. Gage folded the newspaper so the picture was facing up and placed it on the table. Nora studied it for a long time, and when she looked back at Gage, her eyes had teared up.
"I knew he wasn't making it up," she said.
"Hold on, we haven't proven anything."
"But it's true. It has to be true."
"I'd still like to do a little more digging."
"Sure, sure, of course. I want more proof too. But why would that girl lie? Did she even know about me?"
"Of course not."
"See!"
"It's a good sign. It's just … there were other things that happened today that weren't so good."
"What do you mean?"
Gage caught her up on the rest of his day, starting with Ed Boone's apartment. He told her he was having Alex do a DNA test of her hair; he just needed a hair sample from her, too. She said she'd give him one before he left. She was disappointed when he said there didn't appear to be any of her music there, or anything else that indicated a fondness for her. He said maybe he liked her but not her music. She didn't find this funny. She didn't find Elliott and Denny Younger's surprise visit to Gage's place funny either, especially when he told her their rumored occupation.
"You're kidding," she said.
"Nope. Not according to Alex's intel."
"So I just find out I have a couple of half-brothers, and they turn out to be hit men?"
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 14