Page 20 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Shea bit back a smile as she opened the recording app on her phone. “Well, first and foremost, I’m really interested in learning about Annabel. Who was she beyond just the lore?”
Edna’s expression softened. “Oh, Annabel. Sweet thing. I imagine she was a tortured soul, and that’s the truth of it.” She picked at a piece of lint from the cuff of her sweater. “The way it’s been told since I was girl was that Annabel came here with her father. She was motherless, and seeing as most of the people in the area were either fur trappers or Chippewa ... well, she was a special little thing. Mining was just getting started. It was a time of change for this area, a move into the modern age. Well, modern for them, I suppose.”
Shea considered Edna’s words. “What was Annabel’s last name?”
“Oh, honey.” Edna’s already large eyes grew wider. “Nobody knowsthat. It happened too long ago, and her grave was lost to time. She’s just known as Annabel. Of course, the lighthouse was built not long after she drowned. Just a wooden structure at first, until they rebuilt it as you see it mostly today. I think they rebuilt it in the 1860s, and then the new keeper took it over.”
“And what was that keeper’s name?” Shea knew names would be helpful as she pieced the story together.
“Edgar. Edgar Wolf. He was of German roots, so his surname sounded more likeVoolf. Anyway, he ran the lighthouse until the early 1880s, I believe, and then a younger man took over—Abel Koski, I think his name was.”
“And when were the sightings of Annabel first recorded?” Shea found excitement growing inside of her. The lightkeepers’ names were golden.
Edna’s lips pressed together in a thin, knowing smile. “Well, from the moment she drowned really. Her lover—and some say Annabel was also married, so that in itself was scandalous—claimedto have seen her the very next night. ‘An aimless wandering’ were the words used. After that, various sailors would spot her on the shoreline, or a miner would notice her slip behind trees and vanish into the forest. Once the lighthouse was built, she seemed to take up residence there.”
“Why do you think that was?” Shea wasn’t sure if Edna was a firm believer in the existence of Annabel’s ghost or merely an intrepid storyteller.
Edna chuckled. “That’s all been conjecture for decades. Some say she moved into the lighthouse to haunt the keeper and anyone else who lived there. That she made it her mission to keep them from sleep so that none died or drowned on their watch. Others claim Annabel moved into the lighthouse because she had an attachment to someone who once lived there. Probably one of the keepers.”
“Was one of the keepers perhaps her lover?” Shea speculated.
Edna nodded. “That’s been the theory. You see”—she leaned forward—“the same way Annabel’s identity was lost to time, so too was her lover’s. No one really knows the truth of it outside of the tragedy of her drowning.”
What Edna shared matched what Shea had already researched and what she’d learned from Holt. But she couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed. She had imagined Edna would know more specifics and not just embellishments to the legend.
“And what can you tell me about Jonathan—”
Shea’s inquiry was cut off by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass.
Edna cried out. “Sweet dandelion stems! What was that?” Her hands clutched at her throat.
Shea shot up from her chair, sweeping the living space with investigative observation. None of the house windows were shattered, but the front ones were open, allowing the warmer spring breeze to freshen up the house.
She patted the air between her and Edna. “Stay here. I’ll go look.”
“Oh, be careful!” Edna was struggling to rise from her chair, ignoring Shea’s instructions. “I’ve never heard the likes of that before!”
Shea hurried through the front room and cautiously pushed open the door. Her eyes caught sight of her car parked on the road just yards from the house.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” She sprinted down the walk to approach her car from the front. The windshield was completely shattered. Glass decorated the inside of the car, the windshield boasting a large hole dead center.
“What happened?” Edna had emerged from the house, and she held tightly to the fence post at the end of the walk. “Oh no. Is that your car?”
“Yes.” Shea’s answer was curt, but not because she blamed Edna. She knew before she looked inside the vehicle that someone had launched something hard through her windshield. She yanked open the door and surveyed the inside. There was nothing. No stone, no item that would explain the gaping hole in the windshield. Shea struggled to pull her emotions into control so she didn’t cry or scream, or worse, swear like a sailor.Thatwould probably make Edna’s eyes pop right out of her head. Shea had a strong feeling that Edna Carraway never swore. Ever.
She reached for her phone in her jeans pocket. She’d call the police. This was absurd.
Edna teetered up beside Shea and laid a hand on Shea’s wrist. Edna’s head began to shake from side to side. “You’ve ruffled feathers, Miss Radclyffe.”
“Ruffled feathers?” Shea dialed the police. “Who on earth would want to vandalize my car? And where did they go?” She looked around as if the culprit would be standing there to take ownership of the act.
Edna lifted enormous eyes and pushed her wire frames higherup her nose. “Annabel has a reputation, you know.” Edna clucked her tongue as though Shea should have foreseen this happening. “A nice ghost, for all sakes and purposes, but if anyone asks too many questions, well now, Annabel doesn’t like that.”
“What are you talking about?” Shea was losing patience. The story was cryptic enough without adding another level of ludicrousness to it.
Edna’s features turned stern, her mouth set in a grim line. “Annabel’s history is sacred to her spirit. She’s a private ghost, Miss Radclyffe, and she wants to have a voice in things.”
Shea eyed the elderly woman. “You’re sayingAnnabeltraveled from the lighthouse all the way to Ontonagon in order to break my windshield to keep me from asking questions about her life?”
