Page 29 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Something flickered in Chuck’s eyes. “Yeah. That. Super tragic. Put a gun to his head and just pulled the trigger. My brother was with the police department then and was one of the first people on the scene. It was pretty gory.”
“Most gunshot wounds are.”
“’Specially to the head.” Chuck patted his hands on his knees for emphasis. “Brains and all, you know?”
“I know.” Shea grimaced. “Someone was telling me that Jonathan was anti-guns?”
“Yep. Had been since high school,” Chuck affirmed.
“So how did he come by a gun to end his life with?”
Chuck wagged a finger in Shea’s direction. “Now you’re asking the questions the cops asked. My brother, Tim, told me it was a 9mm handgun. The autopsy report said the gun was consistent with the angle of Jonathan holding it to his temple. But it was the right-side temple, and Jonathan was left-handed. So foul play was introduced as a theory based on that, as well as Jonathan being so anti-firearm.”
“Did he have a reason to be anti-gun?”
“Anti-gun?” Chuck’s voice went up a notch. He lifted his shoulders and dropped them in a shrug. “Not sure. I mean, it’s not exactly a popular opinion around these parts. We’ve a lot of hunters and the like.”
“But hunters don’t hunt with a handgun, do they?” Shea inquired.
“Not likely, but there’s still a use for them. Protection when you’re out hiking—wolves are making a comeback now. There are the black bears too, though typically they’re more scared of us than we are of them. Still, if you come up on a mama bear—”
“Where did Jonathan get this gun?” Shea asked, cutting him off.
Chuck lifted his hands in acquiescence. “No one knows.”
None of it made sense to Shea, and she voiced her skepticism. “It seems there would be some record somewhere. I mean, guns have serial numbers.”
Chuck’s expression told her he agreed with her. “Yep. They do. But he might’ve purchased the gun out of state. Like next door in Wisconsin, where you can sell your gun to a friend, andno one is the wiser. Jonathan could’ve bought a handgun somewhere and been legal about it but not have its serial number registered under his name. The bigger question was motive—who would want him dead? Jonathan wasn’t popular around Silvertown or Ontonagon. He riled folks up with his talk of how we were destroying the environment with the logging and mining, polluting the lake, and so on. He was also known for being a drunk. Spent every evening at the Dipstick Saloon. Man drank old-fashioneds like they were so old-fashioned they were going extinct. He’d always talk a lot when he did. Depression ran in his family, and a week or so before he died, he was at the Dipstick and going on about ways a man could off himself and leave behind the stress and darkness of the world. To be honest, he seemed a bit excited to die.”
“That’s awful.” Shea couldn’t fathom being that low in life as to wish death on oneself. But she knew it was a very real place all too many found themselves.
Chuck nodded emphatically. “But there’s the even weirder part about it.”
“What’s that?” Shea leaned her elbows on the counter to take weight off of her feet.
“About a month before Jonathan died, he mentioned to others in the Dipstick some very odd things happening at the lighthouse. Slamming doors, footsteps in the hallway, the water turned on in the middle of the night when no one was there to do it. He was determined Annabel’s ghost was really in the lighthouse, and she didn’t want him there.”
“Are you insinuatingAnnabel’s ghostkilled Jonathan?” Shea had to find a human explanation for his death. Gone crazy and run himself off the top of the lighthouse? Sure, she could believe that. But Shea couldn’t wrap her belief around the idea Annabel’s ghost herself somehow pulled the trigger that resulted in Jonathan’s death.
Chuck slid off the stool and made a pretense of getting busystraightening a stack of brochures. “I think folks bring up that Annabel legend because it makes a good story. As if an old ghost could pull a trigger or would evenwantto.”
“What doyoubelieve happened?” Shea asked.
Chuck matched her intent gaze. “I believe blaming a popular legend is an excuse. It sensationalizes Jonathan’s death and gives it a whole lot of attention and builds a mystery around it. Before you know, the authorities want to shut all the hoopla down, so they go with their gut and claim suicide.” Chuck gave the neat stack of brochures a kindly pat. “The bigger question isn’t whether Jonathan was killed by Annabel’s ghost, butifAnnabel was haunting him, why it drove things so far as to have Jonathan end up dead? Either the haunting drove him to suicide, or it drove someone to murder him. There’s the rub if you ask me.”
“What’d you find out?”
Holt’s appearance just outside of the museum caught her off guard. Shea stopped on the porch and tried to temper her expression into the appropriate smile of a married woman, as she knew she should. Man, but it was hard.
“I’m sure it’s nothing new to you.” She widened her smile, unable to hold in the warmth.
“Chuck has always been in the murder camp when it comes to Jonathan Marks.” Holt tipped his head toward his pickup. “Need a ride back to the lighthouse?”
“Actually,” she answered, “I was going to head down to the Dipstick. Just to look around.”
“I’ll come with you.” Holt fell into place beside Shea as she skipped down the steps toward the gravel parking area.
The woods grew up all around them, and from where the museum was located, she could peer up and down the highway and see the entirety of Silvertown: the museum, post office,Dipstick Saloon, country store and gas station, and a couple of houses that looked to be half home and half boutique shop.
