Page 81 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“So?” Pete scowled. “What’s the connection?”
Shea frowned. “I know Edna didn’t do it, but if she concocted the idea of Annabel being protective of her legacy, then someone else had to have adopted the same idea.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“Marnie.” Shea leveled a look on Pete. “It has to be Marnie.”
“Edna’s daughter? The waitress at the diner?”
“It makes sense—at least that Marnie wouldknowabout the concept of Annabel’s ghost and her protective nature.”
Pete summarized, “So you think Marnie is after the silver map, and she’s the one who killed Jonathan Marks for it? Nowyou’restretching, Shea.”
He was right. Shea collapsed back into her lawn chair, staring over the lake and wishing Annabel’s ghost would just walk up to them and tell them what had happened. “I’m never going to figure this out, am I?” Shea mumbled.
Pete’s low chuckle was her answer, followed by a contentedsigh. “Probably not. But, if nothing else, Annabel has done one thing.”
“What’s that?” Shea asked.
Pete smiled. “She got you and me talking again. I’d say that’s a big accomplishment—for a ghost.”
It dawned on Shea in the middle of the night—like most things did when she was lying in bed wide awake with insomnia.
Annabel’s grave.
Penny had mentioned it wasn’t far away from the lighthouse. And if so, maybe there was a clue there that would help Shea put all the pieces together.
She knew she should wait until morning to go check it out. But as alert as she was, dawn seemed ages away. So Shea slipped from bed and dressed quietly in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. She left a note on the kitchen table just in case Pete woke up looking for her in the next fifteen minutes. She didn’t intend to be gone long, but the moon was almost full, the lake was calm, and the evening had been beautiful. All she needed was a flashlight and she’d be good to go.
Finding one in a kitchen cabinet, Shea flicked it on and exited the lighthouse. In the moonlight, the lighthouse itself towered like a sentinel, dark and unyielding, but also dormant. Its lantern no longer glowed as it had back in the day when it was essential for ships traversing Lake Superior.
Unsure where exactly Annabel’s grave was located, Shea started off toward the woods. This was also in the direction of Silvertown. Because the woods were sparser here, the area seemed more conducive to a graveyard. She swept the flashlight’s beam into the woods as she hiked between the trees. Exploring the woods at night was sort of fun—except a nagging sensation told her it was probably foolhardy if her theories proved to be true. Her theories were based on the argument thatnone of the recent happenings that involved damage or injury were accidental.
If someone was lurking in these woods, which were in the shadow of the lighthouse, and now Shea was announcing her nosy presence with a flashlight, scanning the area with its beam...
Smart, Shea. Real smart.
She flicked it off and plunged herself into darkness illuminated only by the moon. Yeah. She hadn’t thought this through. Shea was turning to traipse back through the woods toward the lighthouse when the toe of her shoe collided with something hard and sharp sticking up out of the earth.
“You’re kidding me,” she muttered under her breath, then squatted close to the ground, daring to flick the flashlight back on. Sure enough, the corner of a gravestone stuck out from the fern and the undergrowth.
Shea set the flashlight on the ground and made quick work of pulling wet leaves and other debris from atop the stone, and then she sat back on her heels.
There in carved letters was Annabel’s name.
Date of death said 1852, but there was nothing else. No other clues. Nothing to confirm Shea’s theories and recategorize them as facts.
“Hello, Annabel,” Shea whispered almost reverently. She ran a finger along the etching of the name. “What have you been hiding all these years? Why is the lighthouse so important to people?”
As if Annabel heard her, the breeze picked up, sending leaves swirling around Shea. Surprised by the sudden gust of wind, Shea fell onto her hip. Her left hand shot out to brace herself, and her palm scraped against another stone, buried beneath more debris.
Another stone?
Shea clawed at the moss and leaves that covered it. Like Annabel’sgrave marker, this one also lay flat on the ground. Forgotten, untended, a story untold.
She grabbed the flashlight and held it over the name etched in this stone—this unknown stone.
Edgar.
