Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(40)

“What is it?” the ghost asked.

“Out of luck. No master list. They were issued in bulk from different U. S. and Chinese sources. Some of them were reissued to new pilots after the first ones died. And since the serial numbers were considered classified information, the lists they did have were probably destroyed.”

“Look up Emmaline Stewart,” the ghost said.

“Not on this phone. The connection’s too slow.” Alex scowled at the tiny glowing LCD screen. “I need a laptop for this.”

“Go to the Bellingham Herald site,” the ghost insisted. “They’d have to have something about her.”

Alex went to the Web site and worked the phone for a minute. “The online archive only goes back to 2000.”

“You stink at research. Ask Sam. He could find out everything about Emma in about five minutes.”

“People in their eighties,” Alex said, “don’t usually leave an Internet trail. And there’s no way I’m asking Sam—he’d want to know why I’m interested, and I don’t want to explain.”

“But—”

“You’ll see Emma soon enough, when Zoë brings her to the island. And if I were you, I wouldn’t get too excited. She’s an old lady now.”

The ghost snorted. “How old do you think I am, Alex?”

Alex gave him an assessing glance. “Mid to late twenties.”

“After what I’ve been through, age gets pretty damn relative. The body is just a fragile container for a soul.”

“I’m not that enlightened,” Alex informed him. After attaching his phone to the portable speakers, he went to the box of garbage bags and pulled one out.

“What are you doing?” the ghost asked.

“Going through more of this junk.”

“Sam’s computer is downstairs,” the ghost protested. “You could ask to borrow it.”

“Later.”

“Why not now?”

Because Alex had to feel like he had some kind of control over his own damn life. The encounter with Zoë that morning, and reading the old typewritten letter, had unsettled him. He needed a break from free-floating emotion and drama and unanswered questions. The only thing he could think of was to do something practical.

The ghost, reading the volatility of his mood, retreated and fell silent.

As a series of Tony Bennett duets played in the background, Alex went through boxes of tax documents, old magazines, broken dishes, moth-eaten clothes, and toys. The floor was littered with dead insects and dirt. Behind one dilapidated box, Alex found an ancient mousetrap with a dried-up rodent carcass. Grimacing, he used a wad of plastic to pick it up and throw it away.

Opening a box, Alex found a stack of leather-bound account books and ledgers. A plume of dust rose as he pulled out the first book, making him sneeze. Kneeling, he sat back against his heels, thighs slightly splayed for balance. He read a few of the brittle age-darkened entries, all of them neatly written in faded black ink.

“What is it?” the ghost asked.

“I think it’s an account book from a fish-canning factory.” Alex turned a few pages. “Here’s an inventory … Steam machines, flaying and frying grids, soldering tools, tin plate scissors … A whole hell of a lot of olive oil …”

The ghost watched as Alex skimmed through the book. “Whoever owned the factory must have had plenty of dough.”

“For a while,” Alex said. “But this area was overfished until the salmon disappeared for a while. Most of the fisheries and factories went out of business in the sixties.” He delved into the box and pulled out more ledgers. Opening another, he found a few handwritten business letters, one concerning a lithographing company that was supplying labels, and another about a state-run committee that was forcing the cannery to lower its prices. He paused to look more closely at one of them. “The factory was owned by Weston Stewart.”

The ghost looked at him alertly, recognizing Emma’s maiden name.

Alex continued to sift through the ledgers. The entries in the last few books were typed instead of handwritten. A few newspaper clippings and black-and-white photographs had been tucked into the pages.

“What are those pictures?” the ghost asked, approaching.

Alex sensed the ghost’s eagerness to hover over him, to get a good view. “Don’t crowd me. I’ll tell you if there’s anything you need to see. These are just exterior shots of buildings.” He picked up a newspaper article announcing the closing of the factory. “Place went out of business in August 1960,” he said. Sorting through more clippings, he saw one titled “Local Fish Industry on Brink of Collapse” and one describing local complaints about the stench of the waste products coming from the cannery. “Here’s an obituary for the factory owner,” Alex said. “Weston Stewart. He died less than a year after the cannery closed. Doesn’t say what cause. Survived by a widow, Jane, and three daughters: Susannah, Lorraine, and Emmaline.”

“Emmaline,” the ghost repeated as if the word were a talisman.

A tiny picture of a young woman headed the last newspaper clipping. Her shoulder-length blond hair had been arranged in sculpted waves, her lips rouged with lipstick. She was the kind of woman who was beautiful in spite of technically not being beautiful. Her eyes were clear and curious and melancholy, as if she stared into an unwritten future with nothing to hope for.