Chapter 1
Chapter One
Twenty-five years ago…
At the edge of sundown before daylight faded to dark embers, Gigi sat alone at a small table in the Lighthouse Tavern at Cape Seraphim on the Oregon coast. She sipped hard cider from a snifter and gazed through the western windows at the lighthouse on a cliff jutting into the Pacific.
A few hundred yards away, the tall, white tower rose through the mist and stood out against the streaks of a vivid bloodred, tangerine and neon yellow sunset.
Tamping down her anger, she waited for the right moment. In contrast to her red-hot rage, the atmosphere in the tavern felt subdued. Whispers and sighs accompanied low-key conversations. An acoustic guitar and wooden flute played background music.
The program for tonight was a séance-like ritual to celebrate the return of Penelope Townsend, the Ghost Widow, who would open communication with loved ones who had passed away.
Schmidt was here to connect with his late wife, who had died four years ago.
His sensitivity surprised Gigi. She found it hard to believe that Blake Schmidt had a heart.
For the past two years, she’d been working with him and three others.
They called themselves The Four and had rigged a real estate Ponzi scheme.
By purchasing a membership in Fourscore and More, and encouraging others to do so, first-time buyers were promised low mortgages with a minimum down payment.
Gigi had already built a significant fortune in real estate and didn’t need more investments, but she thought Fourscore sounded like a good deal.
At first, she made a good return. Then Schmidt showed his true colors.
Too many of the mortgages turned into foreclosures, which allowed him to buy the foreclosed houses at bargain-basement prices.
Good for The Four, and bad for everybody else.
She’d felt sorry for the people she signed up, but they should have known they couldn’t afford the loss.
Investments were always risky. Buyer beware, as they say.
And then Schmidt pulled a few strings and cheated her. Big mistake.
Nobody messed with Gigi Graham and got away with it.
She spent the past few months compiling enough evidence against The Four to destroy their company and personally bankrupt each and every one of them.
She couldn’t wait to see the look on Schmidt’s ugly face when she showed him the flash drive revealing corrupt banking practices and documented false promises—one of three copies.
The paper evidence was hidden where no one would think to look.
She didn’t intend to blackmail him. A tacky endeavor, not her style.
Instead, she wanted legally documented payback on every cent of her own investment with 5 percent interest. If he tried to ignore her or threatened her…
well, she wasn’t helpless. She’d brought a weapon.
A .38 handgun tucked under her voluminous skirt.
The dim lighting in the tavern, augmented by candle jars on every table, faded to a darker shade.
Finally, the sun had set. Bridget Reid, president of the Cape Seraphim Historical Society, stepped up to a podium on the dance floor in front of the guitar and flute.
She spoke into a microphone and gave a brief history of the Lady Eve, a 215-foot-long windjammer sailing from Australia to Portland with a load of coal.
In February of 1897, the three-masted tall ship was assaulted by fierce winds and strong currents.
She wrecked on the offshore shoals. There were no survivors.
Through the window, Gigi saw the beacon from the lighthouse automatically come to life as it did every night. The beam didn’t rotate, but was set to a sequence of five seconds on, two off, two on, fifteen off. The pattern was unique and distinguished this lighthouse from all others on the coast.
The president continued her saga. “The honorable Christopher Townsend, captain of the Lady Eve, went down with his ship, leaving his young wife, Penelope, a widow. Overwhelmed by grief, she flung herself into the surf and nearly drowned. She developed pneumonia. In the months before her death, she often left her bed at night and went to the lighthouse, where she climbed the winding staircase to the circular walkway below the beacon. For hours, she stood, watching and waiting for a sign from her husband.”
Bridget’s melodious voice, underscored by the flute and guitar, compelled the attention of every person in the room. For a moment, Gigi forgot her revenge against The Four and imagined the young widow facing the raging sea. A lonely, tragic image.
“Even after death,” Bridget said, “her vigil continued. Many have sighted the Ghost Widow on the lighthouse tower. Though her husband never returned, she vowed, as a spirit from the other side, to help others connect with their loved ones who have died.”
With both hands, Bridget lifted a stout green candle toward the ceiling. “Penelope Townsend, we summon thee.”
The crowd read from parchment copies. The conjuring poem was penned in elegant calligraphy. With one voice, they recited the words. “Cherished, fond spirits from the other side. Come close to us and here abide.”
After the third repetition, individuals added their personal pleas, asking their dearly departed for a blessing, a sign or an answer.
Gigi listened to their memories, questions and complaints, and she wondered if these gullible people received some kind of peace or pleasure from what seemed to her a fruitless exercise.
She kept her eyes on Schmidt, watched as he bent his head and mumbled to himself.
In the midst of all this talking, she heard a gentle hum. A comforting sound, like a lullaby. A clear voice murmured in her ear. “It only hurts for a moment.”
Gigi glanced over her shoulder. No one there. In a low voice, she asked, “What hurts?”
“She will find you.”
Fear shot through her. She didn’t want to hear voices from the beyond. Didn’t believe this was happening. Not to her. “Who the hell are you?”
The answer came in the high-pitched wail of an infant. Alarmed, Gigi looked around. Where was the baby? Was anyone else hearing this?
She looked toward the spot where Schmidt had been standing. He was gone. Can’t let him escape. She rose from her chair and went to the nearest exit. All the sound in the room—the flute and guitar, the people calling to their loved ones—blended into an ominous static.
Outside the Lighthouse Tavern, she saw him crossing the parking lot.
During the ritual, night had fallen. Fog had rolled in.
The temperature had dropped, and she shivered inside her costume jacket.
The salty wind tugged at her veil, and she tore the hat from her head.
No need for a disguise with Schmidt. She wanted him to see her, to know her, to understand her revenge.
A five-second flash from the lighthouse beacon illuminated him as he set out on the asphalt path toward the lighthouse. She stumbled along in his wake. From inside the tavern, she heard a low murmur and guessed they were chanting again, conjuring more ghosts. The flute and the guitar played along.
Schmidt skirted nearby businesses and a stand of leafless cottonwoods.
He followed the path toward the lighthouse.
Below the cliff, waves crashed against the jagged rocks that extended a few hundred yards into the Pacific.
Southwesterly gusts blew the fog around her, shrouding her vision.
But still she saw two other men join Blake Schmidt.
Part of The Four? She stepped up her pace. They would not escape her.
The lighthouse beam flashed again. She was closer to them.
Their baritone voices cut through the voices from the tavern and the sounds of the sea as they neared the white tower.
A fourth man stepped away from the lighthouse.
The Four. These men were criminals. Dangerous.
Should she look for the sheriff? Call for help?
The beacon slashed through the darkness.
They stood outside the lighthouse, staring at her. With a nod to the others, one of them started walking in her direction. His posture tensed. Anger twisted his features. He wasn’t looking for a pleasant conversation.
Frantically, she struggled to reach the gun hidden under her costume. If she screamed, no one would hear her above the chanting in the Tavern and the waves beating against the shore. She had the gun. Her trembling fingers tightened on the grip.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said.
He paused. A tall man, he loomed over her. There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. “What do you want, Gigi?”
“You betrayed me,” she said. “Betrayed the people I introduced to Fourscore. You stole from them.”
“No one forced them to hand over their money.”
“You and your three pals are going to make this right.” She dug into the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a flash drive and held it up. “I have proof. Copies of bank records—all your bank records, even those in the Cayman Islands. Minutes from meetings of The Four. Recorded statements.”
He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“Take it.” She threw the piece of plastic in his direction. It landed in the sand and dirt at his feet. “I have another, hidden where you’ll never find it. And copies of the signed paper documents and evidence.”
“We need to talk, Gigi.” He took a step toward her. Close enough to make contact.
She shouted, “Back off.”
He slapped the weapon from her hand. His fingers curled into a fist. His elbow bent. With one fierce blow, he took her down.
Gigi sensed she was being lifted and carried. It only hurts for a moment. Away from the wind, there was silence and warmth. And then…nothing.
Copyright ? 2025 by Kay Bergstrom