The Light Keeper's Legacy (A Chloe Ellefson Mystery)
they’re above the law … ”
    “To give everyone a bad name.”
    “Right. And we’ve had a couple of embarrassing incidents with over-zealous wardens. One warden set up a sting and actually coerced a fisherman to go find trout. Another time a warden seized some dead trout a fisherman had tagged and was bringing in, as the law requires. Then the warden sold them to a restaurant, even though the fish were over twenty-four inches long!”
    “Um … ”
    “Twenty-four inches is the max for public consumption. Too many PCBs build up in the older fish.”
    OK, Chloe thought. I’m on the brink of getting profoundly bummed. Fortunately the waitress interrupted, bringing Stig’s food. Chloe hit the salad bar. Yahoo! Veggies, fruit, cottage cheese, potato and pasta salads … all much more inviting than her freeze-dried stash at the lighthouse.
    When she sat back down, Stig picked up where he’d left off. “This is a way of life that gets handed down, one generation to the next. My older brother fishes with my dad and my eight-year-old nephew. Nobody wants to protect the fish populations more than the men who earn their living with nets.”
    “But … ”
    “But laws get made for a reason. And someone needs to monitor the populations.”
    Chloe was glad she worked with inanimate objects. How did people in law enforcement cope with so many people, so much bad energy, day after day? Roelke loved being a cop. But then again, he was generally tautly wired. How much of that came from genetic roulette, and how much from the job?
    Chloe stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork. And how had she ended up having supper with a deputy sheriff, talking about law enforcement, thinking about Roelke McKenna?
    Deputy Fjelstul said, “When I started working for the DNR, I thought I had the best job in the world. Once things with the fishing industry got so riled up, though … I was just doing my job, but—hell.” He shrugged. “I got tired of hearing people I worked with condemn all commercial fishermen, and tired of hearing friends and family speak of me and my colleagues with loathing.”
    “Loathing? Is it really that bad?”
    “Tempers are flaring. And not too long back a fisherman died of a stroke a few hours after he got arrested for having an illegal trout. Evert was only forty-nine years old.” Stig rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “That’s when I quit the DNR.”
    Chloe regarded him. “Do you think someone might get hurt?”
    “Get hurt?” Stig blinked, as if surprised to discover an audience. “ No . And if I seemed to suggest that, I beg your pardon.”
    “Everything OK?” the waitress asked. She turned to Chloe. “Want another bitters?”
    “No thanks. I’ll stick with water from here on.”
    Stig gestured at the empty shot glass. “Now you’re a true islander.”
    No, you are a true islander, Chloe thought. She felt sad.
    “Listen,” Stig said, “I shouldn’t have dumped on you like that. All this trouble will settle down again. People have been arguing about fishing regulations for over a century.”
    “Really? That long?”
    “Sure. Same as anywhere else. Wardens are caught between bear hunters and environmentalists in Alaska. Trappers and tree-huggers in the northwest.”
    “I suppose.” Chloe nibbled a slice of cucumber.
    “My college roommate works Fish and Game in Louisiana. A gator hunter took a potshot at him one morning last week. The same afternoon he had to arrest this group of crazy kids camping illegally in the swamp, all in the name of protecting the alligators. They were lucky they didn’t get eaten.” He took a long swig of tea. “Every one of them had a weird name. Lotus, Zilpha, Rainbow—stuff like that.”
    “Well,” Chloe said judiciously, “I’m not sure someone named Stig Fjelstul has much room to criticize in that regard.” She ate another tomato.
    He looked startled. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “You got me there.”
    “My first name is Ingrid,”

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