Death at Gills Rock (11 page)

The widows were in the first pew on the left, joined together in the place of dubious honor. Ida was nearest the main aisle, Stella in the middle, and then Olive. They were three women in black but the similarity ended with their attire.

Ida appeared rested and almost serene, as if she found peace and solace in the familiar setting and the unfolding ritual. Her softness accentuated Stella's bony sharpness, hard fixed gaze, and rigid upright posture. The third widow, Olive, was noticeably younger than the other two. Flashing pink nails and lipstick, she seemed nervous and uncomfortable in her role.

Walter and Roger, the nearest living relatives, sat behind the women. Pale and wearing dark glasses and black suits, they appeared to be two versions of the same person, separated by both a handful of decades and demeanor. Roger fidgeted, restless and uncomfortable in the face of so much death, while Walter lolled against the hard bench, cheeks sunken and eyes downcast, looking either drunk or hung over or a combination of both.

Across the aisle from the bereaved were the eighteen pallbearers. Six men for each coffin, four coast guardsmen and the neighbor Clyde Smitz among them. Esther sat several rows back, her red hair a glowing torch in the sea of black. Cubiak scanned the rest of the crowd. Among those he knew were Pardy and Bathard; Justin St. James from the
Herald
; Henry Fielding, owner of the sawmill; Gary Dotson, the coast guard director; Mabel, the Gills Rock waitress; and various business owners and county and town officials. Most of the others, he didn't recognize: pews filled with fishermen, farmers, and neighbors. Half hidden behind a rear pillar was an elderly man in a wheelchair, head down and hands clasped on a fringed lap blanket. Nothing untoward.

The priest had a rich, warm voice, and his lavish remarks during the homily matched the dead men's prominent stature in the county: pillars of the community, decorated veterans, loving husbands, generous supporters of the church and local sports teams, role models for the younger generation. Stella, who earlier seemed the most stoic of the three widows, sobbed. But Ida and Olive did not cry.

“These good decent men have gone to their heavenly reward,” the priest said.

In the moment of silence that followed the pronouncement, Roger began coughing. A baby wailed. As the mother carried the infant out, the priests motioned the mourners to stand. Amid the noise of kneelers being kicked upright and shuffling feet, the celebrants began to recite the creed. “I believe in one God, the father Almighty,” they intoned as a chorus of voices joined in.

The funeral Mass unfurled with practiced pomp until it culminated in a sense of finality that was as palpable as the cloud of incense that hung over the room. This was good-bye. The congregants were somber as they watched the three coffins being rolled back down the aisle. There was no escaping bitter reality: the men were gone and all those present would one day meet the same fate.

At the church door the palls of Christian baptism were replaced with America's Stars and Stripes. The Knights took up positions on either side of the stairs and raised their swords. Beneath the arch of sacred steel, the three veterans were carried down the stairs.

After several minutes' confusion and milling about, a military honor guard led the mourners to the small, hillside cemetery behind the church. In the sacred ground, three freshly dug graves waited, like wounds in the earth. The pits were blessed and the Lord's Prayer recited in a murmuring wave of voices. But as the priest talked of ashes to ashes, Cubiak retreated into himself. This was an image he could not bear.

The sharp retort of rifle fire brought him back to the gravesides. Three men in dress blues had raised their weapons and fired off a three-volley salute. The deafening sound stunned the onlookers and then slowly faded into an unearthly silence that was disturbed only by the faint whisper of wind through the surrounding trees. In the uneasy quiet, a lone soldier raised his trumpet and played Taps. When it seemed there were no more tears to be shed, no more emotion left to be wrung from the mourners, a contingent of bright young navy officers stepped forward and in a mesmerizing, synchronized motion lifted the flags from the coffins and folded them in half lengthwise, and then in half again, and then again and again. A triangle of cloth and memory for each widow, presented “On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation …”

Mercifully, the service ended. The mourners were released to drift away, the widows left to bid their private farewells. The women were quick about it and soon walked down the hill to where the crowd had gathered. The people were hungry, and it was time to eat. Good plain food cooked by neighbors and served in the church dining room was the reward for sorrow.

In the dim basement hallway, Ida, Stella, and Olive took up their positions in a shoulder-to-shoulder receiving line, greeting friends and neighbors as they entered the church hall for lunch.

Cubiak lingered outside. He was looking for Roger when Gary Dotson, the coast guard station chief, approached.

“This certainly changes our plans,” Dotson said.

“You heard about what happened at Huntsman's place?”

The chief nodded. “You wouldn't mind coming by tomorrow to go over things again?”

“Course not.”

“Good.” Dotson frowned.

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

Cubiak was sure there was something more bothering Dotson. He started to ask again when a woman in a threadbare brown-plaid coat hurried toward them clutching a casserole dish. She averted her face as she passed the men but the sheriff remembered seeing her in church. She'd sat directly behind the pallbearers, amid the closest friends and neighbors.

Seconds later, there was a crash in the church basement, followed by a scream.

Cubiak hurtled through the open doorway and down the stairs. In the cramped foyer, he collided with the woman in brown, who stood facing the three widows. The trio's black dresses dripped with red wormy strands and bloodlike splotches. Pieces of crockery lay in a pool of red at their feet.

Cubiak grabbed the woman in brown by the shoulders and spun her around. Her hands were smeared red as well. An ugly yellow bruise spread above her right eye.

“Who are you?” he said.

She blinked and said nothing.

Several men rushed from the dining hall but Rowe and Bathard elbowed past them into the entryway.

“Keep everyone inside. And close the doors,” the sheriff told the deputy.

While the doctor tended to the three stunned women, Cubiak propelled the assailant up the stairs into the church. The aroma of incense lingered in the air. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows and lit the funeral flowers on the altar, creating an air of softness and peace.

“Who are you?” he said again.

“God's servant.” The woman's voice was hard and defiant.

“What's this all about?”

“Justice. I killed the son-of-a-bitch.”

“What do you mean? Who did you kill?”

“My husband. The man who ruined my life.” The woman held her hands out as if expecting him to cuff her. “He got what he deserved. They all did.”

“Who?” Cubiak said.

The woman spat on the floor. “All of them—four of a kind.”

W
hile Cubiak questioned the woman, Rowe ducked into the nave. He motioned the sheriff aside. The red liquid was beet juice. The wormy threads, sliced beets. Ida, Stella, and Olive were upset but unhurt.

“Who are you?” Cubiak said for the third time when he and the woman were alone again.

She crossed herself.

“Where is your husband?”

She said nothing.

“Where do you live? What's your address?”

Silence.

Hurried footsteps approached from the side door. The priest had changed into his collar and black suit. He seemed diminished and confused but enveloped the woman's hands in his.

“My dear, are you all right? I overheard your questions, Sheriff. What is going on here?”

“I killed Joe,” the woman said.

Whatever the priest had intended to say next went unsaid. He stared at her. “I will hear your confession when we finish,” he said after a moment. Then he turned to Cubiak.

“Her name is Agnes Millard. She lives in Gills Rock. I don't know the exact address but the house is on the road along the bay, not far from Huntsman's place. There's a German shepherd tied up out front.” He hesitated. “I assume you'll need to go there. Will you allow Mrs. Millard to stay with me?”

“I will, but I'll leave my deputy here.”

The priest laid a hand on Agnes's head and blessed her. “Of course,” he said, and led her to the confessional.

Downstairs, Bathard waited.

“I phoned Pardy. She was halfway to Sturgeon Bay. I told her that you might be calling,” he said.

“Right, thanks.”

“The luncheon was canceled. Everything's going to be put away and served Sunday after the eleven o'clock Mass. Can't let the food go to waste.”

“And the women?”

“Several of the neighbor ladies helped them clean up. Walter took the three of them back to Ida's house. It seems they all wanted to be together. I promised to come out and check on them later.”

“Good.”

“What will you do now?”

“Go see if a dog knows anything about a dead man.”

T
he road to Gills Rock was deserted. Tourist traffic this far north hadn't started up yet, and most of the locals were probably still at the church. Holding the gas pedal to the floor, Cubiak pictured the crowd at the parish grounds, picking up pieces of gossip, and wondering when it would be polite to leave and get back to their daily routines. The sheriff was still on 42 with the heater on and the windows up when he heard the German shepherd howling. The sound was an amalgam of despair and rage, as if the beast had a preternatural understanding of the morning's events.

Along the empty lane, the dog paced under the willow, straining at the chain that anchored it to the gnarled trunk. The sight of the sheriff 's vehicle ignited a new burst of fury, but when Cubiak turned into the driveway and cut the engine, the animal fell silent. With its huge head thrust forward and threads of saliva hanging from its mouth, it trained its hooded yellow eyes on the jeep.

Rather than incite the animal further, Cubiak turned his attention first to the bay where the water lay flat as granite under a looming sky and then to the neatly kept, frame cottage next door where Esther and Clyde Smitz lived. The green house stood in sharp contrast to the one he was about to enter. The house the dog guarded, the house where the priest said Agnes lived, was sadly worn by time and weather. All trace of color had eroded, leaving the shell something less than white but without enough pigment to be called gray. A section of rusty gutter hung alongside the side door, and the front porch roof was caved.

Cubiak looked at the dog, which despite its thick coat appeared half starved. The animal remained locked in position. The sheriff cracked the door open and inhaled the fishy air.

“Good dog. Nice dog,” he said.

A low rumbling vibrated deep inside the dog's throat.

Cubiak's feet hit the ground and the German shepherd lunged, snarling its fangs and ugly raw gums, thrashing to get free. With each movement the chain sliced deeper into the trunk, but the metal links held.

“Good boy,” Cubiak murmured as he picked up the empty water dish that lay overturned just out of the animal's reach. He carried the bowl to the faucet on the side of the house, filled it with fresh water, and then brought it back and set it on the stubby grass. Wary of the angry mutt, he toed the bowl forward far enough that the dog could drink without sinking its teeth into his foot. The animal growled in response.

With the dog still protesting, Cubiak made his way down the cracked asphalt driveway. A late-model brown pickup was parked outside the garage, a metal shed almost as big as the house. Limp arbor vitae ringed the deep yard, and a sliver of grass ran under the clothesline, but most of the area had been plowed for a garden plot. In the back, smoke rose from a trash barrel. The sheriff knocked at the side entrance, but there was no answer. When he tried the knob, the door swung inward.

“Hello.”

No answer.

He entered a narrow, dim utility room. Several vintage denim jackets and two pairs of patched bib overalls hung along the wall. A small laundry tub took up one corner and next to it was an old-fashioned wringer washer. A mop and broom stood in a blue bucket beneath a single clothesline hung with a half-dozen rags. Cubiak opened a second door and stepped up into the kitchen.

The room was a neat square, so antiseptically clean that he imagined a hint of ammonia in the air and so outdated that he half-expected to find a hand pump at the cast-iron sink. A metal camp-style percolator sat on the stove. Cheap linoleum covered the floor. A narrow pine table next to the sink provided the only counter space. A smaller square table under the window was set with two plates, two mugs, and two forks. There were no cupboards on the walls. The only refrigerator was a small, dorm-style appliance shoved into the rear of a narrow pantry. A fifty-pound sack of dog food and bins of potatoes and apples lined the floor of the storage area. The shelves held basic foodstuffs: flour, rice, sugar, oatmeal, molasses, coffee, and bags of dried beans. There were no packaged foods and even fewer pots and pans than in his kitchen.