Death at Gills Rock (14 page)

I
t was ten past three when Cubiak got back to headquarters and found Rowe in the conference room with the two HVAC installers. The men, thick bodied and ruddy, were drinking Cokes and bantering back and forth with the deputy. When Cubiak entered the room, the men both stopped talking and sat grasping the soft drink cans in hands that were rough and discolored by their work. Rowe introduced them and explained that they'd spent nearly an hour inspecting Huntsman's space heater. “They went over it inch by inch, Sheriff,” the deputy said.

“And?”

The bearded man, who looked the older of the two by a few years, spoke up. “It's an old unit. Not up to code. It looked alright when we checked it out but I'm guessing Huntsman had trouble with it at some point 'cause he replaced the vent pipe with his own jerry-rigged system.”

Cubiak remembered that the vent pipe had looked new. “What do you mean ‘jerry-rigged'?” he said.

“The valve or damper has an external control. A knob on the underside of the line, down near the floor.”

“Was the valve open or closed?”

“Oh, it was open.”

“You're sure?”

The second man cupped his chin and nodded.

“Any chance the valve could have closed by itself ?”

“I don't know, Sheriff. The wing nut that holds the knob in place is kinda loose but not really likely. Anyways, it was open. And if it had closed then how'd it open up again?”

“Maybe someone kicked the knob when they were trying to get the men out.”

The bearded man shrugged. “Anything's possible, Sheriff.”

Cubiak looked at the second installer. “Maybe,” he said, skepticism evident in his voice.

“And the pipe itself was clear?”

“That's right, no obstructions. We checked that first thing,” the younger man said.

Cubiak figured the men had heard about the leaves in the vent but he repeated the story. “So you think it could have been squirrels?” he said.

“Yeah. Could be.”

“Happens.”

“An accident then?”

The installers nodded in unison.

“Can't see it any other way,” the older man said. “Damned thing is, if they'd had a carbon monoxide detector in there this never would have happened.”

“So, it's squirrels then?” Rowe said when he came back from seeing the men to the door.

“We can't rule out problems with the valve, and the possibility that it was deliberately closed and then reopened. Which means we need to identify everyone who had been there Friday night or who might have had a key to the cabin. Ida claims she didn't but she could be lying. Same goes for the other two women. And then there's Walter.”

“But motive, sir? For murder?”

“I don't know. But if the unit was deliberately tampered with, it had to have been done by someone with access to the cabin.”

“That makes all the card players suspects, too,” Rowe said.

“Especially someone who lost big. There's Agnes as well. We have nothing to connect her to the deaths of the three vets. But she's admitted to killing her husband and she referred to them as a unit—four of a kind. Why? If she had reason to murder one, would she have had motivation to murder all of them? Or the means? Like the other women, she says she didn't have a key but if Joe did, she could have found it.”

Rowe tugged at his cuffs. “Right. So what do I do?”

Cubiak looked at his deputy. Rowe was a good cop who knew the rules and was fierce about enforcement, but he lacked the experience and instinct to follow a trail of clues, especially one so fractured and disjointed.

“I'll be out of the office a lot the next few days. I'll need someone to tend the store,” he said.

Rowe nearly saluted. “You got it, sir.”

H
eading home, Cubiak detoured to Walter Nils's garage. A-One Auto Repair was on the city's west side, sandwiched between a self-service laundry and a hardware store. Walter conducted business far from the waterfront and trappings of a resort community, and business looked good. Several cars and an SUV crowded the small lot. Three more vehicles were lined up inside the dim interior, a high-ceilinged room piled with tires and smelling of axle grease and cigar smoke.

“Anybody here?” Cubiak called out.

A pair of scuffed work boots emerged from beneath a black Volvo as Walter rolled out from under the carriage. When he was free of the vehicle, he scrambled to his feet. Grime streaked his coveralls.

“Sheriff,” he said. The mechanic wiped his hand on a frayed rag and started to extend his hand and then thought better of it. “Sorry. Goes with the territory. One of the reasons my second wife left. Said she hated dirty fingernails.”

Walter laughed but Cubiak wasn't sure if he was joking.

“I'll be quick.”

“This still about what happened up there, at the cabin?” Walter said. He didn't clarify if he meant the deaths or the graffiti and Cubiak didn't ask.

“Right. Routine business. I need the names of the men who were regulars at the poker games. Not going all the way back but the recent players.”

“Oh god, Sheriff. I don't know. They come and go. Besides, I'm hardly up there. You'd have to ask my mother and even then, I'm not sure she'd be able to tell you. What's this about anyways?”

Cubiak ignored the question. “Another thing: who would your father call if he needed any work done around the place?”

This time Walter's laugh was genuine. “No one. He did everything himself. Prided himself on self-sufficiency.”

The sheriff studied the array of tools above the workbench. “He installed the space heater?”

“No doubt.”

“And he'd take care of any repairs?”

“Probably.”

“He never thought to update it? Get a newer model?”

“Big Guy prided himself on keeping things running. As long as the heater worked, he'd use it. Why?”

“Nothing particular. Looks like you got your hands full here. Roger ever help you out?”

“He comes by every once in a while, but only to work on his old junk.”

“Does he live with you?”

“Used to. Got his own place in Valmy this winter. He'll sleep upstairs if he's been out with the boys and doesn't want to make the drive.” Walter rubbed his dirty hands on his soiled pants. “What's all this about Roger?”

“Curious, I guess. I like him, just trying to figure out why he left school.”

“Yeah, well, I sure as hell don't know. We had plenty of arguments about it, too. But he's a good kid. Just a little lost. Don't worry about Roger. He'll be okay.”

U
nder a leaden sky, the air was chilled and the grass blanketed with a heavy dew that sent its cold wetness seeping through the soles of Cubiak's shoes as he crossed the Huntsmans' lawn in midmorning. A vast emptiness prevailed over the estate, mirrored by the flat open reaches of the wide bay. The gazebo furniture was stacked in a heap. At the dock, the vandalized boats were shrouded in ghostly off-white tarps. The only sound was the distant drone of a boat motoring north into deeper waters.

Approaching the house, Cubiak caught the faint aroma of cinnamon. Ida was waiting in the mudroom. Her manner was cheerful, and in contrast to the gloomy outdoors, she wore lipstick and a bright flowered bib apron over a pink shirt. “Come in, Sheriff. You're just in time. They've cooled off enough to eat,” she said as he dropped his jacket over an empty peg. In the kitchen she motioned toward the table and then set down a mug of steaming coffee and two pastries layered with a thick coat of icing.

“They're messy, you'll need this,” Ida said, handing him a napkin and fork. She waited until he took a bite before she lifted her apron over her head and claimed her spot near the window.

“Good?”

“Delicious,” Cubiak said around a mouthful of viscous sugar. He felt like a kid again, sitting at a chipped red-and-gray formica table dunking one of his mother's brittle peanut butter cookies in a glass of milk while she argued with his father in the next room.

“You said you needed to tell me something,” Ida said, bringing him back to the cozy yellow kitchen.

“Yes, about the space heater.”

“Oh.” Her spirits seemed to sag.

In vague terms he explained what he'd learned from the furnace installers. “It may not mean anything but I need to look into this further.”

“Of course,” she said.

Ida tried to sound complacent but a thin worry line creased her forehead, and Cubiak remembered that her brow had been similarly furrowed the morning he'd met her, the morning her husband and his friends had been found dead in the cabin. “Have you had any more trouble?” he said.

“No. I told you, it was nothing. Just some kids.” Again Ida pretended nonchalance but there was something guarded in her tone.

“It's possible someone had a grudge against your husband or one of the other men,” Cubiak said.

“They were good men, Sheriff. Civic leaders. They won awards for their work in the community. Why would anyone have a grudge?” Ida's voice was fueled with indignity.

“Even good men have enemies,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “Perhaps one of the men who played poker with them. Do you know who they were?”

“Lots of men were invited to the games.” Ida carried the empty cup and plate to the sink. “Big Guy would mention a name now and then but it wasn't something I paid much attention to.”

“Not even the regulars?”

“I'm sure I can come up with a name or two, but it won't be much,” she said.

“I'd like a list of clients, as well.” Cubiak spoke over the sound of the running water.

Ida abruptly shut the faucet. “What in heaven's name for?”

“Routine. Maybe there's a disgruntled customer.”

“I don't see the point of it. Big Guy didn't have disgruntled clients.” She dried her hands on a striped dish towel. “Eric and Jasper were independent businessmen, as well. I assume you're following the same line of reasoning with them.” She tossed the towel on the counter, not waiting for an answer. “You realize you're not making this any easier for me. For any of us.”

Cubiak started to apologize but Ida cut him off.

“I'll have the names for you this afternoon, card players and customers.” She smiled, but he thought the smile was forced.

A
s he pulled away, Cubiak thought about Ida's reaction to her husband's death. Her apparent calm acceptance, her alacrity in removing his clothing from the house, her lack of concern about the graffiti and the disparagement of Huntsman's name and reputation. She seemed to have readily accepted his death. Was it her age or religion that comforted her in the face of loss? Perhaps she was in shock or denial. Or the pain of loss was too intense to confront directly. People grieved in different ways and were not to be judged by anyone, certainly not by someone like him who'd made of mess of his own mourning.

The road leading away from the Huntsmans' estate was deserted. At Esther and Clyde Smitz's tidy house, the shades were pulled against the larger world. Next door, the Millards' rundown cottage was ringed by yellow police tape. In the front yard, the willow tree looked barren without the heavy chain that had encircled its trunk. What had become of the dog? It was hard to imagine anyone wanting that nasty creature.

Cubiak followed the long curve of the highway through Gills Rock and east toward the ferry dock. The Swensons' driveway appeared a quarter mile after the bend, allowing him to turn off before he reached the elaborate Bavarian lodge that Cate's grandfather had built for the family. Would Cate stay at The Wood if she came up from Milwaukee for Bathard's wedding? He couldn't imagine her returning to Ruby's house. Did she still blame him for what happened to her aunt? There was so much he needed to know.

The lane to Olive's house wound through thick woods like the entrance to Cate's grandparents' grand summer home. And just as The Wood spoke of money, so, too, did the Swensons' residence, though the structure of steel and glass was as strikingly modern as the other was old-fashioned.

A red Mercedes convertible sat outside the garage. Cubiak rang the bell and Olive opened the door immediately, as if she'd been standing inside, waiting.

“Sheriff, how nice of you to come,” she said. She wore intense makeup and a dark purple tunic over flowing black trousers. Her thick, smoky perfume stung his eyes. She held out a hand and in the other grasped a blue tumbler half full of a pale yellow liquid. The ice cubes in the glass tinkled as she led him from the vaulted entrance and through a wide hall hung with yellow and red tapestries. Her stiff, studied steps indicated that this wasn't her first drink of the day. Past a gourmet kitchen they went down two steps into a room that overlooked a copse of firs and the waters of Death's Door. Olive waved Cubiak toward a low, leather chair angled toward the massive windows. From one of the trees, a hawk flew up on silent wings.