Death at Gills Rock (18 page)

Cubiak rubbed Butch behind the ears. Had someone told Cate where he lived? “Could have been someone just needed to turn around,” he said.

Nagel shrugged. “Could be. 'Cept that's the way she came from.”

H
ad Cate come back for the wedding? Was she here to stay? Maybe it wasn't Cate. Cubiak quieted the urge to get in the jeep and drive to the tip of the peninsula. What would he do if he found her?

Despite the puppies scattered around the floor, the kitchen seemed empty. Cubiak pictured Natalie sitting at the table, talking in her easy, friendly way. He missed her, and then Natalie became Cate and he found himself thinking about her. What did he know about Cate anyway? Were his memories of her real or a fantasy he'd created from the little time they'd spent together? Did she even like dogs? He dropped his dish and spoon into the sink and stared at the back door, wishing Lauren would walk in, wanting his old life back. Too restless to stay indoors, he put on his jacket again and searched the pocket for the crude map Ida had drawn for him. He had nothing else planned for the afternoon; he may as well check it out.

Nagel's yard was empty but Cubiak suspected the retired machinist was watching from a window. At the end of the driveway, he turned south.

V
isitors generally thought of Door County as the peninsula that jutted northeast from Sturgeon Bay. In fact, the region extended south of the town as well, like the foot of a sea anemone that attached the fingerling of land to the rest of the state. Cubiak wound down a series of county roads to that little-heralded area. Halfway between two roads named for early homesteaders and nearly a mile from the nearest house, he found the unmarked dirt strip that Ida had directed him to. The lane was little more than a narrow slit in a forest of old cedars and pines and looked like an access road to a hidden field or an unmarked shortcut known only to locals. There was no mailbox at the entrance and no utility lines running alongside, nothing to indicate that anyone lived at the end of the track.

A canopy of tree branches blocked much of the light and shadowed the passage. On either side, dense undergrowth added to the gloom and sense of claustrophobia. Branches and brambles brushed the windshield and sides of the jeep as Cubiak crept forward. The silent, encroaching forest made him uneasy. He'd gone about a quarter mile and was ready to give up when the woods thinned and opened to a fenced compound, a dismal patch of rural poverty that he didn't associate with either the Midwest or Wisconsin.

Cubiak rolled up to a hand-painted No Trespassing sign nailed to a lopsided log gate and shifted into neutral. Three tarpaper shacks sat in the middle of the half-acre yard. There was a large garden on one side of the houses; on the other, a half-dozen scrawny chickens pecked at the ground between a pen that held a mud-caked sleeping pig and a large doghouse. A rusted-out Chevy stood behind the doghouse. The car had been stripped of its wheels and a metal chain was looped around the car bumper but there was no dog on the end of it. The rest of the homestead was little more than dust and dirt piled with discarded appliances and old farm equipment. This was life from another era: a well and hand pump for water, an outhouse for sanitation, firewood for warmth. The thin ribbon of smoke from the chimney of the middle house was the only sign of comfort in the sad habitat.

Who are these folks? Cubiak wondered. What kind of mindset allowed people to live like this?

Inside the house with the smoking chimney, a curtain fluttered and a dog began to bark. Cubiak had seen enough. He put the jeep in reverse and backed out through the trees. The first time he'd met Ida, she'd been sitting on a peach-colored sofa, her feet firmly planted on a pure white carpet looking out onto a picturesque bay. Even in mourning, she'd expressed an air of quiet reserve and dignity. He tried to imagine her decades earlier as a frightened, pregnant teenager desperate to escape a life defined by squalor and hopelessness. Rescued first by Christian Nils and then by Terrence Huntsman.

With Nils, she would probably have been happy and enjoyed a modest lifestyle. With Big Guy, she'd compromised but prospered. Just how well had they done? he wondered. Earlier that week Cubiak had asked Rowe to secure Huntsman's business and personal banking records, going back as far as possible. He stopped on the side of the road and called his deputy.

“Sorry to interrupt your day off. Did you get the bank records?”

“They'll be on your desk Monday morning, Chief.”

“Good. Thanks. I'll need the same for Swenson and Wilkins. Enjoy the weekend.”

B
runo Loggerstone lived on a farmette between Egg Harbor and Fish Creek, half a mile from the Meadow Blossom Orchard and Craft Market. Some fifty years earlier, he'd started the business as a simple fruit and vegetable stand. Now retired, he split his time between his home in Door County and a condo in New Mexico.

Cubiak found him in the backyard, coatless despite the chill and still tan from his southern sojourn, walking a frisky black Lab pup on a leash.

“Name's Daisy. Cute but not mine to keep,” Loggerstone said. As he led the animal up and down the driveway, he gave Cubiak a quick lecture on the process of socializing young dogs to be trained as guide dogs for the blind.

“You got a dog, Sheriff ?”

“Yeah. A mutt. Just had pups.”

Loggerstone brought his charge into the house. In a tidy kitchen decorated with baskets and Americana, he gave the pup a treat and then led her to a metal crate in the den. “Them's the rules: leash or kennel,” he said and leaned against the desk, his arms folded across his thick chest. Behind him, three photos hung on the wall. One showed Logger-stone as a groom with his bride, one as a fruit picker perched on a ladder under a cherry tree, and one as a gangly young man standing awkwardly in front of the original produce market.

Cubiak took up a position near the window. “I'll get right to the point. I'm investigating the deaths of Terrence Huntsman, Jasper Wilkins, and Eric Swenson.”

“Investigating? Why? They died accidentally, didn't they?”

“Maybe.”

Loggerstone frowned. “Maybe? What the hell does that mean?” He pulled at his sleeve. “You think someone did them in, and that I had something to do with it?”

“No.” Not yet, Cubiak thought.

“Then why you here?”

“I'm trying to get a clearer picture of who the men were and who might want to see them come to harm. Seems to me you might have something useful to contribute.”

“I hardly knew them.”

“You were in business and so were they. Your paths had to cross. That day at the sawmill you refused to contribute to the fund for the funeral flowers. Which indicates that you didn't care for these three men who were being lauded as pillars of the community. I wonder why.”

Loggerstone didn't blink.

“There has to be a reason.”

“There is.”

Daisy whimpered. Loggerstone ignored her.

“Off the record. I give you my word that your name will not be linked to anything you tell me.”

“Like going to confession.”

“If you like.”

Loggerstone's eyes narrowed. “Except I don't have anything to confess. They're the ones who needed to seek forgiveness.”

“From you?”

“Me and plenty of others as far as I know.” He took a quick, deep breath and stepped toward the sheriff. “You know about the Rec Room?”

“The poker games, the card tournaments, yes.”

“Oh, there was much more than that going on. There and on the boat and out in the woods, weather permitting. Parties. Invite a couple friends over, one or two of the big resort managers, or the owners of prominent enterprises, men in a position to steer business your way. Then bring in the broads.”

“Women?”

“Yeah. What we used to call floozies. Not locals, probably from Green Bay and gawd knows where else. One or two for every guest. Some of 'em just kids. Turned my stomach to think what they were expected to do.”

“A honey trap with plenty of liquor and gambling.”

“Something like that.”

“For purposes of blackmail?”

Loggerstone jeered. “Friendly persuasion at its worst. We give you a good time, the kind you might covet but not pursue on your own, the kind your wife or steady girl might not take kindly to, and in return you give us your business.”

“You didn't buy in?”

“I got three daughters, Sheriff. I had a wife, too, then. I don't use women as sex toys.”

“When was this?”

“Thirty years ago at least.”

“And what'd you do?”

“Walked out. Told them never to ask me back. Stayed clear since then.”

“How many guests were there that evening?”

“Just two. Me and another fellow.”

“Someone you knew.”

“Sure. Up here everybody knows everyone else, especially if you're in business.”

“You ever talk to him about it afterward?”

“Nope. No good comes from judging your neighbor. I kept my thoughts to myself and looked the other way just like everyone else did.”

“Then how do you know how this all panned out?”

A dog barked in the distance. Loggerstone looked past Cubiak and didn't start talking again until the yapping ceased. “I don't know anything, Sheriff, but I can surmise from seeing how the dominoes fell into place. Huntsman started doing an awful lot of plumbing work, Wilkins started delivering milk and cheese to resorts and restaurants up and down the peninsula, and Swenson started buying new boats to keep up with the business that began coming his way.”

“And all three got rich.”

“They did very well for themselves. Never cut corners on anyone, I gotta give 'em that. But there are plenty of others around here who could have used some of that business.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“No idea. 'Course once their reputations were established as the go-to guys, the best, the ones to call, it didn't matter. People followed the herd.”

“The other man who was there that night, will you tell me who he was?”

“No, sir. That I will not do.”

“I don't suppose it would be worthwhile showing you a list of names hoping you'd point him out.”

Loggerstone moved toward the door. “Wouldn't want to waste your time, Sheriff.”

O
ne good man, Cubiak mused as he headed to Fish Creek. One man strong enough to stand on principle. A Diogenes. If his story was true.

Despite sparse crowds, most of the Founders Square shops were open. A couple in knee-length suede coats studied the window display at the new gallery; three children danced from the candy store, clutching red-and-white-striped bags, their thin jackets unzipped and the west wind blowing their hair. Cubiak had the heater cranked up in the jeep. Kids, he thought.

Nearby, Timothy and his girlfriend sprawled on the stone wall. An open pizza box sat next to Tim and another lay on the ground along with empty soft drink cups. Three more of the posse hovered behind, Roger Nils among them.

The sheriff eased out of the jeep. “Little chilly for a picnic,” he said.

“For pussies, maybe,” Tim said.

The sheriff kicked a paper cup across the walkway.

“Anything wrong, Sheriff ?” Roger said.

Cubiak held up a hand and counted on his fingers. “One, loitering. Two, littering. Three, creating a nuisance.” He looked past them into the dim interior of the Woolly Sheep. Kathy O'Toole had closed shop early. “I'm sure I can find something else if I stay here long enough.” He paused. “But I don't think you're going to make me do that. Instead, you're going to pick up your garbage and pack up the rest of the goodies and disappear somewhere.”

The five glared at him.

“I'm waiting,” he said.

The girlfriend reached over and slammed the lid on the box.

“Hey!” Tim grabbed her wrist.

“I'm cold,” she said, as she slid off the low wall.

“Fucking cunt,” Tim said.

The girl stumbled.

“You don't talk to a lady like that,” Cubiak said.

“Lady? She ain't no fucking lady,” Tim said. The girl turned her face away quickly but not before Cubiak saw the tears welling in her eyes. How much would it take for her to become one of the floozies Loggerstone had described? he wondered.

Tim lumbered up off the wall. At a nod from him, the others gathered the trash and tossed it into the basket ten feet away.

As they dispersed, Cubiak corralled Roger. “I'm headed to the high school for the wrestling match. You want to come?”

“Get your own fucking date. I'm through with that shit.”

“You're a real smart ass, you know.”

Roger snickered. Then he spun on his heel and hustled after his friends.

T
he gym was hot and bright and the tournament underway when Cubiak arrived. He stripped off his jacket and climbed to a spot five rows up behind the home team.

The crowd cheered as young men stepped up to the mat in pairs and took turns flinging one another to the rubber. Cubiak didn't understand the sport and amused himself surveying the audience: school friends mostly but quite a few parents and grandparents as well.

At the break, he bought a donut and cup of coffee from the 4-H stand in the lobby. He was looking over the display cases filled with trophies for football, baseball, basketball, and wrestling when the reporter Justin St. James came up, scribbling in a notebook.

“I didn't know you were a sportswriter,” Cubiak said.

“Just filling in. Actually that's something I do a lot of at the paper. Comes with the territory. I even take some of the official photos.” He moved toward the wall where Roger Nils's picture hung with those of other student athletes.

“Who's that?” Cubiak said, pointing to a photo of a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw, and a thick neck.