Death at Gills Rock (20 page)

Cubiak came home to a hungry dog, ravenous puppies, and a floor that needed washing. He sat on the damp linoleum and leaned back against the wall. Scout and Nico shimmied into his lap and then clawed up his chest and licked his chin. Cubiak stared at the kitchen phone. His life had been altered forever but he still had a life. He would take things one step at a time, he decided. He would start by calling Natalie and asking her to attend Bathard and Sonja's wedding with him.

After only two rings, Cubiak faltered. His courage gone, he hung up. And only then did he realize that he hadn't called Natalie. He'd dialed Cate's old number.

J
ustin St. James was chatting up Lisa when the sheriff arrived at headquarters.

“I brought that article I did on Bill Vinter, in case you're still interested,” he said, pulling a manila envelope from a battered canvas briefcase. “The former wrestling coach?”

“Oh, right. Thanks,” Cubiak said, recalling their conversation from the tournament on Saturday. “You got a minute, come on in.”

Lisa followed the men with two coffees.

“You know it's my cousin she's marrying,” St. James said as the assistant walked to the door. “Nothing against you but she's being nice because she wants me to photograph the wedding.”

Lisa glanced back and rolled her eyes.

“You're that good?”

“The best.” St. James had to be about thirty-five, but his shoulder-length blond hair and the slim physique of a long-distance runner made him look younger. He grinned and spread the article on the sheriff 's desk. “You weren't here five years ago, were you?”

“No, something happen?”

“Fireworks like you wouldn't believe. Door County High won the state wrestling championship for the fourth year running. I did this sidebar”—he put a finger on the article—“as background about the program. Actually the photo pretty well sums up the history of the whole program. Here's Huntsman, Walter Nils, Vinter, and Roger Nils. That season Roger wrestled at one-fifty-two and was on the frosh squad.” The three men and the boy were relaxed and smiling. The coach stood between Walter and Roger with his arms around their shoulders. Big Guy was looking at the trio.

“How come Big Guy and Walter are in the picture?”

St. James swallowed a mouthful of coffee and coughed. “Sorry. Hot.” He took a quick breath. “Huntsman was pretty much the father of the program. Hell, he'd been funding it for years, started when Walter was a kid. There's not a whole lot to do up here in the winter and he thought the boys needed something to keep busy when the snow started.” The reporter grinned. “Remember, we're talking Ice Age here, way before the Internet. At first it was just an informal after-school activity. Eventually Big Guy convinced the district school board for Gills Rock and the other towns up there to take it on as an official school sport.

“Vinter was the coach when it was started and the first hired by the school district. Naturally, Walter was on the first team. Eventually, Door County High started a squad and lured Vinter down here. Then Roger made the team and won the individual state championship.”

“One big happy family,” Cubiak said.

“Some folks are lucky that way.” St. James launched his cup into the trash. “Two points. I've got to run. Interviewing the mayor about the new street signs. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. By the way, good article today, about the funeral and everything.”

“Yeah, well, it's the kind of story that pretty well writes itself.” He stopped in the doorway. “There'll be more about them later. I'm working on a special feature to run the weekend the new cutter is commissioned.”

The door closed. Cubiak put aside the clipping St. James had brought and turned to the envelope Rowe had left for him. Inside were two folders. The first held copies of the bank statements for the Huntsmans' joint savings and checking accounts and an individual money market account in Big Guy's name. The couple had a bucket of money to play with and weren't shy about spending it, but Cubiak found nothing irregular.

Material in the second folder indicated that Huntsman's business did very well. Deposits were substantial and steady. Besides payroll checks and routine expenses, Big Guy had authorized a monthly electronic transfer of two thousand dollars to Great Lakes Office Support and another for thirty-five hundred to Pepper Ridge Associates. Huntsman had six employees and a company headquartered in a metal barn. What kind of office support did he need that ran to twenty-four thousand dollars a year? And what did Pepper Ridge do to earn nearly double that? Big Guy could afford the expense, but what was he getting in return? Or were the payments part of a scheme to launder dirty money?

Cubiak was operating on four hours' sleep. As his attention drifted, he propped his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. If he could close his eyes for just ten minutes, he'd be okay.

A thud on the door ended the reprieve. Cubiak jolted to attention. The wall clock had jumped forward twenty minutes. “Yeah, come in,” he said, trying to look busy.

The door banged open. The man who walked in was tall and wide, the opposite of his earlier visitor. “Marty Wilkins, prodigal son,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to making himself heard over the roar of an angry ocean.

“Marty, thanks for coming in. Sorry about your father.” Cubiak stood and motioned toward a chair.

Marty snared the sheriff 's hand in a crushing grip. “Appreciate it,” he said, ignoring the invitation to sit. “I'm heading out tonight. Don't have a lot of time, and what I do have I ain't spending in here. You like, we can talk on my boat.” He juggled a handful of keys and eyed the four walls as if expecting them to close in.

“Give me ten, and I'll meet you in the lot,” Cubiak said.

Marty filled the front seat of a moss-green Hummer. Despite the chill, he had the windows down, listening to Dylan at full volume. The man's got a soul, thought Cubiak, trailing him to the highway. After a short, swift drive, the Hummer pivoted onto an unmarked dirt road and kicked up dust for a mile before it roared up to the Sunset Marina. Unlike so many Door County harbors, this one was filled with workhorse vessels, not a pretty boat in sight. Before Cubiak was out of the jeep, Marty was halfway down the last pier, where the smallest and meanest looking of the lot was docked. At the end of the wharf he high-stepped over the side of the
Can-Do
and started freeing the mooring lines. “Welcome aboard, Sheriff,” he said, kicking a patched vinyl cooler out of the way.

“Where we headed?” Less than graceful, Cubiak negotiated the divide between dock and boat.

Wilkins waited until the sheriff was steady on his feet before he started the engine and eased away from the pier. “Out there,” he said, lifting his chin in a forward motion as he steered the boat into a narrow channel. “You ever been out on the bay?”

“No.”

“It's nice.”

As they came around the low breakwater that protected the opening to the channel, Marty opened the throttle and pointed the power boat into the chop. “This baby'll handle anything,” he said. He spoke with the swagger of a man who liked things to move fast.

The sheriff lurched across the cockpit. “How come you got a boat here? I thought you were never around?”

“Oh, I get back every now and then. Not too often, though. When I'm gone I got a friend who uses it.”

Cubiak regained his balance. “Walter Nils?”

“Yeah. How'd you guess?”

The sheriff shrugged.

After that the men fell silent. Facing into the breeze, Wilkins steered with one hand on the wheel and one on the throttle. Cubiak gave up trying to stand and lowered himself onto a bench. He was colder than he'd been in a long time and eyed the cabin, but figuring that the ride might be even rougher inside he lifted his collar, lowered his head against the wind, and fought the urge to cross himself. Despite the bad conditions, he was relieved that they never lost sight of shore. Past a trio of white barns, Wilkins steered toward the open water. “That's where the
Lindy Lou
went down. A thirty-five-footer, made for the ocean. I was just a kid. Sudden storm came up and swamped the boat out from under the crew. Good sailors, the whole bunch, and one an Olympic swimmer. Two made it to shore; two didn't. Bodies washed up there.” He swiveled back toward the three buildings that suddenly looked inconsequential compared to the vast expanse of Green Bay.

“Did the swimmer make it?”

“Nope. Gave her lifejacket to her friend. Silver medalist died. Friend lived.” Marty looked at the sheriff. “You a good swimmer?”

“No.”

“Then you get the jacket,” he said and grinned.

A few minutes later, Marty slowed and pivoted the boat toward a long, curved finger of land. A wave hit broadside and sprayed icy water over the cockpit. As they entered a narrow inlet, he nodded toward the hatch. “You go on in. I'll be right after.”

Cubiak didn't argue. The cramped cabin was dim and musty but the lack of wind made it feel warm. He dried his face on paper toweling and perched on the edge of a red plaid berth, arms crossed and tight to his chest. What the hell was he doing out here? he wondered. He couldn't see what Marty was up to but he felt the boat settle. The engine faded and he heard the splash of an anchor thrown overboard.

Marty clambered down and tossed the small cooler onto the square of counter alongside the miniature sink. Shivering like a large wet dog, he unzipped the cooler and took out a beer. “Want one?”

Cubiak shook his head. “I'm on duty.”

“Yeah, and probably freezing your balls off, too.” Marty raised the beer in a mock salute and drank. “Working the North Atlantic you learn how not to be cold if you wanna drink. But you didn't come out here to listen to tales of adventure on the high seas, did you? I'm guessing you wanna know about my old man and those other two, and why someone might have wanted them dead.”

Cubiak forgot about being cold. “Officially, their deaths were an accident.”

Ducking under the low ceiling, Marty slid past the sheriff and dropped onto the couch opposite. Elbows to his knees, he stared at the floor. “Yeah, right. I got that. But three men can make a lot of enemies,” he said at last.

Was Marty referring to Bruno Loggerstone's charge of soft blackmail or was there something else? Cubiak figured the best way to find out was to play dumb. “Hardly seems likely for such highly respected members of the community.”

Marty laughed, but the sound was dry and mirthless. “Yeah, they did a good job polishing their public image, didn't they? The three small-town heroes. Decorated war veterans, respected family men, successful business leaders whose money supported the local volunteer fire department and a whole rainbow of amateur athletic programs for kids. You know about the county's wrestling program? Huntsman started it when I was in sixth grade, but my old man and Swenson were on board from the get-go.”

“You wrestled, I understand.”

“Yeah, sure, almost all the boys did. I liked everything about wrestling, but mostly the chance to make friends my own age. Farm life is pretty isolated. And my mother was a real hard-ass most of the time. My dad tried to make up for her, but she got down on him for being too soft with me. That's what she called it, being soft. He was always good to me, I gotta give him that. When he wasn't working, he took me fishing and camping. Showed me how to fix stuff around the farm, too.” Marty held up his hands. “Guess I owe my mechanical know-how to him. After I started wrestling, he came to every match. He didn't really know the rules and didn't pay much attention but I didn't care. It was just nice that he was there. He and Eric Swenson would sit together behind the bench and shoot the breeze with Huntsman.”

“Sounds like he was a good father.”

“Yep.”

“Like Huntsman.”

Marty scraped his hands through his tangled hair. “You gotta be kidding. Big Guy put on quite a show, that's for sure. Fooled me when I was a little kid. Couple of times when I was younger, we were invited to their house for a cookout or something, like on the Fourth of July. Man, what a difference from things at my house! Big Guy and Ida being sweet to each other and joshing around with Walter. Like Ozzie and Harriet on TV. That was the family I wanted to be part of. That's what I thought until Walter eventually owned up to Huntsman being a mean son-of-a-bitch. He used to talk about how if his real father hadn't been killed in the war, things would have been different for him and his mom. Walter liked my dad. I think one of the reasons he wanted to be friends with me was so he could hang out at my house and hear a kind word from my father every once in a while.”

Marty lobbed the empty can into the sink. “Get me another one of those, you don't mind,” he said over the echoing ping of the tin cylinder rattling against the metal bowl.