Death at Gills Rock (4 page)

“Yes,” she said, and though her face was flushed, she spoke with a coolness that matched the weather.

Cubiak was puzzled. Then he realized she probably wouldn't know him without his uniform. “Dave Cubiak. I'm the sheriff,” he said.

“Oh.” Flustered and even more crimson, the woman stepped aside. “Esther Smitz. The neighbor. Clyde's wife,” she said as she pressed into the wall of the mudroom to make way for him.

A corduroy barn coat and two rain jackets hung from hooks under a shelf piled with gloves and hats. An orderly row of rubber boots, clogs, and slippers hugged the baseboard; a stack of old newspapers nestled in the corner. Esther pointed the sheriff through a second doorway into the kitchen, a cheerful room painted a soft yellow and furnished with pale oak cabinets and white appliances. Two windows, a large one behind the rough pine table and a smaller one over the sink, looked out toward the water. Coffee was perking on the stove and a hint of cinnamon scented the air. Cubiak wondered if something wasn't in the oven. From deep in the house came the murmur of voices.

“This way, Sheriff,” Esther said deferentially, leading him through a formal dining room and into the living room where a wall of windows revealed more of the bay. No doubt there were days when the view was spectacular, but that morning the vista was dark and somber.

Cubiak turned his attention to the interior. As much as the log cabin was a man's space, this room—like the rest of the house—was feminine by design: wall-to-wall white carpeting, a blond spinet piano, and a curio cabinet of small bird statues that looked fragile and expensive. Three large paintings of flowering gardens hung over a peach-colored sectional that ran along one wall and wrapped around the corner to the other. A woman sat on the sofa. She was in profile, before her a pink flowered cup and saucer on a low, glass-topped coffee table. The woman was slim and petite and dressed simply in a crisp white blouse and tan slacks. Posture erect. Skin smooth and clear. Head high and covered with soft blond-gray curls.

Cubiak crossed to her. “Mrs. Huntsman? I'm Sheriff Cubiak,” he said.

She laid bright blue eyes on him and he saw immediately that she had been and still was, as much as age allowed, a woman of natural and uncomplicated beauty.

“Ida, please,” she said with a hint of a smile, then gestured toward a high-backed chair. “I know who you are. Thank you for coming.”

Cubiak always thought the hardest part of his job was dealing with the dead, until he had to talk to the living who mourned them. He never knew where to start or what to say.

“My deputy called. My being here is just routine.”

She nodded and turned away.

Cubiak followed her gaze out the window. “I'm sorry about your husband,” he said, sitting down.

She dipped her head again, still looking out over the water.

“And the others.” In the overly warm room, a prickle of sweat rose on the back of Cubiak's neck.

“Yes.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I know this is hard for you. But can you tell me in your own words what happened, starting with last evening?”

Ida brushed at a piece of lint on her knee. The nails were painted a delicate pink and her fingers displayed the beginning traces of arthritis.

“I don't know what happened last evening. My son, Walter, was here, you might ask him. I left around six for book group.” She looked at Cubiak with a rueful smile. “It's just the three of us, Olive Swenson, Stella Wilkins, and me. Usually we meet here, but Olive was getting over a cold and wanted us to come to her house. We had dinner and talked, like we usually do. I helped clean up and then I drove home.”

“What time was that?”

“Around ten thirty.”

“Did you notice anything unusual when you got back?”

“No. Nothing. The lights were on in the cabin but they would be, wouldn't they?”

“And this morning, were they still on?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don't know. I'm not sure I even noticed. There were deer out back eating the hostas. I sent a few shots over their heads to scare them away. Then, as long as I was up and about, I decided to check on the boys.”

“You weren't concerned that your husband had stayed out all night?”

“No. He and his friends did that every couple of weeks, up half the night playing poker, some kind of tournament they'd created. It was the boys' club night out. This morning, I knew they'd been celebrating and had probably had a bit too much to drink, so I went to offer them coffee and something to eat.”

“You don't normally do that?”

“Oh, no. Poker nights and the morning after are sacrosanct with Terrence and his buddies. Usually they go out for pancakes and I don't even see my husband until noon.”

“You're a tolerant wife. Most women …”

“I'm not most women,” she said, cutting him off, “and Terrence isn't—wasn't—most men.” She took a breath. “Sorry. It is difficult, more so than I'd imagined.” She stopped to compose herself. “I saw them through the window by the door. They were slumped at the table, as if they'd fallen asleep playing cards. At first I wasn't going to disturb them, but I worried that they'd be all stiff and cranky from sleeping like that, so I knocked. But there was no response. I tried to open the door but couldn't. So I knocked again, harder, and called out, something stupid, like ‘Yoo-hoo, I'm here,' but still they didn't budge. I started beating on the window and yelling and still nothing. That's when I realized something was terribly wrong.

“I ran back to the house and called Clyde Smitz, he's our nearest neighbor over there”—she motioned toward the road—“and my son, Walter Nils.”

“You called the neighbor first?”

“Yes, I needed someone immediately. It would take Walter at least thirty minutes, maybe longer, to drive up here. When I got back to the cabin Clyde was already there, trying to force the door open.”

“What was he doing exactly?”

Ida closed her eyes and was still a moment. “He was facing the path, gripping the knob with both hands and ramming his left shoulder against the door. ‘It won't give none,' he said to me. That's when I picked up a rock and smashed the window. Then Clyde reached in and unlocked the door.”

“The door was locked from the inside?”

“I guess. It must have been. What other reason could there be for it not opening?”

“And the key was in the lock?”

“Yes.”

“You don't have an extra?”

“There's probably one around somewhere, but … I never looked. I never needed to.”

“Is the door usually locked?”

“I don't know.” The response was firm but Cubiak was sure she'd hesitated before answering.

“Do you have any idea why it was locked last night?”

She shook her head.

A phone rang in another room. Someone answered, and a rush of hushed chatter bloomed in the background.

“What happened then?” Cubiak said.

“I'm not sure. It was so chaotic. I ran to Terrence and started shaking his shoulders. Clyde tried to wake up Eric but couldn't. He stepped behind me to Jasper and tried to roust him. Just then Junior, Clyde's son, came running in. I don't know how he knew. Junior pulled Eric away from the table and dragged him toward the door. I don't think we were inside two minutes when my head started to hurt, like a vise clamping here”—she pointed to her temples—“and I understood. I told Clyde to turn off the space heater and I opened a couple windows. The door was already open and that may have been what spared us. Then Junior and Clyde carried the men out and laid them on the ground and I tried to do CPR.”

Her voice caught. She looked up at Cubiak. “They were gone.”

Cubiak picked up a box of tissues from the table and held it toward Ida. She took a sheet and pressed it to her eyes. When she'd finished, he went on. “You called your son Walter Nils. There was a man named Nils mentioned in the paper.”

“Yes, my husband. My first husband. Walter is his son. I married Terrence after the war.”

“You and Terrence had no other children?”

“No.” She seemed about to say more, but whatever it was she decided to keep to herself. “Just Walter,” she said.

They remained silent for a while.

“When you and Clyde and his son were trying to revive the men in the cabin was there any response, anything at all?”

She closed her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Again, I'm sorry.”

Out of respect, Cubiak waited another moment before he stood. When he rose, Ida offered him her hand. The skin was dry and the palm lightly calloused. He pressed it with what he hoped was a sign of reassurance. “One other thing. There's a copy of the latest
Herald
on the poker table. But the paper didn't come out until today.”

Ida smiled. “Justin St. James, the reporter, drove up late yesterday afternoon with several copies of the early edition so Terrence and the others could see it. That's why they were together. They were celebrating.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Do you need anything? I could ask Esther to come in.”

“No.” She rested a hand on her collarbone. “I'm okay for the moment.”

E
sther Smitz rose from the kitchen table and started across the room when Cubiak reappeared in the doorway. He motioned her toward the back door, and she turned without hesitating, as if understanding that she was about to be questioned and that the conversation was to be private.

“Are the other spouses here?” he said.

“Stella Wilkins is in the guest room. Olive—Olive Swenson—went home. Someone drove her. She said she couldn't bear to stay.”

“What about their kids or relatives?” He wasn't sure he should be directing these questions to a neighbor but didn't know whom else to ask.

“Olive is alone. She and Eric didn't have any kids and his one brother is long gone. She had a brother but he died a couple years back. I don't think she gets along with the sister-in-law. Stella's son, Martin, works on oil rigs somewhere. She made a call earlier, I guess to try and reach him with the news.”

“You and your husband live nearby?”

“Yes, we're in the green house just up the road a ways, last one on the end.”

“And you didn't notice anything unusual yesterday evening?”

“No. We had supper around five and then I did some mending while Clyde changed the oil in the truck. It was dark when he finally came in. After he washed up, I made popcorn and we watched television. Went to bed right after the news. There was a car went by when I was turning off the TV. Figured it was Ida coming home. I seen her drive out earlier.” Esther's face clouded.

She's wondering what she missed, Cubiak thought. He needed to be careful and not let his concern about a locked door get out of hand. “Any chance of getting a cup of coffee?” he said to shift her focus.

As he slipped off his jacket, Esther set a mug of coffee and a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of him. “I was thinking of making a fresh cup of tea for Stella. They drink coffee by the gallons here but times like this, tea seems more comforting.”

“It does.” Cubiak dunked a cookie. “I'll go with, when you take it to her.”

Esther filled the kettle and fussed at the stove. She worked quickly and didn't seem driven by the need for unnecessary chatter, a trait he appreciated.

When the tea was ready, Esther filled a flowered cup, set it on a saucer, and put both on a small tray. With carefully measured steps, she led him back through the dining room and down a dim hall past two closed doors. Just short of a third that was open, Esther stopped and handed the tray to Cubiak. Knocking softly on the door frame, she spoke. “Someone to see you, dear,” she said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

The bedroom had the same white carpet as the rest of the house and was infused with pale pinks. A spindly, forlorn woman sat on the bed, nearly lost in the battery of oversize, frilly pillows that were heaped against the carved oak headboard. With her dirty silvery hair and deeply lined face, she looked worn and frail. Despite the heat in the room, she huddled inside a red plaid mackinaw that was several sizes too large. Her legs were encased in cheap polyester pants and extended straight out, displaying the calloused bottoms of her bare feet.

Cubiak introduced himself and held out the tea. Stella Wilkins ignored the offering. He set the tray on the nightstand and pulled up a wooden rocking chair, balancing lightly on the edge of the padded seat. For the second time in less than thirty minutes he offered his condolences to a recently widowed woman.

“I can't believe they killed my husband,” Stella said.

The statement and the bluntness with which she spoke surprised Cubiak. “Your husband is dead, but it appears to have been an accident.”

“An accident?”

“Yes, looks like a problem with the space heater. Didn't anyone tell you?”

“They just said Jasper was dead.”

“And you thought he'd been murdered?”

“Not murdered, just killed.”

“Why would anyone want to kill your husband?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why did you think your husband had been killed?”

“Because that's how people die. Something kills them. Heart attacks. Cancer. Accidents.”

“But you said ‘they'…”

She looked at him. “I did?”

“Yes.”

She turned and stared at the door. “I don't know why I said that.”

She's in shock, he thought. She doesn't know what she's saying.

After a while Stella Wilkins took a sip of tea.

“You called your son?” the sheriff said.

Stella nodded and told Cubiak that she'd left a message for Martin at the last number she had but it was months old and she didn't know when he'd get the news. Then she closed her eyes and sank back into whatever private world she'd been in when he'd disturbed her.