Death at Gills Rock (6 page)

“Anywhere you like,” she said, gesturing toward the empty tables. She was square and stout with short wavy hair that was dyed fiercely black. The name tag on her ample chest read Mabel.

The sheriff took a stool at the end of the counter.

“We're out of the pork chops,” Mabel said as she handed him the menu with a hand-printed list of specials paper-clipped inside.

He scanned the list, his mind still on Huntsman's yard. He'd asked Smitz if the three men ever played high stakes poker but the neighbor said no. And there hadn't been any money on the table. None that either Ida or Smitz mentioned.

“What do you recommend?”

“I like the chicken.”

Cubiak ordered the roasted chicken plate. Watching Mabel push through the swinging doors to the kitchen, he wondered if she was going to cook his food as well as serve it. But she returned almost immediately with a thick ceramic mug of hot coffee.

“Cream?” She slid a small dish filled with one-serve containers of half-and-half within his reach and then looked past him toward the window. “You up at Huntsman's place?” she said.

There was no point denying it. Three ambulances racing along the lane at the bottom of the bay would have drawn attention to the drama on the other side of the water. And there'd been enough onlookers to ensure the story spread fast. Cubiak followed her gaze to the holster and sheriff 's badge on his belt. “Yes,” he said, stirring his coffee.

“Nice people. All of them. The women especially. Used to come in sometimes and order the Friday fish fry as takeout for their book club.”

“You knew them well?”

The waitress lifted her chin. “Well enough. They were private women, Sheriff. Decent people who were friendly but not overly so.”

“Did you do business with Huntsman?”

She chortled. “Sure. Half the peninsula did business with him. As if you couldn't tell. Big Guy did pretty good, that's for certain. But then they all did.”

Mabel pointed toward the dock. “See those three charter boats? They're Swenson's. Three! Nobody up here's got three boats, and come the season they're out all the time.” She spoke without envy, obviously proud of locals who'd prospered.

“And Wilkins?”

“You haven't noticed the name? Wilkins' Orchards. Wilkins' Farm and Garden Store. Wilkins' Dairy? If you came up 42, you went past the farm, the one with seven silos!”

“That was all Jasper's?”

“Mostly. His sister operates the store and maybe owns it, but he produces just about everything she sells. Runs what folks up here call the ‘Three C Empire.' Cows, cheese, and cherries.” Again, the same unmistakable tone of pride in her voice. Were some people really that guileless? he wondered.

A bell dinged. Mabel scooted to the kitchen and returned with a platter mounded with mashed potatoes, peas, and half a chicken smothered in gravy.

“This oughta hold you 'til supper,” she said as she deposited the plate in front of the sheriff. “More coffee?”

P
ie came with lunch, and again Cubiak cleaned his plate. He had a theory that sugar primed the senses but it seemed to have had the opposite effect on him that day. Leaving the diner he barely registered the stiff breeze that had come up. And he was at the bottom of the stairs before he noticed that the sun was out as well.

The resident gulls trailed him past the abandoned ferry landing to the village marina. The harbor was deserted but for a pontoon boat and Swenson's trio of swanky cabin cruisers.
Viking I
,
II
, and
III
were sizable vessels—Cubiak guessed about fifty feet—outfitted with impressive arrays of rigging. A discreet sign provided a contact phone number for Viking Charters; otherwise there was nothing to advertise the business and no indication of the cost.

Charter fishing was expensive. People went out for the bragging rights, the trophy fish, the experience of being on the water and pretending to work hard while others put forth the effort. Well, they were on vacation, and if they could afford to pay the tab, why not? For a man like Swenson, it was an honest way to earn a living, and Cubiak wouldn't begrudge anyone that opportunity.

Who would run the operation now? he wondered. The people of northern Door seemed like a rugged bunch, the kind who faced life without complaint and didn't ask for or expect special favors. Would Olive take over or would she sell the business?

Bathard had given him directions to Swenson's home in case he wanted to stop and talk with Olive. Not today, Cubiak decided. He'd faced two grieving women already and had learned all he could from them; he'd let the third widow mourn undisturbed.

T
he jeep was coasting into Baileys Harbor when the call came in.

“Chief !”

“Yeah, Mike. I read you. Go ahead.”

“We got a problem in Fish Creek. Some kind of disturbance near the square. No details.”

Cubiak pictured a party of inebriated tourists arguing over politics or golf. He couldn't imagine any other kind of dustup in one of Door County's flagship resort towns.

“Okay, I'll check it out. Anything special going on today?”

“Founders Fest.”

“Right.” Cubiak frowned. The street banners. He'd forgotten. In fact, he had trouble keeping track of the county's numerous celebrations. Founders Fest. Pioneer Days. May Crafts and Flowers Weekend. Summer Daze. Autumn Colors. Pumpkin Fest. Harvest Highlights. Wintery Wonders. Throw in the major holidays and there seemed to be something notable every other weekend—each event designed to showcase local artists and products and to pull in the tourists. The tourism board at work. Cubiak marveled at their imagination. It was no secret that tourist dollars drove the Door County economy. The heady days of the shipbuilding industry had faded to memory and dwindling jobs. Sturgeon Bay had been especially hard hit by the meltdown of the area's industrial base, but the economic ramifications reverberated throughout the peninsula. Even as cheap airfares and a burgeoning cruise industry lured visitors to other destinations, tourists were increasingly coveted. Although many were fiercely loyal to Door County, merchants and the local business associations had to be creative to entice new guests to the peninsula and to keep them coming back.

Founders Fest. Cubiak envisioned middle-aged men and women in period costumes strolling around the old square, posing for pictures with visitors amid stands selling hand-dipped candles and cherry preserves. In Fish Creek, more people than he expected wandered along Front Street and through the array of craft and food booths in the waterfront park. At the music stage, a local band covered “Proud Mary” for a mostly young audience that pulsed to the beat.

Martha Smithson's Bakery had a prime spot in one of the narrow streets leading up from the water. Martha, an eighty-year-old institution, waved Cubiak over and handed him a thick slice of cherry pie on a paper plate.

“Everything okay?” he said, watching her pour a cup of coffee for him. He knew it would do no good to protest.

“I'm down to three pies and a dozen oatmeal cookies. I'm not complaining,” she said. “Cool weather makes folks hungry and that's good for most of us.”

“No sign of trouble?” he said, holding out several dollars.

Martha scoffed. “No one messes with me,” she said as she laid a gnarled hand on his and bent his fingers back over the money. “I'm keeping a running tab, Sheriff. One day you'll owe me a million dollars. That's when I'll come round and collect.”

Cubiak winked. “I'm counting on it.”

Up the lane, he passed a very tall blonde woman carrying an intricately carved, three-foot fish totem and stopped behind a middle-aged couple in Chicago Bears hats who were bargaining over a set of ceramic pickle crocks. Cubiak leaned in to the man. “You'd do better without the hats,” he said quietly, and then he gave a salute. “Go Bears,” he said.

From there, the crowd thinned quickly. Cubiak assumed they were scared off by the small mob gathered along the stone wall at the far end of the block.

The sheriff counted ten in the group, most of them teenagers: kids trying to look tough, dressed in black T-shirts and jackets and low-cut, frayed jeans. Several sported tattoos and all of them were smoking. Hardly the image Door County hoped to portray to the world.

It wasn't hard to pick out the main troublemaker. He was fat and greasy and looked older, maybe twenty-one, and sat on the wall as if holding court. A slim, pouty girl, about five years younger, perched on his lap. She had bobbed blue hair and heavily kohled eyes.

“Afternoon,” Cubiak said as he stepped onto the curb and kicked aside a mound of cigarette butts.

The punk on the wall snickered, signaling the others to join in.

Cubiak stopped himself from laughing. Where he came from, they were nothing more than a bunch of wannabes but he knew that by local standards, they were a threat.

“Better move on, old man,” the ringleader said, cradling his rough hands around the girl's buttocks, and the others again sniggered on cue.

Behind them, a woman watched the scene from the window of the Woolly Sheep Shoppe, one of the newer businesses in town.

Cubiak shoved his hands into his rear pockets and took them in, one by one, memorizing their faces. When he finished, he rubbed his hands together and then, as they looked on puzzled, he strolled off down the street to the end of the block.

At the corner he stopped, giving the group time to wonder what he'd do next, and then he sauntered back.

“Fucker.” The taunt came from one of the boys sprawled on the grass. Cubiak shrugged and then circled around the gathering before going up the steps and entering the Woolly Sheep.

As he approached, the woman at the window darted behind the counter. She had a soft rounded body and curly black hair that made her creamy, pale complexion seem almost luminescent. “That was awfully brave,” she said in a gentle Irish lilt that immediately melted his heart.

“You the owner?” he said.

“Yes. Kathleen O'Toole. Kathy,” she said and extended her hand.

Cubiak introduced himself. “What do you sell?” It was an idiotic question, he realized. One wall held stacks of wooden crates stuffed with skeins of yarn. Books on knitting lined a shelf, and knitted goods—sweaters, scarves, and shawls—hung from several racks.

“Things woolen,” Kathy said. She tried to smile. “Saturdays are usually my busiest. But I haven't had a single customer today. People walk up the sidewalk and look this way but when they see the welcoming committee out front, they turn and go away. The other shops have entrances from the square as well as the street. I don't. The only way to get here is up those stairs and if this keeps up, I'll be out of business before the season is half over.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A week exactly. Three or four of them showed up last Sunday afternoon. It was cold, flurrying even, and I didn't pay much attention, but they were here again Wednesday evening. This morning they came back with the others.”

“Did you say anything to them?”

“Sure. The first day after they'd been out there for about an hour, I asked them to leave, and they told me to go fuck myself.”

“Do you know who they are?”

Kathy pressed her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “The large one is Tim Bender. His dad used to work in the shipyards with my ex-husband; they've both been out of work for several years. I don't know his girlfriend. The one to his right is Hillary Wozniak. Her mom's a nurse and a weekend cashier at the Piggly Wiggly in Algoma. Widowed. Four kids, two jobs. The boy next to Hillary is Roger Nils.”

“Walter's kid?”

“Yeah. From his second marriage. Raised the boy himself after his wife split. You know Roger?”

“No, but I've heard of him.” The young man was pale and sullen and lanky like Walter. His blond hair hung over his ears and neck like a Dutch boy cut gone wild. He didn't resemble the Roger Nils who'd been featured in the
Herald
the previous spring: that Roger was a good-looking honor roll student and champion wrestler who'd turned down half a dozen athletic scholarships for a four-year-ride at the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire.

Kathy had kept on talking. “I don't know the names of the others but they're all local. Why are they doing this?”

“I don't know,” Cubiak said. He fished for a card but his pockets were empty. “Anytime there's trouble, call me,” he said, writing his number on the back of a store flyer.

W
ith his badge and gun visible, Cubiak planted himself in front of the group and before any of them had a chance to react, he started in. “What I'm going to do right now is suggest that you all move on. Maybe wander across the street and buy a brat. Support the local businesses.”

No one budged.

“Because if you don't leave, I'll run you in for disturbing the peace, and my guess is that for some of you it won't be the first time.”

“You ain't got no right,” the leader said.

Cubiak pressed the toe of his boot against the front of the punk's shoe. “I got every right. I've also got nowhere else to go, so I can just stand here all day,
Timothy
.”

Someone in the group snickered and Tim reeled around. “Shut up.” Turning back toward Cubiak, he slid the girl off his lap and pushed up from the bench. He was tall and carried muscle behind the fat. “Anything you say, Sheriff. Besides, I got shit to do,” he said, sending a wave of sour breath toward Cubiak. He motioned to the others. “Come on. Outta here. But don't worry, we'll be back,” he said.

The sheriff nodded. “You do that, and I'll be waiting for you.”

As the group dispersed, Cubiak caught up with Roger Nils. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

Roger took several more steps, and then he stopped and spun around. The stink of cigarettes and stale beer clung to him like an extra layer of clothes. His eyes were red and wary. A fine line of acne ran along his right cheekbone. “What the hell you want?” he said, looking past Cubiak.