Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  Anxious to hear what Pardy had learned from the autopsy on Richard Mayes, the sheriff made another detour to the west side and the medical examiner’s office. For the second time that week he settled into the worn wooden chair that faced her desk. Pardy was on the phone and had her back toward the view of the old steel bridge. On his first visit she had been discussing kid issues—music lessons and playdates. This time, the talk was technical and sprinkled with medical jargon, not unlike the words in the titles of the books that lined her narrow bookcase and stood piled on the floor.

  Pardy’s voice shot up an octave, and when Cubiak realized she was talking about Mayes he paid close attention. She doesn’t give up easily, he thought as he listened to her pressure the state medical lab to run the tests she had requested. “It’s an emergency. I need the results so the department can proceed investigating the man’s death. In fact, Sheriff Cubiak is sitting with me right now,” she added, as if his presence underscored the urgency of the situation.

  When the medical examiner reverted to scientific jargon, Cubiak let his attention wander to the primitive rainbow painting that hung on the wall over her left shoulder. Alexis had drawn the same lopsided images in preschool, and for a moment, he drifted into the memory of the sweet times he had shared with his daughter. “No.”

  Pardy looked at him quizzically and he realized he had spoken out loud. He motioned that he was fine but he felt his pulse race. What had he meant by the word? That he wasn’t going to deny the memory of his own child or that he didn’t want to imagine a new child in his life? No one will ever take your place, he silently promised Alexis as he turned away from the drawing and tried to concentrate on the stack of books near his feet.

  “Right, then. Thank you,” Pardy said. She dropped the receiver into place and looked across at him.

  “We better be careful, or people are going to start talking,” she said.

  Cubiak tried to laugh. “Any news?”

  “Yes, and none of it good, I’m afraid. Although from my perspective, it’s certainly interesting.” She raised both eyebrows, a sign that an explanation was coming.

  “Preliminary results indicate that Richard Mayes may have died from selenium acid poisoning, just like Ms. Larson. Someone in my position doesn’t come across this type of situation often, maybe never, and for me to have it drop into my lap twice in three days can hardly be considered a coincidence.”

  “Were there any signs of trauma on the body?”

  She shook her head. “Mayes had a faint bruise on his left forearm, but it was old and unrelated to his demise. The only obvious symptom was the garlicky odor, which the captain mentioned to you. But the autopsy revealed the telltale swelling of the brain and dilated blood vessels, along with the other symptoms. And just as with the first victim, stomach contents indicated that he had eaten several hours before.”

  “And you think the poison was introduced in the food?”

  “It’s possible. In fact, I’d say it’s very likely that’s the way it was administered.”

  “Is there any way to determine if the poison used in both cases came from the same source?”

  “If the same person killed both Lydia Larson and Richard Mayes, it’s a pretty good assumption that it did, but not knowing the one, I can’t speculate about the other,” Pardy said. “We’re scientists, Dave, not wizards. But nice try.”

  Rowe was waiting at the office.

  “I got those reports,” the deputy said as he laid several folders on the desk. “I checked all the names on the three lists. The musicians move around a lot, but they’re clean. A few traffic tickets, but that’s about it. One guy had issues with child support a couple of years ago but that’s been cleared up. The film crew’s a bit dicier.” He opened the top folder. “The soundman’s got two drunk and disorderlies.”

  It’s the quiet ones that are always the most surprising, the sheriff thought.

  “What about the caterers?”

  “Nothing on the owner or his daughter. The student workers are clean. Two others have been here since May, typical summer employees. But there’s one who’s been in the country for a couple of years.”

  Cubiak skimmed the copies of the passports. The photos were not flattering but he remembered seeing two of the workers and recognized another immediately. It was the photo of Eric Fielder. Fielder held an Austrian passport.

  “He said he was German.”

  “A lot of Germans live in Austria. Maybe he associated more with the one than the other.” Rowe flipped through his notes. “According to immigration, Fielder came in through JFK. He stayed in New York for a couple of months and then headed to Madison and Chicago. Eighteen months ago, he renewed his visa, and after that he fell off the radar, until he showed up here working for the catering company.”

  “What did he do back home in Europe?”

  Rowe arched his shoulders. “That’s the funny part of this. There’s no record of an Eric Fielder in Austria or in Germany either—I checked with authorities there as well.”

  “The passport could be fake.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But why?”

  “Good question. And why did he lie about his first encounter with Lydia Larson?” The sheriff showed Rowe the incriminating photo. “In fact, why’s he working here now, during the Dixan festival? He could have gotten a similar job anywhere on the peninsula. Keep digging and see if you can come up with anything else.”

  “On it, sir.”

  “Mike.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t call me sir.”

  Rowe saluted. “Yes, Boss.”

  Cubiak waved him out the door and called the catering service. Eric Fielder had not shown up for work that day. All attempts to reach him had failed.

  “Did you talk to his landlady?”

  “Yeah, and she said she hadn’t seen him since late last evening.”

  “You tried his cell?”

  “It’s been disconnected.”

  A member of the sheriff’s traffic detail was near the boardinghouse where Fielder had been staying. Cubiak sent her to check the premises. Twenty minutes later, she reported back that his room had been cleaned out.

  Pardy had been evasive when Cubiak pressed her about the source of the toxin that had killed Lydia Larson and Richard Mayes. “If the same person killed both victims,” she had said. The sheriff didn’t share her reservations. Given the similarities in the two deaths, he was sure he was after a single culprit.

  Both victims had died while riding the ferry. Lydia Larson perished as she went from Washington Island to the mainland, and Richard Mayes died while traveling in the opposite direction. The medical examiner’s theory that Lydia and Richard both died from a slow-acting poison meant that the killer had struck well before the victims got onboard. But what if Emma was wrong? If the poison had been administered while they were crossing Death’s Door, the murderer had been riding the ferry with them.

  More than just location and cause of death linked the two victims. Both were connected directly to Annabelle Larson. Lydia was the self-proclaimed daughter of the supposedly deceased woman, and Mayes was a former colleague and friend. But was Annabelle dead, and, if so, how had she died?

  Lisa was working until noon that day. He buzzed her and asked her to contact the coroner’s office in Cook County. “We need a copy of the death certificate for Annabelle Larson. Ask them to scan and email it ASAP. The actual document can come later,” he said.

  The Dixan V festival also tied the two victims together. Mayes was directly involved with the event, so his presence could be explained. But Lydia had been on the grounds as well. What was she doing there?

  What about Eric Fielder? What role, if any, did he play? He had been seen talking with Lydia before she died. And then, by the time Mayes’s body was discovered, he was gone.

  Finally, there was the mysterious George Payette, the bright light to which both Richard and Lydia were drawn. Payette was credited with bringing the ea
rly music festival back to Washington Island. He was also part of the GAR group, and with Mayes and Annabelle dead, he remained the sole survivor of the once-famous trio. That left Annabelle’s daughter, Lydia, as the only other person who had a claim on the group. But Lydia was dead, and she had been killed in the same week and in the same way as Mayes.

  Richard claimed that Lydia came to Door County searching for a legacy from her mother’s days with the GAR trio, but the timing struck Cubiak as odd. Lydia could have shown up anytime after Annabelle’s death. Was there a reason she chose the weekend of the Dixan festival?

  Until yesterday, the sheriff had pegged Mayes as a possible suspect in Lydia’s death. Mayes had opportunity and two possible motives for wanting the young woman out of the way. One was to protect Payette from her claims that he was her father, and another was to profit from marketing the trio’s old recordings. Mayes had been dependent on Payette for his livelihood for years. Maybe he feared the well would run dry if there was another mouth to feed. But now Mayes was dead, as well, and Cubiak doubted that the poison that killed him had been self-administered.

  There had to be a connection among the deaths, the GAR group, and the festival. Perhaps George Peter Payette held the answer.

  Cubiak grabbed his keys. It was time to visit the famed gambist of Door County.

  11

  MAESTRO

  By noon Sturgeon Bay was hot and sunny, but at George Payette’s estate, heavy tree cover and a breeze off the bay cooled the temperature by several degrees. When Cubiak pulled up, two vehicles were already in the yard, the familiar red sports car by the garage and a bright yellow van with a locksmith’s logo painted on the side. Two young, leather-tanned workmen in shorts and T-shirts were busy outside the front door. One was removing the old lock while the other unpacked a new, more complicated mechanism. Cubiak said hi and rang the doorbell. Then he stepped past them into the cool interior of the house.

  He waited in heavy silence. After a couple of minutes, a plump, stern woman appeared at the far end of the hall. She approached in choppy, nervous steps, with her hands bundled in her housekeeper’s apron and a frown imprinted on her face. “Mr. Payette is in conference and not to be disturbed,” she said, not bothering to ask the visitor’s name.

  He held up his badge. “I’ll wait.”

  The furrow in the woman’s forehead deepened, and for a moment he wondered if she wasn’t going to insist that he leave. But the housekeeper finally decided that his credentials carried more weight than Payette’s orders. She turned with a grunt and led him back down the hall.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Payette you’re here,” she said, showing him into the library.

  The room was warm with wood and splashed with color from the bounty of books, CDs, and records on display. With an eye on the open door, Cubiak wandered around and admired the collections. He recognized most of the authors and a few of the major composers, but the names of most of the musicians were unfamiliar. Fifteen minutes passed. From somewhere inside the house, a door opened and soon the hunched and harried figures of the three festival organizers scurried past the library. Either they didn’t see him or they pretended not to as they hurried toward the front entrance. The three had been decidedly more upbeat when he had talked with them the previous day.

  Moments later, the inner door snapped shut, and a series of slow, steady footfalls brought a tall, well-dressed man to the library entrance. He was slender and had thick salt-and-pepper hair that reached his collar. “I am George Peter Payette,” he said, in a regal tone. Payette paused for a beat, and then he entered the room like a man accustomed to stepping onto a stage. For a fleeting moment, Cubiak had the notion that he was expected to applaud. Instead, he extended his hand and offered his condolences.

  Payette inclined his head. “Thank you, Sheriff. Richard’s loss will be deeply felt. He was more than an able assistant; he was a friend. A very dear friend,” he said, and his manner suddenly but only momentarily turned humble. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, and while I appreciate your follow-up to this sad occasion I don’t quite understand . . .”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Cubiak said. He waited for the impact of the statement to penetrate Payette’s cool façade.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m here on official business.”

  The gambist’s elegant face clouded. “Surely you don’t think there was anything untoward about Richard’s death? There was no mention of an accident. He had a bad heart, among a number of serious ailments, and I assumed . . .” The musician ran his fingers along his chin.

  “Richard wasn’t in an accident. But unfortunately, there are indications that he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “Oh, God.” Payette sank into a chair. He looked puzzled, and moments passed before he spoke. “What do you mean? What are you getting at?” He hesitated again. “You aren’t telling me that someone killed Richard?” The question was a whisper.

  “It’s a strong possibility, yes,”

  Payette was ashen. “Richard didn’t have an enemy in the world. Are you sure?”

  “We’re still sorting out the details, but there seems to be little question that he was murdered. Unless he took his own life, but I doubt that.”

  “Richard would never have killed himself. Not now, not after all he did to help revive the festival. But what makes you think he didn’t die by his own hand?”

  “For the simple reason that there appear to be several similarities between Richard’s death and that of Lydia Larson.”

  Payette nearly sprang from the chair. “That horrid young woman. But the radio said nothing about murder, only that she was found dead on the ferry.” His face darkened with fury. “The rumors have already started. First about her. And now Richard! Are you absolutely sure?” he asked again.

  “I am investigating both deaths as possible homicides.”

  “Oh please, God, no. This is a disaster! You have no idea what this could mean. A lead player has already pulled out, claiming a personal emergency. If word about Richard gets around, the festival will hemorrhage musicians before we wrap up tonight. Everything will be ruined.”

  “Like Dixan I.”

  Payette seemed not to have heard. He stumbled across the white carpet to the drinks table and picked up a clear decanter of what looked like whiskey. He poured a generous amount into a glass and tossed it down. Arching an eyebrow, he raised the carafe but the sheriff shook his head at the offer of a drink.

  “Have it your way,” Payette said and sloshed another two fingers of amber liquid into the tumbler. “What do you know about music, Sheriff? And by that I mean classical music.”

  Cubiak didn’t think his rudimentary grasp of opera would stand up to scrutiny. “Not much,” he said as his host took a hearty sip.

  Payette snorted. “Most people don’t, thanks to our philistine educational system. In Russia, even the peasants know music, but here if you ask someone to name a famous composer the best you get is Beethoven if you’re lucky, and most times you’re not lucky.”

  The contents of the glass disappeared. “Music is important in more ways than I can explain. It does so much. It lifts us up from the mundane. It feeds our joy. It sustains us in time of sorrow. People can appreciate a good painting or a beautiful statue but they can’t re-create it. Not like they can music. They might not be able to play an instrument well or at all, but everyone can hum a tune. Music is the only art form you can take with you wherever you go, no matter who you are.”

  Brandishing the empty glass, Payette dropped back into the chair. “Music touches what’s inside our hearts, the very elements that make us human. Without it, we would all wither into dust.” He looked at the sheriff and laughed. “Not literally, of course. I’m not being stupid. But if we didn’t have good music, we’d spend our lives grunting at each other like apes and posting pictures of tuna sandwiches on Facebook or shopping for toilet tissue on Amazon.”

  “That’s
a pretty harsh judgment.”

  “Perhaps, but I believe it’s true. Sadly, not enough people believe it. Not even enough musicians.”

  “Did Richard?”

  “Yes, yes, he did.” Payette set the tumbler on the floor. “Richard was a true lover of music as well as a true musician. Not just dedicated, but excellent at his art, as well, until he became unable to play. A good many musicians are technical geniuses, but it’s the rare players who go beyond the score and the pages littered with notes and reach a deeper level of understanding. Richard was one of those, and it’s horribly unfair that fate treated him as it did.”

  “The arthritis.”

  “Inherited from his mother. When it became obvious that he couldn’t continue playing at the level he aspired to and demanded of himself, he put aside his instruments. It was painful to witness the impact. It was like watching his soul wither. He went away for more than a year, just disappeared. I never learned where he went or what he did. Then one day, he was at the door. He was leaner and sadder than before, but he said he wanted to reconnect with music again, as much as was possible. He told me he couldn’t exist otherwise and that he decided he would devote himself to the profession in any way he could.”

  “You took him on as your assistant.”

  “It was his suggestion. I urged him to look elsewhere. A man with his talent could teach or work anywhere. But he insisted on staying here and helping me, and finally after a lot of back and forth, I agreed. We were friends, of course, with similar interests and philosophies of life, but as colleagues we shared an even stronger bond, a common purpose of furthering the reach of classical music in general and the gamba in particular.”

  Cubiak took a seat facing Payette. “He lived here, with you?”

  “Of course. There’s plenty of room, and it made things easier all around. Richard had one of the guest suites. That allowed him all the privacy he might need or want, but also, well, it was just less complicated and better all around. He had no commute, and unless there was a pressing deadline, he could work whatever hours he chose.”