When he was notified that George Payette might be able to talk that afternoon, the sheriff shoved aside his discomfort and settled into the third-floor visitors’ lounge to wait. A number of crimes were unsolved, and the gambist was both the victim of an assault and a suspect in another, older crime. He had to be questioned as soon as possible. Cubiak stared at the bland art on the walls and thought about what he would say to the musician. He also wondered what he would say to Cate when he saw her at home later.
The sheriff was convinced that Payette was involved in the disappearance of the yellow viol and wished he would come clean about his role, but he didn’t hold out much hope. He held out even less hope that he would be honest with Cate about his feelings toward the baby. In truth, he was no longer sure what his feelings were. He thought of Alexis and the joy she had brought to him. He thought of the boy Sammy and the delight he shared with his father. And he began to wonder if hope could ever outweigh his fear.
“Sheriff?”
Cubiak looked up at a man in a white coat. For a moment he expected the attending physician to announce that Payette had died, and he was relieved when the doctor told him that the victim had regained consciousness.
“Mr. Payette is fortunate that he came through the assault with no serious internal injuries, but he suffered a concussion and he may not have a clear memory of what happened. He also may have difficulty following your questions. Take it easy with him. You can have twenty minutes but no more,” he said.
Cubiak checked his watch. He hoped to be done in half that time.
The blinds in Payette’s room were closed and the lights dimmed. The bed was cranked to a partial sitting position, and a bounty of pillows was arranged behind the patient. Other than being bathed, clothed, and bandaged, the musician looked little better than he had when the sheriff saw him bound and bloody on his closet floor. His lips were puffed and his eyelids were swollen nearly shut. The bruised flesh on his face and arms was turning a sickly blue-green. His left arm was in a sling.
“Do you know who I am?” Cubiak asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you remember what happened?”
“I think so.” Payette’s normally strong voice was muffled, as if he were talking through cotton.
“There was only a lone attacker, a man,” Cubiak said, hoping that the patient would verify what the housekeeper had told him.
“Yes.”
“Was it this man?” He came alongside the bed and held up a photo of Eric Fielder.
The gambist flinched. “Yes.”
“Does the name Eric Fielder mean anything to you?”
“No.” Payette moistened his lips. “Should it?”
“That’s the man whose photo you just identified. Fielder worked with the catering crew at the festival. But the name is an alias. Eric Fielder’s real name is Ubell Acker.” Cubiak watched for a reaction from Payette. It wasn’t much, a slight tic in the left cheek, but it told him what he needed to know.
“You recognize that name?”
Payette slowly moved his head back and forth.
“No? Of course, you do. He is the son of Franz Acker, the famous gambist who headlined the Dixan I festival.”
The musician closed his eyes.
“Acker was the musician who brought the yellow viol to Washington Island. He was the man whose wife died in childbirth the night of the big storm and whose life fell apart when the viol went missing. But, of course, you know the story, because you were there. You and Richard Mayes and Annabelle Larson, the up-and-coming GAR group.”
Payette looked at the ceiling. “It was a long time ago.”
“Forty years. That’s half a lifetime for many people, but it’s nothing in the life of a fabled treasure like the yellow viol. How old would the instrument be now? Nearly four hundred years?”
Payette lifted his free hand off the mattress. “Irrelevant. The viol is gone—phfft.”
“Maybe it is. And then again, maybe it’s not.” Cubiak let the comment hang in the air. Then he spoke again. “I think the yellow viol is very much in existence.”
The patient pushed to his elbow. “Impossible,” he said. He struggled to sit up farther and then fell back against the pillows. “You don’t know what you’re saying. People spent years trying to find it, but nothing.”
“You coveted the yellow viol, didn’t you?”
“We all did. It was a magnificent instrument.”
“But you not only coveted it, you figured out a way to get it.”
The musician’s sharp laugh disintegrated into a fit of coughing.
When the room was quiet, Cubiak continued. “I have to admit it was pretty clever how you managed to whisk the viol off the island in full view of the authorities.”
“Really?” Payette’s voice was still weak but his dry, arrogant manner asserted itself.
“I couldn’t figure out how you managed it, but that’s because I didn’t really understand the simple mechanics of how a stringed instrument is put together. Seeing the carnage in your little museum—all the bits and pieces scattered around—got me wondering. I still need to check with a couple of experts but I have a few ideas. If I’m right, it wasn’t all that hard.”
Payette scoffed. “You’re fishing, Sheriff. You know my thinking might be muddled and you’re trying to take advantage of that and lure me into admitting to something I didn’t do.”
“Am I?”
Payette glared at Cubiak. “Why would you accuse an innocent man?” The musician smirked again. “Oh, I get it, you want the glory of solving the mystery of Dixan I, don’t you? That’s what you’re after. If you ID the culprit, your name will be in headlines all over the world.”
“What I want is to find out why Lydia Larson and Richard Mayes were killed and to figure out who did it. I’m convinced that the yellow viol figures into the puzzle. I know that it’s important to Ubell Acker, and that he’s pegged you as the thief. That’s why he attacked you and ransacked your house. He was looking for the viol.”
“You can’t prove that. I already told you I didn’t steal the yellow viol, and I’ve never heard of this Eric Fielder or Ubell Acker or whoever he is. You said those are the two names he uses. Maybe he has other aliases as well.”
Something I’m looking into, Cubiak thought.
Payette went on. “The man broke into my house demanding money. That’s what he was after. He must have seen me at the festival. Maybe he heard people talk about my instrument collection. It wouldn’t take much to find out that some of the pieces are fairly valuable. And when he saw the house, he figured I was loaded. A lot of people make that mistake.”
“What happened at your house doesn’t come across as an ordinary robbery. If Ubell was interested in the instruments in your collection, he would have taken them instead of destroying them. If he wanted money, why waste time ransacking the house? I think he wanted revenge for what he believes you did to his father, and he wanted the viol because he’s convinced that it’s rightfully his.”
Payette stiffened. His look was pitiless. “Franz Acker forfeited his claim to the yellow viol when he failed to pay the insurance premium on time. That was part of the contract with the Guttenbergs, and everyone knew it. No one in his family can lay claim to the instrument, certainly not now.”
“Apparently his son doesn’t see it that way. Ubell came to Door County to recover his birthright. Either he worked it out on his own that you stole it or his father passed on that knowledge as his legacy.”
Payette’s face contorted into a sneer that exaggerated the remnants of the beating he had endured. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Perhaps Lydia Larson had much the same idea. Maybe she came here searching for you because of what her mother had told her or confided in her diary. Even if Lydia didn’t believe you still had the instrument in your possession, she’d assume that you sold it on the black market for what I’ve been told would have been a fortune. Lydia didn’t want the viol. She lacked the
wherewithal to dispose of it with the discretion such a transaction required. No. Lydia needed money, and if she could prove she was your daughter she figured you would help her out financially. Even if she isn’t your daughter she may still have believed that she could blackmail you with whatever knowledge she’d gained from her mother.”
“You think I killed Lydia?” The question was barely audible.
“It’s possible, but I admit that you were my second choice. Initially I thought it was Mayes who murdered her.”
“Why?”
“Because he felt threatened by her. If Lydia could prove that she was your daughter, he feared that he might be cut out of your will or that he’d get a smaller slice of the pie.”
“And now that Richard is dead?”
“You’re a logical suspect in his death as well.”
Payette turned toward the wall. “No, never, not either of them,” he said.
“Why not? If Lydia claimed she had proof that you’d stolen the yellow viol, you might silence her to keep her from talking.”
Payette’s face was still turned away. “And Richard? Why would I kill him?”
“Because he knew too much. Richard couldn’t have worked that closely with you for all those years and not known or suspected what you’d done. Maybe he was in on the deal from the beginning. Maybe all three of you were the culprits. Richard told me that Annabelle fell apart because she couldn’t handle the stress and stigma of being a suspect in the theft of the yellow viol. But maybe the truth is that she couldn’t handle the guilt of being one of the thieves.”
Payette struggled to sit up again. “Annabelle wasn’t a thief.”
Cubiak regarded the battered man. “That may be the only true thing you’ve said this afternoon. But what if she suspected that you, the man she loved, had stolen the yellow viol? Wouldn’t that be enough to destroy her?”
Before Payette could respond, a nurse appeared in the doorway. She tapped her wrist. “Time’s up, Sheriff,” she said.
He raised a hand. “Almost done.”
The nurse hesitated, but then she turned away.
When the two men were alone again, Cubiak leaned over the bed. “You think you’re in the clear, don’t you? Fielder forced you to give up the viol and now you figure he’ll disappear with it, and with him goes all chance of tracing it back to you and nailing you as the thief of Dixan I. But I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. I’ll find Fielder and get to the bottom of this. And then I’ll be back for you.”
Cate was out when Cubiak got home. Kipper was gone as well. He was relieved. Home on his own, he had time to think and work. He went through Dutch’s notebooks again, looking for the information the former sheriff had garnered from the experts. Their comments focused on what needed to be done to safeguard the yellow viol: proper steps for storage and transportation. All well and good, but the information didn’t go far enough. Dutch hadn’t asked one critical question: could the instrument be taken apart?
Of course, he hadn’t. The yellow viol was a masterpiece. Only a lunatic would consider committing such an atrocity.
Or maybe not. What if someone familiar with the old viols had tried it? Cubiak wondered. What then?
Luthiers don’t keep Sunday hours, and the best the sheriff could do was leave messages with three of the experts, urging them to return his calls.
With nothing to do but wait, he grabbed his phone and went for a run. He normally did five miles but pushed for seven that afternoon. The phone call he was waiting for came when he was in the shower. He was dressed and back in the kitchen when he noticed the red light blinking. One of the experts had called back. As he was listening to the message he heard a noise from outside. It sounded like a branch rubbing against the house or something scratching at the wooden deck. He ignored it. The noise came again and was followed by a whimpering. Then silence.
From the door, the deck and beach looked deserted. Cubiak was turning to go back in when the soft whining started again. He was halfway around the house when he spotted Kipper crouched beneath a bush. As he approached, the dog struggled to get up. His head and left flank drooped and he seemed to have trouble standing. Déjà vu swept over Cubiak. Butch had been injured too the first time he had seen her.
He ran to the dog and scooped him up. Kipper yelped and hung limply in his arms. His white and brown fur was wet and sticky. His front paws were streaked with blood.
“My God, what happened?” Cubiak said. The possibilities were all bad—accident, fight, attack.
Inside, he laid the dog on the table and gently muzzled him with a dishcloth.
“Where’s Cate?” he said.
Kipper whimpered and tried to raise his head.
Something was terribly wrong. Cate would never leave the injured dog. Where was she?
The sheriff punched his wife’s number into his phone. There was a pause and then a click as the connection went through. Another moment passed and the familiar jingle of Cate’s cell rang out from the living room.
Cubiak froze. Cate never left the house without her mobile. She took it if she was going to the garage or walking the dog. She carried it everywhere, a habit she had developed as a photographer for National Geographic because she never knew when she would get a call or when she might need to make a call. Given the nature of some of her assignments, the phone could be a lifesaver.
He had to do something.
The sheriff called Rowe. There was no answer.
He phoned Bathard. “Cate’s gone and Kipper’s hurt.” He ran his hand over the dog’s left flank. “I think he’s been shot and I found Cate’s cell in the house. She’d never leave without it. I think someone grabbed her. They took Kipper, too, and then shot him. They could have killed the dog, but they didn’t. Why not?” he said.
“Slow down, Dave. I don’t understand, what are you saying?”
The sheriff pressed on, thinking out loud. “Whoever took Cate injured Kipper and left him here as a message to me: look what we did to your dog; imagine what we will do to your wife.” My pregnant wife, he thought.
“Do you have any idea who’s behind this? Any idea where she might be?” Bathard said.
Cubiak didn’t hesitate. “It must be that fucking Ubell and that woman, the fake Helen Kulas. I’m sure of it. They’re probably holding her at the condo, waiting for me to show up. I’m guessing that they have the yellow viol and need my help to get away.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got to go find her. I need you to take Kipper to the vet. Keep your phone with you. I’ll try the condo first. If you don’t hear from me within a half hour it means I’m right about them holding her there. If that happens, I want you to call me at the condo. Not my cell but the landline. You have it?”
“Yes.”
“We won’t answer but don’t hang up. Let it ring. They can wonder who it is. When it goes to voice mail, pretend it’s a social call and leave a message. Then contact Rowe and tell him this: The fake Helen must have copied the key to Cate’s townhouse, and she and Ubell are hiding out there. They have the yellow viol and are holding Cate, and I’m there as well.”
“What do you want him to do?”
“Tell Mike not to do anything until he hears from me.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. Be careful.”
17
THE BLUE HOUR
Be careful. Bathard’s parting words echoed in the stillness as the jeep rolled over the dune into the fading light. It was the blue hour, what Cate called l’heure bleue, the period at the end of day when the deep blue of twilight melted into the inky black of night, a time when the day’s promises were recalled and the night’s revealed.
“Be careful? No,” Cubiak said. He had to be smart and fearless. Caution was an option, not a priority. Three lives were at stake: Cate’s, the baby’s—their baby’s—and his. Without his realizing it, his misgivings about the child had vanished with the threat of impending danger. He couldn’t afford to thin
k of a time that existed before or beyond the next few hours. Only one thing mattered: that he protect his wife and unborn infant from harm. Even if it meant his life.
The first star sparkled low in the southeast. The light was vivid against the charcoal sky and glowed like a talisman from a different world. As he drove toward it, he felt a strange calm settle his nerves. What was it that Bathard had said? No one saves us but ourselves. Well, then, he thought, I have a job to do if I’m going to save anyone.
The sheriff had no chance of surprising Ubell. The German expected him to show. Cubiak had options: he could call his deputies in and also request assistance from the sheriffs’ departments in neighboring counties, but either would take time. Even with backup surrounding the complex, what chance did he have of negotiating a peaceful surrender? Probably none, given Ubell’s criminal record and the sheriff’s suspicion that he had already killed three people and had nearly beaten George Payette to death.
Ubell didn’t want to talk. He wanted to escape Door County, and for that he needed the sheriff’s help. The most Cubiak could hope for was that he could convince him to release Cate and take him in her place. That was Plan A. There was no Plan B—not yet.
Without traffic, the sheriff could make it from the house to the condo in just under ten minutes. But this was summer, and a long string of cars and trucks filled the roadway, like a trackless train. Anywhere else, he could crisscross the backroads to get around, but in this part of the county the main drag was the shortest and only direct route. He had to stay with it. He left Jacksonport riding the bumper of a blue convertible from the Sunshine State. As soon as space opened up, he flew past and then hopscotched around three more cars. And after that, another two and a truck. On each attempt, he played chicken with the approaching traffic. Finally, he reached Valmy and turned onto a side road. From there, he sped east toward the lake.
Death Rides the Ferry Page 15