“Why go around Horseshoe? Isn’t it closer to cut along this side of the island?”
“Aye.” Breuder blinked into the sun. “Shorter distance for sure, but takes longer cause of the currents.” As he talked, he handed over the contract and watched Cubiak scrawl his name.
When the formalities were complete, Cubiak stepped into the boat, regaining his balance as the bottom shifted underfoot.
“Course you’re talking about Sunday, and on Sunday Benny would’ve gone into town first, before heading back,” Breuder drawled on, pretending not to notice Cubiak’s clumsy attempt at righting himself. “Martha Smithson over at the bakery makes her fresh pecan rolls every Sunday morning starting in early June. Benny had a soft spot for them. Some say for her, too.” He hesitated. “It was Sunday, wasn’t it?”
Breuder was right, Cubiak realized. At Beck’s party, Cate had told him that Benny had gone into Ephraim early for pecan rolls. If he was on the water, returning home, around the time Wisby was on the tower, he might have seen what happened.
Cubiak was suddenly self-conscious about engaging the motor in front of Breuder, but the old man seemed to have forgotten him. While Cubiak fiddled with the controls, the pier manager stared past the boat toward the park and Falcon Tower. Was he thinking the same thing? Before Cubiak could ask, Breuder turned on his heel and shuffled back toward his shanty office.
Cubiak was grateful that the water was calm. Dodging a cluster of small pleasure craft, he retraced Macklin’s path as best he could. According to Breuder, Macklin would have moored at the Christiana’s private pier. It was the near the bakery and since the season wasn’t officially underway, he wouldn’t have worried about trespass warnings—not that Macklin would have heeded the signs even during season, Breuder added. Cubiak didn’t share that luck. The Chris’s water access was cordoned off for swimming and the dock hopscotched with guests’ floating jetsam, making it impossible for him to get within one hundred feet of land. Offshore, he idled the engine and let the boat coast to an easy stop. As it rocked beneath him, Cubiak pulled out the binoculars.
They were deceptively light. He draped the thin strap around his neck and, for a quick test, scanned Ephraim. The lens power surprised him. The village’s narrow lanes ran at his feet. Uphill, the cottages were an arm’s length distant. In one garden, he watched a young woman carefully snip roses, both the flowers and her face visible in vivid detail, down to the delicately scalloped edges of the petals and the mole on her right cheek.
Comfortable with the heft and manipulation of the binoculars, Cubiak reengaged the motor and pivoted the boat 180 degrees. He moved at a trolling speed, taking his time, as he pictured Macklin doing with the Betsy Ross that Sunday morning. Like Benny, he crossed the cove, running parallel to the park and occasionally scanning the cliff face with the binoculars. He made several passes, each one equally frustrating. No matter where he was when he looked up, the bluff blocked Falcon Tower from view. He was approaching Horseshoe Island before he got a clear view of the upper portion of the structure through the lenses. Even then the result was disappointing. There were several people moving about on the platform and two people ascending. Cubiak could make out the people on top but the faces of those on the stairs were blocked by the steps and hidden in shadow. Assuming Benny had noticed a second person coming up the tower after Wisby, he wouldn’t have known who it was.
Breuder was out when Cubiak returned the boat. A lanky, suntanned teenager haphazardly hung the key on a pegboard inside the office door, scribbled his initials on the receipt, and returned Cubiak’s driver’s license. Breuder would have asked how it went. The boy didn’t bother.
Cubiak headed back to square one. Falcon Tower.
Falcon Tower loomed over the surrounding trees, a symbol of humanity’s dominion over nature. The trapezoidal structure was supported by thick corner beams that gradually tapered inward as they rose up seven floors. Cubiak climbed to the first platform and then trudged past the second.
The last flight carried him above the treetops. He’d seen the view before but it still grabbed him. This was Door County at its purest: water, land, forest.
Two adults and a teenage girl stood at the railing. “Horseshoe Island and the Strawberry Islands,” the man said, pivoting from right to left and stabbing his index finger in the air. “Come and look,” he said to two children, a boy and a girl, who huddled in the center of the deck.
“Stop acting so silly. There’s nothing to be scared about,” the woman said, her tone mean and dismissive. Was she the mother, the stepmom, or maybe Dad’s new girlfriend?
Cubiak grinned reassuringly at the youngsters. “It’s okay to be afraid. Lots of people are,” he said.
The woman started to say something, then noticed Cubiak’s uniform and clamped shut, settling for a raspy throat noise instead of a snappy retort.
Finally, they left and Cubiak was alone on the tower. He scanned the inlet. Most of the cove was visible. There were even more boats out now, two of them proximate to the route Macklin would have taken. Without the binoculars, the vessels were little more than smudges against the blue water. Cubiak could discern color and, on several, humped shapes at the helms but nothing else. Certainly not enough detail to allow for a positive identification. The same was true looking out from the stairs.
If Macklin couldn’t make out who’d been on the steps the morning Wisby had dropped off the top, what could he have told Entwhistle that would make any difference? And if the alleged second person couldn’t ID Macklin’s boat, where was the motive for murdering him? Could the fisherman’s death really have been an accident? Cate said Macklin loved his boat and that even drunk he wouldn’t be reckless around the Betsy Ross. Which brought Cubiak back to the unknown figure Macklin saw climbing Falcon Tower the morning Wisby died.
From the water, Macklin could distinguish two people on the tower but he couldn’t say more than that. If the second person, the one on the stairs, knew Macklin was in the bay that morning, then the old man might have been killed as a precaution, making the death look like an accident. But who, other than a local, would know anything about Macklin’s routines? Was it possible the fisherman was killed by someone he knew?
According to Beck, Macklin told Entwhistle he saw two people on the tower that morning, “one on top, waving like all get out, and the other coming up the stairs.” That put Wisby facing toward the bay. With his back to the stairs, he wouldn’t see anyone below still on the steps. If he was on his own, he wouldn’t even realize that someone had followed him up.
Cubiak imagined three different scenarios. One: The person on the stairs was a young woman known to Wisby. They’d started the climb together but he reached the top first. Spotting Macklin’s boat, he waved. Then, foolishly hoping to impress his female friend when she finally reached the upper platform, he climbed the railing and slipped off just as she got to the top. Two: They were lovers. Perhaps he intended to propose atop the tower. When she announced that she was leaving him for another man, Wisby became overwhelmed with despair. Threatening to do himself in if she left him, he scrambled onto the railing and accidently plunged to his death. Three: Wisby had climbed the tower alone. Waving and shouting at Macklin, he was taken by surprise, knocked off balance, and hurled over the ledge by the mystery climber. Why? And who was the unknown assailant?
From Falcon Tower, Cubiak proceeded to the other sites, following the order in which he’d listed the victims’ names: the dock at Fish Creek, Turtle Bay Campground, William Garrity Lighthouse, Ricochet Hill. At each one, dozens of images materialized. He sank into them, hoping some new detail would emerge.
Nothing did. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something important. But what?
Driving back to Jensen Station, Cubiak drew a mental map of the route he’d followed that afternoon. The image reinforced what he already knew, that each victim had died in or near the park. But it also revealed something else. Each death had occurred in a locale that w
as readily accessible to someone familiar with the surrounding area and yet isolated enough that it could be reached by a killer intent on not being seen. There were probably dozens of people with that kind of intimate knowledge of the park but only one Cubiak could name who had a motive as well.
Whom to trust with his suspicions?
In a different life, when Cubiak was a real cop, he’d learned to follow his instincts, and instinct told him to confide in Bathard.
There was no answer at the coroner’s office. Cubiak tried Bathard’s house and caught the housekeeper as she was about to leave. She told him that the doctor and his wife were out to an early dinner and, yes, she knew where they had gone.
MONDAY EVENING
Fish Creek was thick with tourists, and, in the hubbub, Cubiak nearly missed seeing the coroner near the side entrance of Babe and Ray’s, one of the town’s most popular supper clubs. Bathard had his arm around the shoulder of one woman and was talking to another. The ranger ditched the jeep behind Evangeline Davis’s diner and caught up with the three as they slowly progressed toward Sarah Humble’s.
Cubiak had never met Cornelia. A photo in the coroner’s office showed her petite and waiflike even in good health. Cancer had diminished her to a wisp of flesh and bone. She was a sliver, hung on the arms of her companions, both of them hard pressed to mask their alarm. “So pleased to meet you,” she said. Her hand was a feather in Cubiak’s calloused palm.
The other woman looked like Cornelia’s robust twin. “My sister-in-law, Helen,” Bathard said, introducing her to Cubiak.
“I’m on a roll,” Cornelia chirped as the two shook hands.
Cubiak lowered his glance, barely able to look at her. “I need to talk to you,” he told the physician.
The two men settled Cornelia in the car with Helen and then followed the bike path to Pechta’s. This far from the town center, the only sounds were the buzz of mosquitoes and the hard crunch of gravel underfoot. The wind off the bay smelled faintly of fish. The duo was quiet, each man caught up in his own thoughts. Inside the bar, they took a rear booth. The coroner ordered a whiskey, neat. Cubiak asked for tonic with lime. At that, Bathard allowed a slight rise of the eyebrows.
“Things change,” Cubiak said as Amelia went to pour their drinks.
“Indeed. Certainly did for me.” Bathard concentrated on filling his pipe. “I’m not just a country rube, you know. I worked in the big city, too. Until the day I got a parking citation for exceeding the time at the meter.”
“You give up easily.”
“The reason I overstayed my allotted time involved a medical emergency. I was in the library reference center when a middle-aged patron went into cardiac arrest. Fortunately, I was able to resuscitate the man before the paramedics arrived. Afterward, as a matter of principle, I accompanied him to the ER and waited for authorities to locate a family member. As you might assume, this took quite a while and I returned to the library to find not one but several citations slapped on the windshield. The patient recovered and called me several weeks later. It turns out he’d been ticketed as well. We considered going to court together and explaining the circumstance, but we never did. For some reason, I remained fixated on the travesty of the tickets and finally decided that this incident was probably the first in a long list of indignities and injustices I’d be forced to endure simply because of the nature of the city. Too big. Too impersonal. Six months later, I returned to Door County and I’ve been here since.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
Bathard furrowed his brow and tamped the bowl. “Sometimes. But mostly not. Life was very good for many years, before Cornelia became ill.” The coroner looked past Cubiak. “Tuesdays are the worst. That’s when the obituaries appear. She reads them all and recites the details to me when I get home. If the cause of death is not included, she gets annoyed, as if she’s been cheated out of some necessary data. Age is important, too. Dying young upsets her. On one visit to the hospital, she saw a child leaving chemotherapy. Diminished to a shadow, poor chap, and crying. She refused to enter the department until he was gone. Next trip, she wore headphones—not that they were plugged in to anything. Just to block sound. She said she simply could not tolerate the thought of a child’s soul ascending to heaven.”
Cubiak saw Alexis with wings.
Bathard scowled at his unlit pipe. “The awful dilemma is that I could intercede and accelerate the process,” he began again. “We’ve discussed it, many times, but her ultimate decision, which I respect, is to let nature take its course. ‘You are burdened as my witness,’ she said, ‘but it is the lighter burden.’” The coroner signaled for another round. “She’s been in excruciating pain for days. Hence her sister’s arrival.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” For several minutes they sat in a companionable silence, both of them watching Amelia work the bar across the room.
“You’d think she’d hire some help,” Cubiak said at last.
“Not enough business to justify an employee—full or part time. Reluctant to part with any more money than necessary. Too stubborn to admit she can’t do it alone. Any number of reasons she’d give not to.”
Amelia limped toward them and set their drinks on the table. “Gentlemen.” She forced a tired smile, and then moved away.
Bathard took a hearty swallow. “Well, what is it?”
Cubiak related his conversation with Beck.
The doctor was quiet a moment. “It’s as I feared, then. More than we thought and certainly more than our sheriff can handle.” Bathard looked at the ranger. “What made you change your mind?”
“Things you said.” Cubiak paused. “Things that happened.”
“Well, I for one am happy to know you’re on the job. Did Leo acquiesce gracefully?”
“As well as could be expected, I guess. Beck was supposed to tell him but I ended up having to lay everything out this morning. I’ve been going over the evidence and trying to track down Buddy Entwhistle.”
“Try Thorenson. Buddy sometimes does odd jobs around the church. The reverend might know something about his whereabouts.”
“I will, thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Halverson’s locked up more bikers but I don’t think that’s going to mean anything.”
“Too random.”
“And too easy.” Cubiak shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think Petey is involved either. Alice’s death wasn’t a crime of passion. This is someone with a plan. At this point, Peninsula Park is the only common thread. There has to be a reason for everything happening there or near there, in Macklin’s case.” He hesitated, and when he finally spoke, it was with caution. “It might be Otto.”
Bathard looked at him with disdain. “That’s preposterous. Utterly and completely preposterous. I can’t believe that you would even consider Otto a suspect.”
“He has no alibi for any of the murders.”
“Or so you assume.”
“He discovered Wisby’s body and was close enough that he could easily have been the first person on the scene for the others as well. More often than not, that scenario alone points to the killer. The person who finds a body is often the one responsible for its being there in the first place.”
“You’re referring to police statistics. There are always exceptions. At any rate, you were at the dock when Macklin’s boat blew up and with Johnson when the bicyclists were discovered.”
“Otto’s truck was in the park not far from the pier where Macklin had docked his boat. He might have been working in the woods or skulking around the pier. On Saturday, he could have been out for hours before I saw him at breakfast and then pretended the lighthouse was his first stop. When I went back there with him, he did his best to contaminate the scene.”
The two men were quiet a moment.
“Otto has a motive,” Cubiak said finally.
“Too transparent.”
“You think so? He wants to close the park. Make it o
ff limits to people and transform it into some kind of nature preserve. He said so in public. At the meeting, he told everyone they’d be sorry for not backing his plan.”
Bathard looked doubtful. Cubiak went on. “In the late fifties, three young women were murdered in an Illinois state park. The place was near Chicago and popular with tourists. It took them a decade to recoup the numbers. People panic. They get scared. I think Otto’s counting on that happening here and helping him realize this crazy scheme he has.”
“He’d never kill Benny. They were friends.”
“He had to, to protect himself. Remember, Macklin saw the second person on the tower.”
“He claims he saw someone. He didn’t actually identify anyone, did he? If Benny thought the second person was Otto, why didn’t he tell Entwhistle?”
Cubiak had already considered the question. “Loyalty.”
“I don’t buy it.”
Amelia appeared with pretzels and fresh drinks. “On the house. In honor of the festival,” she trilled.
“Otto couldn’t have done it,” Bathard said when they were alone again.
“Convince me.”
Meticulous in his preparation, Bathard refilled his pipe and struck a match. “We’re near an open window. Amelia doesn’t mind,” he said. When the tobacco grabbed at the flame, the coroner took two long draws. “Just how knowledgeable are you about Quakers?”
“I know that they’re pacifists.”
“It goes further than that. Pacifists don’t kill, end of definition? To call a Quaker a pacifist is comparable to labeling Itzhak Perlman a violinist. It doesn’t even begin to convey the entire picture.”
Bathard inhaled another puff. Can’t smoke at home now, he explained matter-of-factly. After several more draws, the coroner went on. “Most people around here are Catholic, Lutheran, or Moravian. Otto’s a Quaker. His parents were, too, as were his grandparents. They were Moravian originally and became converts. Quakers by convincement, to use their terminology. As often happens with those who embrace a new religion as adults, they were purists who subscribed to the older, more orthodox form of the faith. The original Quakers eschewed format and ministers. Their meetings were unstructured. They simply sat and prayed quietly. Sharing the silence, I believe it’s called. If someone had something to say, that person stood up and said it. Personal conviction was strengthened when others concurred. Unanimity amounted to God’s blessing. That’s the kind of religion these people practiced.
Death Stalks Door County Page 11