The Thorensons pressed together in the middle of the first row. Behind them, Martha Smithson struggled to save a few square inches of space. She waved to Cubiak. “If you see Cate, tell her to hurry. I can’t hold her spot much longer.”
Floyd Touhy strolled past with his black-strapped Nikon dangling from his neck. Nearby, Bathard waited in the shade of a towering American elm.
The coroner’s brow was furrowed with worry. But he often looked like that. “I left one of the nurses at the first aid station. Had to come up for my niece. She’s in one or two of the waterskiing acts,” he said.
Near the ridge, Cubiak intercepted the sheriff ’s recruits. He dispatched half the men into the woods behind the stands and assigned the rest to mingle with the crowd.
“Fan out and keep alert,” he directed.
“What are we looking for?” one deputy said.
“Anything or anyone that shouldn’t be there. Anyone acting suspiciously.”
The show opened with an explosion of fireworks that brought the crowd to its feet, roaring its approval.
Sixty minutes of aerial and waterskiing acrobatics followed. For the finale, six statuesque young women formed a human pyramid on the shoulders of four waterskiing Greek gods while five parasailers floated overhead, nylon ribbons of neon pink, purple, and yellow streaming from their shoulder harnesses. It was quite a show. Physical strength. Technical exactness. Skimpy suits. The audience loved it.
Cubiak sat through the spectacle, seeing only imagined disasters.
The performance went off flawlessly. The biggest challenge was unsnarling the traffic that jammed the roads after the show ended and the spectators dispersed.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Cubiak was heading back to Jensen Station when a silver Corvette cruised through the park entrance and halted in a patch of bright sun. Despite having Wisconsin plates, the vintage car shimmered like an apparition from a Beach Boys song.
The driver’s window lowered, and a woman turned and waved. Her blond hair combined with dark glasses and khaki jacket to evoke the image of a surfer girl on safari.
It was Cate. “I forgot to check supplies for the kids’ photo class I teach. I do it whenever I’m around for the festival,” she said as Cubiak approached. “Where you headed?”
“Lunch.”
“I know a place. You want to go? Get away from all this whatever for a little while?”
Later, Cubiak would wonder why he didn’t say no.
They traveled east from the park and quickly left behind the tourist side of Door County. Barely a quarter mile inland, cherry orchards and dairy farms took the place of gift shops and restaurants. Cubiak closed his eyes.
The ’Vette was a smooth ride and Cate was a good driver. At the junctures, she downshifted to second, rolled to an easy stop, and then moved back up through the gears in a rhythmic, fluid motion that allowed the thoroughbred vehicle to surge forward effortlessly.
“Someone told me once that if you drive a car a hundred miles an hour and blow the horn, you won’t be able to hear it, ’cause you’d be going faster than the sound waves. I tried it when I was sixteen. It worked. I didn’t hear a thing.” Cate laughed. “Now I get safety awards from my insurance company.”
Cubiak dozed. When he woke, they were nearing the northern tip of the peninsula. He assumed they were going to eat in Gills Rock but Cate blew past the fishing village and hung a right. Were they heading back to Ruby’s? Before they reached the Schumacher homestead, Cate turned into the forest and stopped before an imposing metal gate.
“Where are we?” Cubiak said.
“The Wood.”
“The what?”
“You’ve never heard of The Wood?” Cate scowled at him. “I thought everyone knew about The Wood. It was my grandparents’ summer cottage. Ruby and my mother practically grew up here but no one’s lived here since Grandfather died. The house exemplifies his curious and eccentric ways. I haven’t been back for years. Wonder if it’s changed.”
Cate pulled a large skeleton key from her bag. “You mind?”
The gate was elaborately scrolled and spiked and loomed like a barrier against the world. But when Cubiak turned the key, it swung open effortlessly.
“What kind of place is this?” he said when he got back to the car.
“You’ll see.”
A quarter mile into dense woods, they pulled into a large clearing.
Cubiak whistled under his breath. “Jesus. Some cottage,” he said, taking in the stately residence across the yard.
“Yeah, right,” Cate said.
The Wood was an old-money summer retreat. Out front, marble nymphs and deer spurted water in a large fountain surrounded by quadrants of formal rose gardens that were encased by a wide ribbon of Kentucky bluegrass, which in turn was girded by a white stone driveway lined with life-size statues of archers with drawn bows. The huntsmen faced away from the house, a three-story Bavarian hunting lodge that managed to look both ostentatious and comfortable, with its gently sloping roof, dark-stained wood, and red shutters. A balcony ringed the second floor, and lush red geraniums bloomed in the window boxes.
“A bit much, I know, but Grandfather knew what he liked,” Cate said, sounding apologetic.
She led him past the flower beds and around the house to the front lawn, then down a brick path to the edge of a high cliff where a wooden deck cantilevered into the air.
“You first,” she said stepping aside. “I have vertigo. I need a minute.”
Cubiak hesitated. He wasn’t fond of heights either and had to think his way to the far side of the platform where water and sky made up the only visible universe. “The ‘Door’?” he said, indicating the white-capped blue spread out before him.
“Yes. But that’s not what I wanted you to see. Look there.” Gripping the rail, Cate pulled herself onto the deck and pointed northeast to a white lens-shaped mass spiraling into the azure sky. “It’s a lenticular cloud above Washington Island. Locals claim it’s a unique meteorological phenomenon triggered by a land mass between two bodies of cold water.”
Cubiak scoffed. “Sounds apocryphal.”
“Maybe. Those kinds of clouds usually form only at high altitudes. I’ve seen them a couple of times in different places, but there it is. You can see for yourself, and it happens here only during the summer. Has something to do with the wind currents, I believe.”
As she spoke a draft of cool air blew across the deck. Cate laughed and held up a second key. It was brass and half the size of the one that operated the gate. “Now the house,” she said.
They entered through a rear door.
“Hello,” Cate shouted twice into the heavy silence. “See, I told you. Nobody home,” she said.
The vacant house had an eerie, lived-in feel. The back porch smelled of fresh paint. Rain jackets and boots were set out in the mud room. A set of earthenware dishes was displayed on open shelves in the kitchen. Fresh daisies filled a vase on the rough-hewn table by the windows. The pantry was stocked with canned goods and bottled water. The refrigerator held perishables and a bottle of Riesling chilling on its side. Cate picked it up and showed Cubiak. “German, 1918.”
Cubiak looked around. He couldn’t imagine such extravagance. “Why all this?”
“Paranoia? Grandfather always expected the worst and wanted his family to be prepared. He even added a special codicil to his will establishing a fund to pay for the upkeep of the house, in case any of us ever needed to get away,” Cate said.
“Away from what?”
Cate raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Who knows? Pretty crazy, huh?”
She kept talking as he followed her up the rear stairwell. “You’d think ‘The Wood’ refers to the trees outside, but it doesn’t. It’s for the floors. Each room has a different kind of wood floor made from lumber that was locally grown and milled. The hall is birch from Washington Island. The kitchen, maple from a grove near Ephraim. There’s oak in the living room.”
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On the second floor landing, Cate stripped off her jacket. She wore a black tank top and smelled of sweat and suntan oil. “One more,” she said and started up the next flight. Close behind her, Cubiak was suddenly aware of her long bare limbs and the fact they were alone in this strange, isolated place.
“Grandmother’s painting studio,” Cate announced, stepping into a large room that faced the water. The salon was airy and full of light, with stretched canvases and folded easels stacked in a corner.
“Here’s my favorite, the nursery,” she said, crossing the hall. The nursery was a storehouse of childhood treasures. Antique toys and games. Delicate porcelain dolls. A three-story Victorian dollhouse. Intricately carved wooden cars. On a table under a high window, an elaborate electric train that circled a village of wooden cottages and shops.
Cate turned over a miniature pink house. “Look at the inside, how tiny and perfect everything is.” As she set it down, the front of her shirt fell away, revealing the soft mounds of her breasts. Cubiak felt a stirring.
“I loved hanging out here when I was a kid. Even school was fun,” Cate said as she set the house down.
“School?” Cubiak snapped from his reverie. “You went to school at The Wood?”
“I played school. Mother and Aunt Ruby went to school here.” Cate swept aside a beige curtain, revealing a miniclassroom with two old-fashioned desks bolted to the floor. “Two hours every day, all summer. Grandfather was their teacher. He considered schools in general too lax and developed his own instructional methods.” Cate pulled down a large wall map, its world view hopelessly outdated. “Odd as he was I liked Grandfather. He was always nice to me.”
“And to your mother and Aunt Ruby?”
“To them, he was the law. Mother sometimes forgot her lessons and got her knuckles rapped with a ruler. But not Ruby. Aunt Ruby never forgot anything.”
It wasn’t all drudge, she explained, as they returned to the first floor. They had fun, too. Parties and friends. “From what I heard, Beck was a regular guest when the girls were teenagers. He had Grandfather’s imprimatur. Grandfather felt the two families came from the same mold. His had made a fortune in breweries; the Becks got rich with their stone quarry. Beer and bricks, Grandfather liked to say. He probably envisioned one of his girls marrying Beck.”
They were in a room with burgundy walls, dark leather furniture, and an iron fireplace. The fireplace was flanked by heraldic sconces and the mounted heads of deer and moose. In the corner, a Kodiak bear reared upright on its hind legs, its teeth and claws glistening. A small brass plaque put the animal at nine hundred pounds, taken in Alaska a half century earlier.
“Grandfather’s study. He was a hunter.” Cate patted the bear. “Grandma was furious when he taught Ruby and Mother to shoot. The guns are all still here, locked up, of course.”
A black-and-white photo on a side table showed the proud father holding a Weatherby Mark V and standing between his daughters. Cubiak read the inscription: “Ruby and Rosalinde.” They were beautiful young women, relaxed and smiling, cradling their own rifles in their arms, preserved forever in a portrait of patriarchy and privilege. “They look like twins.”
“A lot of people made that mistake,” Cate said. As she moved alongside him, Cubiak caught a whiff of her perfume. “But they were totally different. Ruby was stubborn and strong like Grandfather. My mother was fragile, always doctoring with one thing or another. Nerves, mostly. That’s why I came up here for the summers. I liked to run around, do things, and Ruby and Dutch didn’t seem to mind the racket.
“My mother always said that Grandfather loved Ruby best, but after she married Dutch against his wishes, he cut her off completely, wouldn’t even allow her to see Grandmama when she was dying. My mother sneaked her into the hospital late one night. Mother said Ruby never understood how her father could be so faithful to a wife he didn’t love and so easily discard a daughter he adored.”
They had moved from the study to the living room. “I promised you lunch, didn’t I? Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll pull together something to eat,” Cate said.
Cubiak sank into a soft overstuffed chair and looked out at an unblemished expanse of trees, water, and sky, a view reflected in the soft watercolors and oils on the walls. Mirror images. Double images.
He wished he’d asked for a beer. That should be okay, he thought, as he held out his hand, amazed at how steady it was.
He was nearly asleep when Cate padded in and set a plate of sandwiches on the coffee table. “Here,” she said as she nudged his knee and handed him a glass and a chilled bottle of Pilsner. Then she poured one for herself and sat on the sofa facing him, her bare feet tucked up under her.
They talked easily, and, later, each would remember that it was the other who had reached out first across the table. There was longing and familiarity in the touch, an acknowledgment of unspoken attraction and need as they came together. Pressing into Cate, Cubiak escaped the sexual limbo to which he’d been confined since Lauren’s death. He had forgotten the sweet sorrow and joy of complete surrender, and when it was over, he lurched away a happy man. Intimacy affirmed not just his masculinity but his humanity. It confirmed a belief in life and hope and the future. He felt whole again, but his exhilaration was short lived. Guilt waited patiently in the corner, and as he relaxed against the soft cushions, it stole forward and claimed him once again.
When Cate finished in the kitchen, she found Cubiak on the deck, a lit cigarette in his hand and two butts crushed at his feet.
“Dave?”
A twitch in his shoulders signaled that he’d heard her, but he didn’t turn around. Keeping her eyes down and stepping lightly, Cate approached him.
“Dave?”
Cubiak remained with his back toward her. He’d been unerringly faithful to Lauren, had withstood frequent sometimes mean badgering from other men on the force because of it. After she died, he never imagined wanting anyone else. How could he even look at another woman after that last spiteful remark he’d made to his wife?
“We have to go,” Cate said. She reached out and touched his arm.
Cubiak jerked away. Had he anticipated this happening? Was that why he’d come with Cate? He knew he was being unfair to her, but he couldn’t help it.
“Ruby’s unveiling is tonight. I have to drive you back and get ready.”
Their easy companionability had disappeared, and they rode back in an awkward silence. “You can’t go on like this,” Cate said at one point, but he didn’t respond and she kept her thoughts to herself for the rest of the drive.
“This is fine,” he said at the park entrance. Cate hit the brakes.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he got out.
“For what happened? Or the way you reacted?” The questions were quick and arrow sharp.
He reddened. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
A wave of something like sympathy passed over her face. “I know.”
He wanted to say more but someone behind tooted a horn. He closed the door and Cate drove away, just as he had the night they met.
Cubiak had been gone longer than expected and it was nearly half past five when he reached Jensen Station. The table wasn’t set but Ruta had prepared a cold supper. “No time to cook,” she said apologetically.
Cubiak wasn’t hungry but took a ham sandwich to please her. “Entwhistle?” he said.
“I find no one.”
“That’s okay. There’s time.” He wished he believed that.
Cubiak ate without thinking and then went up to shower and change.
By the time he arrived at Birchwood Lodge, the lobby and two front parlors were full. He saw Bathard talking with a couple across the room and recognized more than a dozen locals with prominent names. The other guests were artsy types, outsiders. Women draped in silver jewelry. Several men wore cashmere blazers and silk ascots.
A beaming Martha Smithson grabbed Cubiak’s wrist. “Like old times,” she said, her fac
e shining despite a fresh layer of powder.
“Where’s Ruby?”
“Probably throwing up somewhere. She gets horribly nervous before these things.” Martha nudged him conspiratorially. “Artistic temperament.”
Cubiak couldn’t tell if she approved or not. He murmured something noncommittal and then slipped off. At the bar, a waiter offered white wine. He asked for tonic with lime, and as he waited, Ruby materialized in the main lobby. She appeared without fanfare and so simply dressed in a long fawn tunic, she made the others look garish by comparison. Nonplussed, she welcomed her admirers with handshakes and air kisses as a cadre of greeters ushered the audience into the grand ballroom. On the far wall, a silky cream tarp hung from the ceiling to the floor.
Cubiak hardly noticed the display. He was remembering the afternoon and looking for Cate. Whom did he think he was kidding? He’d wanted her. At least that much he could admit.
Martha reappeared at Cubiak’s side. “That’s funny,” she whispered.
“What?” he said. It’s complicated, he’d told Cate. But wasn’t that true of life? Wasn’t everything complicated?
“I’d heard it was a two-sided weaving. So why’s it hanging against the wall like that so you can’t see the other side?”
“I don’t know,” he said as Ruby stepped onto the dais. Beck and several others were waiting and Ruby was smiling broadly. “She doesn’t seem to mind.”
Martha snapped a bra strap. “Go figure.”
Beck waited for the room to quiet and then introduced the director of the state cultural association, who gave a short but flattering speech about the guest of honor. Asked to say a few words, Ruby simply thanked everyone for coming.
When she finished, Little Miss Cherry Blossom was escorted to the front of the stage. Beck handed the eight-year-old a cord that extended to the top of the sheeting. With Ruby on the far side, the child tugged and the tarpaulin slipped to the floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen, ‘Trees of Our Lives,’” the curator intoned. Ruby did not correct him. The audience’s appreciative murmurs swelled into polite applause.
Death Stalks Door County Page 15