Death Stalks Door County

by Patricia Skalka

  The vet looked up, amused. “Unusual name, Sheriff. For a girl.”

  Cubiak grimaced. “How’d you know who I was?”

  Pushing back a mountain of brown curls, the vet peered into the animal’s floppy ears. “Everyone knows who you are.” She kept up her inspection. “Butch isn’t spayed. You want her fixed?”

  “No,” he answered automatically.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” he said, wondering if he really was sure.

  Butch needed a splint, a full regimen of immunizations, and preventive medicine for fleas. “The free ones always end up costing the most,” the vet observed dryly as Cubiak wrote a check for the total. On his way out of town, he bought a dog bed and matching orange bowls for food and water.

  As often happens in late fall, Door County enjoyed a brief interlude of unseasonably warm weather. Temperatures reached the low seventies in the afternoons and continued mild long past dusk. After supper one evening, Cubiak fed the dog, tidied up the kitchen, and cracked a beer. Navigating by starlight, he carried an old aluminum chair to the patch of scrubby lawn between the house and the water.

  The lake was black and flat. As Cubiak watched, a giant hunter’s moon crested along the horizon and released a line of liquid silver over the water. Drifting upward, the moon illuminated an increasingly larger segment of the shoreline, unmasking trees and rocks and welcoming spirits from the shadowy universe they inhabited. Ghosts from Cubiak’s past and ghosts from pasts too long gone for him to know walked the damp sand. The luminous land made room for all and eased the pain of remembering. Transfixed, he sat quietly and thought of Lauren and Alexis. For the first time since they had died, he felt more love than sorrow, more peace than despair.

  “Thank you,” he whispered into the night, sure that they were listening and could hear him.

  Butch floated through the stillness and rested her chin on Cubiak’s knee. Happy for the company, he scratched between the dog’s ears.

  After a while, he pointed to a bright dot low on the horizon. “There’s Venus,” he said. “Or Mars. One of the two. Big Dipper’s behind us.” Cubiak twisted around to make sure the constellation hadn’t drifted from view. “North Star’s up there, too. And the Milky Way. Not that easy to see tonight but it’s there. You just have to believe me and take it on faith.” He lifted his chin in the general direction of the celestial roadway. “That’s it. All I know.”

  Butch sighed, deeply content.

  Lulled by the shushing of the water over the shoreline pebbles, they fell into a companionable silence. When Cubiak finally rose, the moon had crossed to the west. The evening’s glittery magic had faded, and the air had chilled. It was late.

  “Come on,” he called to the dog. “Let’s go home.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During one of my first visits to Door County, Wisconsin, I sat on the Lake Michigan shore as a deep mysterious quiet settled over the peninsula. Anything can happen here, I thought. Indeed much did. Cozy Thanksgiving celebrations. Summer days of long walks and kayaking and creating castles and candles in the sand. Beach fires with wine and good friends. Nights tracking the moon’s silvery path across the rumpled surface of the water.

  When I began to write this book, there was no question of the locale. It had to be set in Door County. I learned much in the process and have many people to thank.

  First, my dear Ray, whose belief in the story and my ability to tell it never wavered. Then, my daughters, Julia and Carla, who provided unfailing support and encouragement.

  Others who have critiqued and helped shape the work include both friends and colleagues. My deepest appreciation to all: B. E. Pinkham, Esther Spodek, and Jeanne Mellett, the talented members of my writing group; Barbara Bolsen, Anna Fallon, Rachel Shefner, Jeanne Zasadil, Maura Kiley, and Betty Giorgi, the outstanding women of my book group; and the many others—Max Edinburgh, Tom Groenfeldt, Lisa Dresdner, Norm Rowland, Lee Somerville, Kevin Desinger, Pat Shaw, Carol Moffat, Jeffry Salyer, Lauren Phillips, Russ E. Stoll, and Jenny Lindsay—who either read the manuscript in its various stages or simply cheered me on. Your input was invaluable.

  Special thanks to Door County Sheriff Terry Vogel, who graciously explained the workings of local law enforcement and understood my need to occasionally bend reality to fit the story, and who bears no resemblance to the fictional sheriff in my book. Also to Fred Shafer, whose editorial comments and suggestions always pointed in the right direction; the late Ruth Talaber, a woman of many talents who urged me to get on with my work because life is short; The Authors Guild, for help with the business side of being a writer; and Off Campus Writers Workshop, for a steady flow of inspiring programs and lectures.

  Finally, my sincere gratitude to the staff at the University of Wisconsin Press, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila McMahon, Carla Marolt, Elena Spagnolie, Matthew Cosby, and Brontë Weiland, for their thoughtful and generous assistance.

  Thank you all. Because of you, there is this one and there will be more.