Death in Cold Water

by Patricia Skalka

  “No doubt. But they won’t be interested in this.”

  That afternoon, Gerald Sneider was the lead story on the TV news broadcast by the three Green Bay stations that served the region. Earlier the Green Bay Packers had announced that the team was offering a ten thousand dollar reward for information about the emeritus director, who, it was reported, had disappeared Sunday afternoon while driving from the game in Chicago to his home in Ellison Bay. In his office, Cubiak flipped through the channels. On one, a talking head breathlessly suggested that Sneider might have fallen ill along the way or become disoriented and gotten lost.

  As a reporter related Sneider’s life story and extolled the virtues of the missing man, the department phones started ringing. The sheriff went into the incident room and confronted Moore. “You know about the reward?” he asked.

  “We approved it.”

  “I see,” Cubiak said. So much for being kept in the loop, he thought. “Now the deluge starts. The media demanding answers, and calls from people claiming they know where he is.”

  Moore shrugged. “For now, it’s ‘no comment’ to all media inquiries. As to the leads, we already heard from a man who claims he saw Sneider being lifted aboard an alien spaceship. But seriously, this could be helpful. Anything out of the area will be handled by our Green Bay office, but I’m depending on your team to follow up on all the local leads.”

  “Of course.”

  Later that evening, Cubiak sat in his kitchen and nursed a beer while he fed droplets of goat milk to the kittens. He’d hoped to have dinner with Cate, but she’d left a note saying she was working and would be home late. The sheriff heated a bowl of leftover stew in the microwave and forced down a couple of bites. After lunch on the beach with Cate, he didn’t feel like eating alone. He gave the rest of the food to Butch and opened another beer for himself.

  WORD GETS OUT

  As he turned up the drive to the justice center, Cubiak swore under his breath. The multimillion-dollar complex occupied once vacant pasture-land a couple miles from downtown Sturgeon Bay and was usually quiet this early. But that Tuesday morning, cars and SUVs littered the parking lot and three remote broadcasting trucks from Green Bay’s TV stations were lined up along the curb, their roofs sporting a sophisticated array of satellite dishes and antennas. A throng of men and women swarmed the main entrance.

  The center housed the sheriff ’s department, the jail, and the courthouse, and Cubiak figured the media mob was heading toward his side of the building. The news people were hot on the trail of the Sneider story.

  Bypassing his reserved spot, the sheriff parked in the farthest corner of the lot and loped around the west end of the building, intending to sneak in through the side entrance. After yesterday’s news, he figured a couple of reporters would show up looking for local color on Sneider, and he was fine with that. Cubiak generally got along well with individual reporters. He found them entertaining, hardworking, and founts of knowledge about obscure topics. It was reporters as media that made him uncomfortable.

  The media wanted black and white, and he was usually mucking around in the gray. Media didn’t like gray and grew impatient with him when that was what he insisted on providing.

  On the Sneider situation, he didn’t even have that much. He had nothing. As far as he knew, the feds had nothing either.

  Cubiak’s phone vibrated with a text from Moore: Press conference 30 min. The sheriff swore again. The FBI had pledged cooperation but it already looked as if the agents were holding out on him. What did they know that he didn’t?

  The sheriff pulled his tie and sports coat off the hanger on the back of the door and headed to the lobby.

  Moore and Harrison were waiting. The two were dressed and polished to a hard shine, a match for the anchors who were buffed and suited up in equal measure. The rest of the media were mostly a motley crew—up since dawn, buzzed on caffeine, and dressed in tired jeans and flannel shirts. They spent their time off camera, waiting endlessly for news to break, and were determined to be comfortable on the job.

  Cubiak glanced at the bank of microphones less than ten feet from Lisa’s desk.

  “A press conference?” he said quietly to the feds. “Nice if someone had given me a heads-up.”

  Harrison avoided eye contact.

  Moore arched an eyebrow. “Sometimes these things just happen,” he explained.

  Cubiak straightened his tie and gestured toward the mics. “Your show, then,” he said.

  When Special Agent Quigley Moore stepped up to the front, every take-charge instinct he’d displayed expanded exponentially.

  “I am here to give you an official statement concerning local philanthropist Gerald Sneider of Ellison Bay. Mr. Sneider was last seen at approximately 4 p.m. Sunday afternoon at Soldier Field in Chicago, when he left his skybox near the end of the game. He was unaccompanied and is presumed to be missing, which, as you all know, is why the Packers home office has issued a reward seeking information as to his whereabouts. At this time, this is all I can tell you.”

  Moore turned away from the microphones as if to leave.

  “Has Gerald Sneider been kidnapped?” The question came from the back of the room.

  Agent Moore spun around. “As I said already, we consider Mr. Sneider to be missing, nothing more.”

  “Do you suspect foul play?”

  “No.”

  “Is there any chance Sneider merely wandered off? Is he suffering from dementia?”

  “Mr. Sneider is reportedly in excellent health.”

  “Is it possible his disappearance is linked to the terrorist threats that have been made against the Packers and other NFL teams?”

  “There is nothing to indicate a connection between the two.”

  Standing before the press mob, Moore performed like a man born to the task. Cubiak had to hand it to him, the guy was a natural. Smooth. Evasive. Just distant enough to avoid being overly familiar but not so aloof that he seemed unapproachable.

  A husky cameramen slipped forward and knelt in front of the microphones. His powerful lens moved from Moore to Harrison, lingered on her, and then quickly skipped past Cubiak. Another hand shot into the air.

  “Why is the FBI involved?”

  Moore smiled. A photo op. “We just happened to be here as part of a routine field activity.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It’s routine. No comment beyond that at this time.”

  “You mean you’re not looking for Sneider?” The reporter could not hide her skepticism.

  “The Door County Sheriff ’s Department is gathering information on the possible whereabouts of Mr. Sneider. Since Agent Harrison and I are here, we’re happy to assist in any way possible.”

  “If you’re just helping out, why isn’t the sheriff taking the questions?” The call came from across the room, and Cubiak recognized the voice of Justin St. James, a local reporter for the Door County Herald.

  Moore either didn’t hear the question or ignored it.

  “Do you have any evidence of domestic terrorists in Door County?” This from came one of the Green Bay anchors.

  “No.”

  “What about the rest of the state? Madison especially?”

  “We are always on the alert for disenfranchised individuals.”

  The questions continued to pick up tempo. Had there been threats made against the shipyards? Was the coast guard tracking arms smugglers? Had officials discovered a cache of bombs on the peninsula?

  No to each.

  A dozen hands shot in the air.

  Moore glanced at his watch. “Time’s up, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you and good day.”

  Cameras clicked in a mad flurry, and then slowly the media circus spun to a close. There’d been plenty of B-roll shot but no news reported.

  St. James waved, trying to get the sheriff ’s attention. The reporter was stuck across the room, blocked by the crowd of men and women heading for the door. Cubiak turned down the hall before the yo
ung journalist could get through. The sheriff knew that for the Herald, the mere presence of federal officials was news and that St. James, who too often had nothing more to report on than upcoming festivals and unexpected bridge closings, would want to make as much of it as he could.

  Cubiak was hanging up his jacket when he heard the steady, harsh slap of Moore’s wingtips march down the tiled hall and stop by his door. The agent was not smiling when he stepped inside and glared at the sheriff.

  “The press must have gotten wind that we were here and figured that meant news. That’s what they’re all after, the big lead, the byline that will make their reputation. Now, how’d they find out the FBI was in Sturgeon Bay?” he said.

  Cubiak wasn’t smiling either. “No idea.”

  Moore inhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. Bags were starting to form under his eyes. There were jobs that aged a person, and Cubiak suspected that working for the FBI came with its own set of pressures. How quickly was Moore expected to produce results? the sheriff wondered. When they’d first met, Cubiak had assumed that the agent was in the hinterland working his way up, but maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Moore had messed up in one of the larger arenas and was on his way down. Botch this assignment and he’d find himself even lower on the food chain.

  After a moment Moore held up a hand in apology. “Sorry, but it’s always frustrating when this happens. Doesn’t bode well for the investigation when you don’t know whom to trust. But who else is there? The son doesn’t have anything to gain by attracting the press.”

  “No, but the Packers do. Plenty of free publicity for the team, if nothing else. If I had to guess, I’d say the story was leaked by someone in their office and not here.”

  Uninvited, the agent took a seat. “Maybe. Sneider’s going missing is a big enough story on its own to garner attention but toss us in and . . .” Moore threw up his hands. “At this point it doesn’t matter, but if it happens again, we may have a real problem. For now, the media’s not going anywhere soon, you can bet on that. They’ll camp out and wait for something to happen.”

  Moore swallowed a yawn and came back all business. “So what have you got? Anything?”

  “Our preliminary investigations haven’t uncovered any ongoing problems or anything illegal or unusual in Sneider’s past.”

  “Agent Harrison hasn’t finished combing through his papers but she hasn’t found anything remarkable yet either. So, so far a dead end. But of course she’s still looking, and she’s checking into Andrew as well. Looking for possible bad debts, questionable business associates, a rift in the family fabric. All the usual.”

  Moore stared past Cubiak to the window and the pasture across the road. When Cubiak arrived that morning, there’d been a herd of Holsteins grazing on the grass. He wondered if they were still there.

  “My family raised beef cattle, a bit different from dairy,” Moore said.

  “You, on a farm?” Cubiak said, unable to imagine Moore slinging a hay bale or mucking out a barn.

  “Actually it was a ranch. I grew up in northern Wyoming and couldn’t wait to get away. I thought life in the big city was the answer to every question I had. Now, I’m not so sure. What about you? This is a pretty tranquil environment you find yourself in. You like it?” Moore asked with a rueful smile.

  “I do, though it’s not always as tranquil as you think.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember hearing about a string of murders. When was that, three or four years ago?”

  “Four.” The start of my career here, Cubiak thought.

  “And you’re the guy who nailed it.”

  Cubiak glanced out the window. The cows had moved on. Moore was waiting for him to say something about the investigation that had led to his election as sheriff. But it wasn’t a case he wanted to think about.

  “There’s a pattern to life here that pretty much repeats day after day. But there are surprises as well. The unexpected is really as much a part of the norm as the usual. There’s just not as much of it as in the city,” he explained.

  To illustrate his point Cubiak mentioned the bone Butch found on the beach. “Now that’s not something I’d expect to come across, not here. It’s probably human so I gave it to the medical examiner to see what she can come up with.”

  Moore got to his feet, suddenly impatient again. “I’m sure there’s a sad story there, but it’s nothing to do with us,” he said. “You want something useful to do, follow up on this call that came in this morning.” He held out a slip of paper. “Maybe it’ll lead to something.”

  An hour later, Cubiak followed a rutted lane through a meadow of tall, dried grasses. The sun was warm on his shoulders as he walked toward the string of low buildings silhouetted against the cloudless sky. He was at the Hopewell Resort, following up on the anonymous phone tip Moore had given him from a caller who claimed he had seen Sneider wandering around the grounds.

  “You know this place?” Cubiak had asked earlier, showing the note to Rowe.

  “The old hopes-gone-sour resort? Sure, it’s been deserted for years. Door County’s version of a ghost town. I used to hang out there in high school and drink beer with my friends. You want me to go?”

  “That’s okay. I’m heading that way to see Sneider’s cook and housekeeper. Easy enough for me to check it out,” the sheriff said.

  Halfway up the peninsula, Cubiak left highway 42 for the county road that ran along the bay shoreline. He passed a half-dozen houses and several plowed fields but little else. Cubiak was about to turn back and retrace his path when he saw a weather-beaten sign half hidden in the brush. The sign had been carefully painted by hand, but its luster was deeply faded and it stood forlorn and forgotten, a piece of the past that time had left to the insects that buzzed in the grass and the hawk that circled overhead.

  Cubiak counted ten buildings in all. They were lined up as if in formation. From a distance they looked well tended, but as he got closer he saw that they were in various states of collapse. Doors hung off hinges. Windows were shattered. A roof caved in. The resort was in ruins, the victim of neglect, weather, mice, and drunk teenagers.

  Everywhere he looked, Cubiak found evidence of former glory. Gigantic fireplaces, beamed ceilings, masonry walls of gleaming white fieldstone, and remnants of the kind of heavy oak table he associated with old European monasteries left to rot and decay or sit amid growing mounds of trash and beer cans.

  There’s no one here, he thought, and then he saw the man standing on the flagstone patio that overlooked Green Bay. The man wore corduroy pants and a forest green canvas jacket. He was stooped and gray and seemed consumed in his own world. Could Andrew have been wrong about his father? Was this Gerald Sneider, wandering around in some vestige of his past?

  “Mr. Sneider?” Cubiak called out.

  He had to repeat himself twice.

  Finally the man turned around. “Excuse me?” he said, suddenly alarmed.

  Whoever the man was, he was not Gerald Sneider. Cubiak held up his badge and identified himself.

  The stranger relaxed. He was from Omaha, he told the sheriff. He’d stayed at the resort several years running when it first opened. Now he came back for nostalgia’s sake whenever he was in Door County.

  Cubiak showed him Sneider’s photo and asked if he’d seen him.

  “I don’t really go anywhere except to walk around here, and there’s never anyone else that I see. No one has any reason to come here anymore. Except the kids. It seems to have turned into a gathering spot for them,” the man said sadly.

  Cubiak took in the crumbling ruins. “What happened?”

  “Eric Hopewell ran out of money. Anyway that’s the story. He died without a will and his descendants have been fighting over the land ever since.”

  “I see. Same old story.” There was a sadness to the air and a heaviness to the silence that made the sheriff feel like an interloper in the remnants of another’s broken dreams. There was nothing for him here.

 
“I’ll leave you then,” he said to the man from Nebraska.

  TWO LADIES

  After stopping for gas in Ellison Bay, Cubiak turned right at the village’s lone intersection and headed inland. Sneider lived on the water; his staff did not.

  Eva Carlson, the cook, was the closest to town. Cubiak followed a zigzag path down several county roads to her brick ranch. The well-kept house was small and set back in a grove of trees that shimmered in a patchwork quilt of autumn colors. He rang the bell and waited several minutes before he heard noise from inside. Eva opened the wooden inside door leaning on a cane and clutching a heavy, moth-eaten, green sweater tight around a cotton housedress.

  “Sheriff Cubiak?” she said, squinting into the bright morning from behind the glass storm door.

  He held up his ID and was happy to see her inspect the badge before she undid the lock. Inside, he explained that he was checking into the whereabouts of Gerald Sneider, who’d not been seen since leaving the Sunday afternoon football game in Chicago.

  “Well, he sure enough ain’t here,” Eva said, making a pretense of looking about her austere living room. Then she frowned. “Figured something was up when Andrew called and said not to come in for a few days. Thought maybe the old geezer croaked.”

  “I need to ask a few questions,” Cubiak said.

  “And I need to sit a spell.” Dragging one foot behind the other, the pace painfully slow, Eva led the sheriff to the kitchen.

  “I know what you’re thinking: some cook. Right?” she said as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair and hooked the cane on the table.

  Cubiak sat facing her. “It does look hard to get around.”

  Eva chortled. She had a long face and loose teeth that clicked when she talked. “Old man never ate much. Oh, he did once, when the wife was alive. Exotic food from around the world, I’m told.” Her nostrils flared at the word exotic, and she pronounced it as if it represented something sinful. Perhaps to her it was, Cubiak thought, taking in the Early American samplers on the wall and the tchotchkes that lined the two windowsills.