Death in Cold Water

by Patricia Skalka

  He’s lying, Cubiak thought as he watched Andrew push back his chair and then cross the room to the small white TV on the counter. It was four and the Sneider story was on every channel, even CNN. Each report was accompanied by the same scene: B-roll of the heavy black gate at the entrance to the estate while one or another of the look-alike anchors breathlessly talked into a mic, updating the story of the missing businessman and implying that sinister forces might be responsible. Each report featured a litany of Sneider’s credentials, including his link to the venerated Green Bay Packers. Andrew was invariably mentioned as an afterthought, as was the sheriff. This was a story about a self-made midwestern legend, the FBI, and speculation about a possible kidnapping by homegrown terrorists.

  Cubiak waited for the deputy to return, and then he left. Heading south, he called Moore and told him about the snakes and the note. “Andrew claims not to know what it means. He thinks you suspect him because of his gambling debts,” the sheriff said.

  “We consider all possibilities.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before the federal agent went on. “What do you think?” It was the first time Moore had asked for Cubiak’s input.

  “I consider all possibilities as well,” the sheriff replied.

  A door opened and someone started talking to Moore. “Later,” the agent said into the phone and hung up.

  THE NATURE OF EVIL

  Late afternoon shadows fell across the landing outside Bathard’s back door where Cubiak stood listening to the quick clip-clop of footsteps advancing along the inside hallway. From the sound, he knew that Sonja was coming to greet him. At home, Bathard favored soft-soled slippers, but Sonja wore Swedish clogs. “Good for your posture. You should try them,” she’d said more than once. The thought of maneuvering around in wooden shoes always amused Cubiak, so he was looking cheerful when the door opened to a wave of warm air and the aroma of fresh baked bread.

  “Ah, David, just in time for supper,” Sonja said. Her face was flushed, her grayish-blonde hair brushed back, and her hands dusted with flour.

  Cubiak colored as he straightened his shoulders. In the two years since Bathard had married the widowed schoolteacher, the sheriff had enjoyed many meals with them. Had he unconsciously timed his visit to coincide with dinner? He started to protest but she leaned forward and bussed his cheek. “You’ll join us, of course. I’ll set an extra place.”

  Sonja took Cubiak’s jacket and laid her hand on his wrist, the fingers starting to crook with age. “I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “You’re good for Evelyn. When summer’s over, he gets restless but you keep him sharp. He’s in the library now, with his books.” She smiled knowingly and left the sheriff to make his own way.

  Cubiak knew several Door County residents who boasted of larger personal libraries, but he was sure that unlike the other bibliophiles, the retired coroner had read everything on his shelves, probably more than once. The sheriff found his friend in his favorite high-back chair, his feet on an upholstered ottoman and an oversized, illustrated book in his lap. He seemed to be dozing. But as Cubiak settled into the facing chair, Bathard opened his eyes. “Paradise Lost. Ever read it?” he asked, lifting the heavy tome an inch or two.

  “I tried.”

  Bathard laughed. “With the aid of Cliff ’s Notes, no doubt. You really should delve into it, and now may be as good a time as ever. There’s a lot to learn here, applicable even in our day.” He shifted the book onto a side table. “Something about recent events made me start thinking about people and the nature of evil.”

  “So, you’ve heard?” Cubiak asked.

  Bathard harrumphed. “Everyone’s heard. A nip of sherry, perhaps?”

  Cubiak raised his hand, the index finger close to the thumb. “Hopefully we still know more than the general public.”

  Bathard handed him a small drink and arched an eyebrow, a gesture that Cubiak had learned to interpret as a question.

  “Official word is still that Sneider is missing. No confirmation yet that he’s been kidnapped despite something that appears to be a ransom demand and a possible terrorist connection.”

  “Really? In Wisconsin?”

  “That’s what brought the FBI here, though they won’t admit it publicly.”

  “I know that there’ve been threats against the Packers and other teams but thought that was just hyperbole to keep funding up for Homeland Security,” the coroner said.

  “The feds think there could be a connection with a Madison group trying to ingratiate itself with one of the international organizations.”

  “Sad to say but in today’s world, this could be reality.” Bathard looked at the sheriff. “But you don’t sound convinced.”

  “Not entirely. I’ve never had to deal with a kidnapping case but there’s something about this situation that feels wrong to me.” After a sip of sherry, Cubiak told Bathard about the snakes and the second note.

  “I can see why Andrew was upset. Although it may well be that the note is more telling than the drama with the reptiles.”

  “Right, but considering the effort and time it took to set up the scene on the dock, I don’t think it sounds like something that terrorists, domestic or otherwise, would bother with.”

  “And the ransom demand?”

  “Moore says it’s not out of line.”

  “You trust what he says?”

  Cubiak shrugged. “I have no reason not to.” Despite the overly polished shoes, he thought.

  Bathard pushed aside the ottoman. “What else? I can tell from your tone that something’s bothering you.”

  Cubiak showed the coroner the photo of the bone that Butch found on the beach the previous day. “Why there? Why now?” he asked.

  “Coincidence?”

  “I don’t like coincidences.”

  Bathard smiled. “Neither do I, but they happen.” He looked at the photo again. “There’s no question, it’s an old bone. One that could have washed up years ago and been buried on the beach until Butch dug it up. I’ve heard similar stories before. In fact, a few years ago, a parent chaperoning a school field trip to The Ridges came across a fragment of a patella not far from where you found this. She brought it to me and I passed it along to the authorities, but nothing ever came of it. I presume you gave this one to Emma?”

  “She confirms that it’s human. Based on the size, she thinks it’s from a woman or a very small man—perhaps a young teenager, even. Maybe someone who drowned in a shipwreck. There’s nothing to connect it to the Sneider case, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s important.”

  “Emma’s right. There have been numerous vessels that have gone down in these waters. I don’t know of any in that area that involved loss of life, but given the way the lake shifts, an object could travel a considerable distance before washing up on shore.” He was quiet a moment. Then he continued, “The historic collection at the library has several boxes filled with old documents and clippings, probably some of which haven’t been looked at in decades, if ever. I can check into things the next time I’m on duty there.”

  This time Cubiak raised an eyebrow.

  Bathard chuckled. “I started volunteering two days a week as a way to keep myself occupied and out of the house. It was Sonja’s idea.”

  When they’d finished the dinner of roasted chicken and lentil soup, Bathard walked the sheriff out. In the cool, dark evening, the men were drawn across the yard to the boat barn where they’d worked together on the Parlando. The boat was still in Egg Harbor where it had been moored all season, but when they walked in the old barn Cubiak still half expected to find the vessel looming overhead in its wooden cradle.

  “What now?” he said, looking up into the empty space.

  “I’ll dry-dock it here for the winter, again. That will give me the opportunity to clean the hull and make any necessary repairs.”

  “More work?”

  “Endless. You know the old saying: the two happiest days in a sailor’s life are w
hen he buys a boat and when he sells it.”

  Cubiak laughed but as he slowly moved along the barn wall full of myriad tools and equipment, he grew thoughtful. “The day Sneider went missing, I found a note laying on a table in his house, and above it a Super Bowl ring hanging from a piece of white rope. The rope had a blue stripe in it, like this.” The sheriff fingered one of the nautical lines looped overhead. “At the time, I thought it was ordinary rope but maybe it was a piece of boat line.”

  “Well, that’s not going to help narrow things much. There’s probably a hundred miles of rope or line like that around, used for one thing or another,” Bathard said.

  They were back outside and near the jeep when Cubiak remembered the coroner’s earlier comments about the nature of evil. “You never told me what Milton had to say about it.”

  “Ah, Milton. For one, the great bard considered evil as something very real. We tend to dismiss the notion that malevolency is an actual force in the world, but Milton saw things quite differently. In his view, God represents good and Satan represents sin. And just as goodness or virtue exists as a tangible entity, so too, does its opposite.”

  “And you, do you agree?”

  Bathard looked up to where moonlit clouds skittered above the trees. “I’ve lived long enough to appreciate that the world is a place of balance and contrasts. If there’s one, why not the other? Certainly, if evil exists, it’s a lot like nautical lines in Door County. Plenty of it around.”

  The parking lot behind the Rusty Scupper was full that evening when Cubiak drove into Sturgeon Bay. A late cocktail hour, he thought. Of course at the vintage tavern, which was a favorite with local shipyard workers, a cocktail ran more to a shot and a beer, or in winter, a glass of blackberry brandy, than to any concoction that was shaken or stirred. Whatever primed the pump, gossip ran freely when drinks were involved. “Everyone knows,” Bathard had said earlier in reference to the Sneider case, and Cubiak wondered both what the tavern patrons knew and what they thought they knew about the missing man.

  When Cubiak walked in, the group of regulars hunkered near the door turned as one, but seeing who it was—nobody new and therefore nobody requiring closer scrutiny—they refocused on their drinks. Drifting past, the sheriff caught snatches of their conversation. The men were talking about work, not Sneider, happy about the overtime they’d been putting in refurbishing a luxury yacht and worried about shortened shifts when the boat left the hangar the next day and the building went dark.

  A second cluster of people was gathered midway down the bar. There were six altogether. The four men and two women were dressed in a casual but decidedly upscale urban style that included designer jeans and, depending on gender, either well-cut sports coats or clingy sweaters. Cubiak recognized them as the reporters who’d been at the station that morning. They’d littered the bar with cash and were leaning over their glasses of draft beers and wine with that loose manner of people who’d been imbibing since lunch.

  Hank the loquacious bartender was regaling them with one of his theories. He had several: one about the lost island of Moo, which he claimed predated Atlantis; another about black matter being the source of disease; and, Hank’s favorite, the reason brandy was the unofficial drink of Wisconsin. Something about European heritage and the liquor being easy and cheap to produce from just about any fruit or vegetable—including plums and potatoes. Cubiak had heard that particular spiel before.

  The sheriff wanted to ask the media crowd how they’d learned the FBI was in Door County but he knew they’d clam up if he approached them as a whole. His best chance of getting inside information was to talk to Justin St. James, who wasn’t there tonight.

  Cubiak was turning away when the surly face of Leeland Ross came into focus farther down the bar.

  Leeland was thumping a thick index finger against the shiny wood surface and carrying on a one-way, spitfire conversation with a man in a houndstooth sports coat, not Leeland’s usual style of companion. The stranger had his back to the door and one arm bent at the elbow, giving Cubiak a good look at his elbow patches. The sheriff was sure he’d seen the coat before. Curious, he stepped around the media posse and waved a couple of singles at Hank, signaling a call for a beer. The bartender served him without breaking his raconteur stride, making it difficult for the sheriff to catch more than a growling hiss from Leeland’s animated discourse and leaving him no choice but to make a clumsy turn that brought his arm in contact with the hunched shoulders of the man in the black-and-white jacket.

  “Sorry,” the sheriff said as the man spun toward him.

  “No problem.” The man had long straight black hair and a wan complexion, like someone sprung from a sunless world.

  Cubiak recognized him from the press conference as well. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Fucking New York Times,” Leeland said.

  His companion shot him a look.

  “Well, pardon me,” Leeland said as he started twirling one of the half-dozen bottles they had emptied.

  “Searching for a little local color for your story?” Cubiak said.

  The stranger hesitated, then gave an aha smile and extended his hand. “Not hardly. I grew up here. Name’s Steve Ross, Leeland’s cousin.”

  Leeland smirked. “Kissing cousins, even. Uncle Freddie was Stevie’s daddy.”

  “My sympathies on your father’s passing.”

  Steve nodded.

  “You’ve been here for a while then, since the funeral last week,” Cubiak said.

  “I was scheduled to leave the morning the Sneider story broke. This is not my usual beat, but since I was already here my editor asked me to stick around and see what I could come up with.”

  “But there’s been nothing in the Times. I’ve been reading it online,” Cubiak added by way of explanation.

  Steve made a what-can-you-say gesture. “The editors want something longer, more in depth.”

  “They’re willing to wait and see how this plays out?”

  “Something like that.”

  Suddenly, Leeland shoved the empties aside and slid from the stool.

  “I’m outta here. You coming?” he said, striding past the sheriff and calling over his shoulder to his cousin.

  And like that they were gone, but Cubiak barely noticed their absence because when Leeland vacated his spot at the bar, the view to the back of the room opened and the sheriff saw Cate sitting at a corner table. Cate, who disliked noisy places, especially noisy bars, was in an intimate conversation with a man Cubiak didn’t recognize. More media? he wondered. A photographer, perhaps. Maybe one of her colleagues. Whoever he was, he had chiseled good looks and the body of someone who worked out hard and regularly.

  Cate was the kind of woman men paid attention to. Traveling the world as she did on assignment, Cubiak knew there were advances made and suggestions dropped, but he succeeded in not thinking about any of these when she was gone. He preferred to picture her working on the assigned shoot. He thought he’d finally weaned himself from jealousy and couldn’t understand the tug of suspicion he felt seeing her now with this man.

  Cubiak was several feet away when the man with Cate reached for her hand. She let him take it, just as she had let Cubiak take her hand the day before at The Ridges. Sitting on the beach with her, Cubiak had sensed a strong bond between them. Now he felt betrayed.

  He watched as the stranger leaned toward Cate, his head close to hers. The man said something. She shuddered. Cubiak knew he should turn and walk away, but his anger propelled him forward.

  As he approached the table, Cate looked up. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks wet. She pulled her hands free and swiped both across her face.

  “Dave.”

  “Anything wrong?” He looked at her, ignoring her companion.

  Cate shook her head. “Dave, this is Garth Nickels.” She hesitated. “My ex-husband. He’s with USA Today.”

  Another of the bothersome reporters. Cate had once called Nickels an oppor
tunist and said he’d only married her for her money, but she’d also said that her ex had published two books and written a script that had been optioned for a TV movie.

  Nickels set cold blue eyes on the sheriff and made no move to stand or offer a hand. He was a man full of himself. For his part, Cubiak wanted to slug the itinerant journalist—payback for whatever he had said that day to hurt Cate and for all the past injuries and slights he’d flung at her.

  The men exchanged indifferent nods.

  “Everything okay?” Cubiak asked, mentally kicking himself for the inanity of the question.

  “We’re good,” Cate replied.

  She smiled but she did not ask Cubiak to join them, and during that split second of waiting for an invitation that he knew would not be forthcoming, the sheriff felt a bitter wave of resentment toward the two of them. Cate and her former husband shared a history that did not include him, and the sense of his exclusion made him feel even more isolated and separate than the badge and gun. He mumbled something about needing to get back and clumsily retreated. At the bar, Hank had moved on to another of his theories, and the reporters were sucking down another round of drinks, but Cubiak moved past in a blur, paying as little attention to them as they did to him.

  On the way home, Cubiak stopped and bought a fifth of vodka. He hadn’t intended to replace the bottle he’d finished earlier that week, but he rationalized that it was okay this one time, that it was just a little something to help him keep his mind off Cate.

  Alone in his kitchen, he sat and drank. He tried to stay focused on the Sneider case but kept detouring to Cate. After she’d returned to Door County they’d spent months dancing around each other. At first just friends, then occasional lovers. Gradually, bits and pieces of her wardrobe started showing up in his closet. Initially, he’d been unsettled and unsure of how much commitment he was prepared to make. By the time she had claimed her own shelf and half the hangers, he’d grown comfortable with the idea of spending more and more time together. For the past eight months, Cate had basically been living with him, absent only when she was on assignment or the few times she’d stayed at her condo working against deadline. Now here she was cozying up to her ex-husband, who’d ridden into town chasing the Sneider story. Had she been with him the night before as well? Is that why she hadn’t come home?