“They looked like twins, remember. You said as much that day at The Wood when you saw the picture of them in my grandfather’s study.”
Cubiak remembered the photo. He would never forget the image of the two women. Ruby and Rosalinde, tall and slim, aristocratic in bearing, posed like bookends alongside their oligarch of a father.
“I never thought anything of it, how much they resembled each other. When I was a little girl, people said I looked like my grandmother, but when I reached my teens, I became the very likeness of my mother. Even I could see that. But if I looked like my mother that meant I looked like Ruby, too.”
Cubiak said nothing.
“In retrospect, it all makes sense. My mother was always frail and sickly and unable to care for me or to put up with the flurry of having a rambunctious child in the house. Every year, I was shipped up here to spend the summer with Ruby and Dutch. And I loved it. No tiptoeing around or being shushed and told to sit still. Truth is, I hardly missed my parents; I liked living with Dutch and Ruby, liked the freedom they gave me and all the things they taught me. It was the best, like being at my own private camp all summer long.”
Cate smiled uncertainly. “I probably should have put things together sooner, but I didn’t start to think about it until I lost the second baby and my doctor said that my inability to carry a fetus to term could be genetic. After my third miscarriage, she said it was unlikely I could ever have a child and that I needed to stop trying to get pregnant because I was endangering my health. All pretty much what my mother had gone through, it turns out.”
Cate looked at the water and then back at Cubiak. “Which leads to two possibilities. Either I was my mother’s miracle baby, or I was Ruby’s daughter by birth. You want to hazard a guess? Or maybe you don’t have to guess. Maybe you know.”
Cubiak remained silent.
“If Rosalinde was my birth mother, then things are pretty straightforward and I know who my father is. But if Ruby was my biological mother, then I assume the father is unknown. Certainly it wasn’t Uncle Dutch. Doesn’t line up does it, my age and his long hospitalization after the war. Maybe Dutch didn’t even know anything about it. Which means I was Ruby’s secret, wasn’t I?”
Cate locked Cubiak in her gaze. “Only, please, tell me that bastard Beck isn’t my father.”
J. Dugan Beck was a man whom Cubiak had come to know and despise during his first year on the peninsula. He looked down at his hand, the knuckles white from gripping the wheel, and then back at Cate. “No, it isn’t Beck,” he said.
“Unknown?”
“Unknown.”
“And Ruby?”
“Yes.”
Cate pressed her forehead into her knees. “Who else knows?” she said finally, looking up again.
“Bathard. He figured it out on his own.”
A smile flitted across Cate’s face. “He would, wouldn’t he? And you, how’d you find out?”
“Ruby told me that last day on the dock, but she begged me not to say anything. She asked me to promise her that I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Did you?”
Cubiak shook his head. “I never got the chance. Before I could respond, you showed up.”
Abruptly Cate stood, and Cubiak feared she would go below, leaving him alone with the miserable truth. Instead she moved toward the stern and sat next to him.
“I’m glad you kept Ruby’s secret as long as you did, but I’m also glad you decided to finally tell me,” she said and kissed his cheek.
“No secrets,” Cubiak said.
He pulled her close and they clung to each other. They could stay like this forever, he thought. But dusk had fallen and he knew that finally it was time to head in.
He caressed her shoulder. “Let’s go back,” he said.
They busied themselves lowering and securing the sail and preparing the boat for the return trip. When they were finished, they nestled together behind the wheel.
Under the flickering glimmer of the first stars, they motored across the bay. The Parlando rode high in the water. The running lights marked the bow and stern of the boat, and a bright white beacon blazed from the top of the mast, showing them the way home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It really takes a village to write a book. There are numerous people who encourage, listen, read, critique, and gently nudge the process along.
Thanks are owed to many, and special thanks to those who took on one or more of the supportive roles that kept me going.
To my wonderful and talented daughters: Julia, for her map-making, technical support, and insightful editorial comments; and Carla, for providing needed food for thought with her discerning observations and suggestions.
To B. E. Pinkham, Esther Spodek, and Jeanne Mellett, the members of my writers group, for shepherding the project from beginning to end.
To Barbara Bolsen and Norm Rowland, for their excellent and very important reading of the first draft.
To Max Edinburgh, who again performed the herculean task of reading the completed manuscript out loud as I took notes and worried my way through.
Thanks also to the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for answering my questions and explaining the finer points of how the agency functions. Any errors made and liberties taken are solely my responsibility.
Once again, I have enjoyed the privilege of working with the University of Wisconsin Press. My deepest appreciation to Director Dennis Lloyd and his exemplary staff, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila Leary, Sheila McMahon, Adam Mehring, Andrea Christofferson, Terry Emmrich, Scott Lenz, and Carla Marolt, as well as to interns Megan Mendonca and Amber Rose. And thanks as well to copyeditor Diana Cook for another thorough vetting of my work and to graphic designer Sara DeHaan for another riveting book cover.
Finally, I extend my gratitude to the many dedicated booksellers across the country who have welcomed the Dave Cubiak Door County Mysteries into their stores. And to the many readers who have reached out to say how much they enjoyed the first two books and have asked eagerly for the third, this one’s for you.
Death in Cold Water Page 24