Death at Gills Rock

by Patricia Skalka

  Cubiak knelt and ran his hand along the underside of the cover. “Not much room is there?” he said, squeezing his thumb and index finger into the narrow opening. “What should I be feeling?”

  “Steel mesh. There’s a piece covering the exhaust hole.”

  Cubiak felt a soft lump inside the metal hood. “That’s not it. There’s something else here,” he said as he scratched at the obstruction.

  A small clump of dried leaves and grass fell into his hand.

  Walter leapt forward. “What the hell, those fucking squirrels,” he said, tearing at his hair.

  “Squirrels?”

  “What else? Chipmunks maybe, but I’d lay odds it was squirrels. The little bastards build nests and hide shit all over the place.”

  Cubiak stood and brushed off his knees.

  “Your father seems to have run a very successful business. Which would imply that he was conscientious and thorough. Wouldn’t he be on top of something like that?”

  “You’d think, but you know what they say about the cobbler’s kids.” Walter chuckled nervously, then abruptly turned somber again. “A handful of fucking leaves and three men die. And this weather, too. If it hadn’t been so cold last night, they probably wouldn’t have turned the damn thing on.”

  They stared at the vent and the pile of debris.

  “You’re mechanical, good with your hands,” Cubiak said finally.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “But you didn’t go into business with your dad?”

  Walter looked up. “No, I didn’t. Guess I was always more interested in cars. And he didn’t pressure me none, the way some might. Like I said, he was a good father, the best.”

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  As they walked back to the yard, Cubiak nearly tripped over Walter’s heels. Walter’s pace had slackened through the course of the morning, whether weighted down by grief or slowed by age it was impossible to know. The low clouds had started to spit droplets of cold rain, and both men hunched their shoulders against the drizzle. It was just a few minutes past noon but the light had dimmed, as if time were trying to accelerate and push the day along.

  At the gazebo, Walter halted.

  Cubiak cupped his elbow. “Maybe go in, see how your mother is doing,” he said.

  “Good idea.” But Walter didn’t move. He seemed confused. Suddenly, he took a step back and extended a hand. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.” His face was sallow, his grip clammy.

  Cubiak watched as Walter moved across the lawn, his head bowed and one foot dragging behind the other. The weather had driven away many of the onlookers. The remainder separated into two groups: those who deliberately drifted out of Walter’s path, as if not wishing to intrude on his grief or fearful of it, and those who stepped forward to greet him. Walter had grown up among these folks, and with words and gestures they let him know that he was among friends.

  When Walter disappeared into the house, Cubiak returned to the cabin.

  Bathard and Pardy huddled under the eaves.

  “We were just discussing the postmortem,” Pardy said, making room for the sheriff. “There’s no need to autopsy the bodies since there’s no sign of foul play. Blood tests will determine if the men died from carbon monoxide poisoning as we suspect. Evelyn and I will secure the samples this afternoon. I don’t expect any surprises and should be able to confirm cause of death on Monday. Unless you have something?”

  “Not really,” Cubiak said, drying his glasses.

  Bathard raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  Cubiak glanced toward the door and then told them about the broken window and the dead bolt.

  Pardy frowned and brushed a tangle of damp ringlets off her forehead. She did not share the sheriff ’s concerns. “Three elderly men excited about the story in the paper, maybe half in the bag before they even meet up for the evening. They’re all talking at once and the last one in absentmindedly locks the door. I don’t see that there’s anything to it.”

  Bathard nodded. “Precisely. Here are these three senior gents. They’ve got the paper and a bottle. They’re reminiscing about the good old days and one of them happens to throw the lock.” A shadow clouded Bathard’s face. “My god, listen to me. I’m talking about them like they were frat boys reliving their glory days. They were young men fighting under god-awful conditions. Nothing but cold and fog and muck so slick a man could barely keep upright on his feet. They’ve got planes dropping bombs on them and a freezing ocean trying to suck them in. Most people don’t realize, do they, what it was like?”

  Pardy and Cubiak were both silent. Then the sheriff spoke. “Yeah. Most people have no idea.” He looked at Bathard. “You were in the service?”

  The physician’s shoulders stiffened slightly, accentuating his ramrod posture. “Navy medical corps. Vietnam. Different—if one war can be different from another.” Bathard cleared his throat. “As to the door, it’s also possible that given the dampness and the proximity to the bay, the door was stuck and in the panic of trying to get in, Ida and Clyde assumed it was locked and smashed the window.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re not convinced.”

  “I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

  The locked door was just one issue puzzling the sheriff. Cubiak had grown up blue collar, with friends whose fathers were in the trades: plumbers, electricians, carpenters. Though they did well, none approached the level of prosperity that Huntsman appeared to have attained. He could have inherited the land and the business as well. But if he’d had to start from scratch, how’d he make enough to accumulate the sprawling waterfront property, the boats and cabin, and the huge house?

  Cubiak finished with the doctors and continued around the cabin. Earlier, he’d noticed a faint path through the woods. Alone, he followed it. The trail cut through a grove of lush pines and ended at a small cove lined with smooth black rocks. The shallow inlet opened onto the bay but a curved slip of heavy forest blocked the view to the house and village, leaving the area completely isolated.

  Three of a Kind, as Cubiak had already come to think of the men. They could have been doing anything here and no one would have known. Smuggling drugs or money. Or operating an illegal poker ring. He was the nearest law, and he was forty-some miles away in Sturgeon Bay.

  “Jesus.” Cubiak scooped up an ebony stone and skimmed it along the surface of the water. After nearly two years on the peninsula, he was still thinking like a big city cop. Life’s different here, he told himself.

  It was after one when Cubiak left Huntsman’s place. Walter had remained inside with his mother, giving the sheriff a chance to question Clyde Smitz privately. The neighbor more or less corroborated Ida’s story about the door and sequence of events. Smitz got the call, ran over to the cabin, and was ramming the door with his shoulder when Ida arrived and smashed the window with a rock. Then he’d reached in and flipped the latch.

  “So the door was locked?” Cubiak said.

  “I guess. Yeah, sure, it had to be.” Smitz massaged his left shoulder. “It was all so fast, you know. I didn’t really know what the hell was going on. I could see them sitting there and I knew something wasn’t right.”

  Did Smitz wonder why the door was locked? No. All he wondered was why three men he knew had to endure such a tragic, senseless death.

  Cubiak left the neighbor to join the others on the lawn and quietly slipped away. There was no one else to talk with and no reason to linger. At Highway 42, he turned toward the heart of Gills Rock, hoping he hadn’t missed lunch at the Sunset Café. The village’s lone restaurant looked out over the small harbor and deserted ferry landing. From the lot, he climbed a flight of wooden stairs to the entrance. A bell jingled as he opened the door. A bald man at a corner table and the waitress talking to him looked up at the noise. The waitress said something to the patron and walked toward Cubiak.

  “Anywhere you like,” she said, gesturing toward the empty tables. She was square and stout with short wav
y hair that was dyed fiercely black. The name tag on her ample chest read Mabel.

  The sheriff took a stool at the end of the counter.

  “We’re out of the pork chops,” Mabel said as she handed him the menu with a hand-printed list of specials paper-clipped inside.

  He scanned the list, his mind still on Huntsman’s yard. He’d asked Smitz if the three men ever played high stakes poker but the neighbor said no. And there hadn’t been any money on the table. None that either Ida or Smitz mentioned.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “I like the chicken.”

  Cubiak ordered the roasted chicken plate. Watching Mabel push through the swinging doors to the kitchen, he wondered if she was going to cook his food as well as serve it. But she returned almost immediately with a thick ceramic mug of hot coffee.

  “Cream?” She slid a small dish filled with one-serve containers of half-and-half within his reach and then looked past him toward the window. “You up at Huntsman’s place?” she said.

  There was no point denying it. Three ambulances racing along the lane at the bottom of the bay would have drawn attention to the drama on the other side of the water. And there’d been enough onlookers to ensure the story spread fast. Cubiak followed her gaze to the holster and sheriff ’s badge on his belt. “Yes,” he said, stirring his coffee.

  “Nice people. All of them. The women especially. Used to come in sometimes and order the Friday fish fry as takeout for their book club.”

  “You knew them well?”

  The waitress lifted her chin. “Well enough. They were private women, Sheriff. Decent people who were friendly but not overly so.”

  “Did you do business with Huntsman?”

  She chortled. “Sure. Half the peninsula did business with him. As if you couldn’t tell. Big Guy did pretty good, that’s for certain. But then they all did.”

  Mabel pointed toward the dock. “See those three charter boats? They’re Swenson’s. Three! Nobody up here’s got three boats, and come the season they’re out all the time.” She spoke without envy, obviously proud of locals who’d prospered.

  “And Wilkins?”

  “You haven’t noticed the name? Wilkins’ Orchards. Wilkins’ Farm and Garden Store. Wilkins’ Dairy? If you came up 42, you went past the farm, the one with seven silos!”

  “That was all Jasper’s?”

  “Mostly. His sister operates the store and maybe owns it, but he produces just about everything she sells. Runs what folks up here call the ‘Three C Empire.’ Cows, cheese, and cherries.” Again, the same unmistakable tone of pride in her voice. Were some people really that guileless? he wondered.

  A bell dinged. Mabel scooted to the kitchen and returned with a platter mounded with mashed potatoes, peas, and half a chicken smothered in gravy.

  “This oughta hold you ’til supper,” she said as she deposited the plate in front of the sheriff. “More coffee?”

  Pie came with lunch, and again Cubiak cleaned his plate. He had a theory that sugar primed the senses but it seemed to have had the opposite effect on him that day. Leaving the diner he barely registered the stiff breeze that had come up. And he was at the bottom of the stairs before he noticed that the sun was out as well.

  The resident gulls trailed him past the abandoned ferry landing to the village marina. The harbor was deserted but for a pontoon boat and Swenson’s trio of swanky cabin cruisers. Viking I, II, and III were sizable vessels—Cubiak guessed about fifty feet—outfitted with impressive arrays of rigging. A discreet sign provided a contact phone number for Viking Charters; otherwise there was nothing to advertise the business and no indication of the cost.

  Charter fishing was expensive. People went out for the bragging rights, the trophy fish, the experience of being on the water and pretending to work hard while others put forth the effort. Well, they were on vacation, and if they could afford to pay the tab, why not? For a man like Swenson, it was an honest way to earn a living, and Cubiak wouldn’t begrudge anyone that opportunity.

  Who would run the operation now? he wondered. The people of northern Door seemed like a rugged bunch, the kind who faced life without complaint and didn’t ask for or expect special favors. Would Olive take over or would she sell the business?

  Bathard had given him directions to Swenson’s home in case he wanted to stop and talk with Olive. Not today, Cubiak decided. He’d faced two grieving women already and had learned all he could from them; he’d let the third widow mourn undisturbed.

  The jeep was coasting into Baileys Harbor when the call came in.

  “Chief !”

  “Yeah, Mike. I read you. Go ahead.”

  “We got a problem in Fish Creek. Some kind of disturbance near the square. No details.”

  Cubiak pictured a party of inebriated tourists arguing over politics or golf. He couldn’t imagine any other kind of dustup in one of Door County’s flagship resort towns.

  “Okay, I’ll check it out. Anything special going on today?”

  “Founders Fest.”

  “Right.” Cubiak frowned. The street banners. He’d forgotten. In fact, he had trouble keeping track of the county’s numerous celebrations. Founders Fest. Pioneer Days. May Crafts and Flowers Weekend. Summer Daze. Autumn Colors. Pumpkin Fest. Harvest Highlights. Wintery Wonders. Throw in the major holidays and there seemed to be something notable every other weekend—each event designed to showcase local artists and products and to pull in the tourists. The tourism board at work. Cubiak marveled at their imagination. It was no secret that tourist dollars drove the Door County economy. The heady days of the shipbuilding industry had faded to memory and dwindling jobs. Sturgeon Bay had been especially hard hit by the meltdown of the area’s industrial base, but the economic ramifications reverberated throughout the peninsula. Even as cheap airfares and a burgeoning cruise industry lured visitors to other destinations, tourists were increasingly coveted. Although many were fiercely loyal to Door County, merchants and the local business associations had to be creative to entice new guests to the peninsula and to keep them coming back.

  Founders Fest. Cubiak envisioned middle-aged men and women in period costumes strolling around the old square, posing for pictures with visitors amid stands selling hand-dipped candles and cherry preserves. In Fish Creek, more people than he expected wandered along Front Street and through the array of craft and food booths in the waterfront park. At the music stage, a local band covered “Proud Mary” for a mostly young audience that pulsed to the beat.

  Martha Smithson’s Bakery had a prime spot in one of the narrow streets leading up from the water. Martha, an eighty-year-old institution, waved Cubiak over and handed him a thick slice of cherry pie on a paper plate.

  “Everything okay?” he said, watching her pour a cup of coffee for him. He knew it would do no good to protest.

  “I’m down to three pies and a dozen oatmeal cookies. I’m not complaining,” she said. “Cool weather makes folks hungry and that’s good for most of us.”

  “No sign of trouble?” he said, holding out several dollars.

  Martha scoffed. “No one messes with me,” she said as she laid a gnarled hand on his and bent his fingers back over the money. “I’m keeping a running tab, Sheriff. One day you’ll owe me a million dollars. That’s when I’ll come round and collect.”

  Cubiak winked. “I’m counting on it.”

  Up the lane, he passed a very tall blonde woman carrying an intricately carved, three-foot fish totem and stopped behind a middle-aged couple in Chicago Bears hats who were bargaining over a set of ceramic pickle crocks. Cubiak leaned in to the man. “You’d do better without the hats,” he said quietly, and then he gave a salute. “Go Bears,” he said.

  From there, the crowd thinned quickly. Cubiak assumed they were scared off by the small mob gathered along the stone wall at the far end of the block.

  The sheriff counted ten in the group, most of them teenagers: kids trying to look tough, dressed in black T-shirts and jackets
and low-cut, frayed jeans. Several sported tattoos and all of them were smoking. Hardly the image Door County hoped to portray to the world.

  It wasn’t hard to pick out the main troublemaker. He was fat and greasy and looked older, maybe twenty-one, and sat on the wall as if holding court. A slim, pouty girl, about five years younger, perched on his lap. She had bobbed blue hair and heavily kohled eyes.

  “Afternoon,” Cubiak said as he stepped onto the curb and kicked aside a mound of cigarette butts.

  The punk on the wall snickered, signaling the others to join in.

  Cubiak stopped himself from laughing. Where he came from, they were nothing more than a bunch of wannabes but he knew that by local standards, they were a threat.

  “Better move on, old man,” the ringleader said, cradling his rough hands around the girl’s buttocks, and the others again sniggered on cue.

  Behind them, a woman watched the scene from the window of the Woolly Sheep Shoppe, one of the newer businesses in town.

  Cubiak shoved his hands into his rear pockets and took them in, one by one, memorizing their faces. When he finished, he rubbed his hands together and then, as they looked on puzzled, he strolled off down the street to the end of the block.

  At the corner he stopped, giving the group time to wonder what he’d do next, and then he sauntered back.

  “Fucker.” The taunt came from one of the boys sprawled on the grass. Cubiak shrugged and then circled around the gathering before going up the steps and entering the Woolly Sheep.

  As he approached, the woman at the window darted behind the counter. She had a soft rounded body and curly black hair that made her creamy, pale complexion seem almost luminescent. “That was awfully brave,” she said in a gentle Irish lilt that immediately melted his heart.

  “You the owner?” he said.

  “Yes. Kathleen O’Toole. Kathy,” she said and extended her hand.

  Cubiak introduced himself. “What do you sell?” It was an idiotic question, he realized. One wall held stacks of wooden crates stuffed with skeins of yarn. Books on knitting lined a shelf, and knitted goods—sweaters, scarves, and shawls—hung from several racks.