Death by the Bay

by Patricia Skalka

  Fadim went white.

  The sheriff stood. “Thomas Fadim Junior, I am arresting you on first-degree murder charges in the death of Doctor Harlan Sage.”

  22

  A SAD VISIT

  Are you ready?” Cubiak stood on Bathard’s back porch and pulled up his collar against the cool evening air.

  “As much as I’ll ever be.” The retired coroner zipped his jacket and rested his hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a minute?” he said.

  The offer was tempting. “No, I think we need to go and get this over with. Don’t you?” The sheriff sensed that Bathard had wanted him to delay the errand. Now he was doing the same to the doctor.

  Instead of answering, Bathard stepped out into the yard. He held his black leather bag in one hand and a small white shopping bag in the other. “Seems like the only time I use this anymore,” he said, indicating the medical bag. Then he lifted the other and smiled. “Cupcakes.” But the smile was fleeting. “It won’t be my first time delivering sad news and not yours either. We both know what to do.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier,” Cubiak said quietly as he trailed behind. His comment was nearly lost in the crunch of gravel beneath their feet as they walked to the jeep. But he knew from the slight dip to his friend’s head that Bathard had heard.

  They were silent on the ride to the Fadim farm. A week ago Cubiak had rarely driven along that stretch of road, but in the past seven days, he had been there so often that the jeep seemed to anticipate the turns before he did.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” the sheriff said as they approached the familiar driveway.

  “Please.” Bathard raised his hand in protest. “There’s no need to apologize. Florence Fadim is an elderly woman in poor health. You don’t know how she’ll react. What would you do out here by yourself if she had a stroke or a cardiac event as the result of shock? You would have to call for an ambulance, which would take twenty minutes to get here. How would you feel then?”

  The physician didn’t expect a response and didn’t wait for one. “I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but it’s a moot point. Just as you had an obligation to ask me to accompany you, I have an obligation to be here.”

  As usual, the front door was open and Mrs. Fadim was in her chair at the living room window. She must have seen the headlights because she didn’t turn when they came in.

  “My day for visitors,” she said, still without looking at them. “First the church ladies and now the both of you. Everyone with the best of intentions, is that it?”

  Neither man spoke, and for a moment Cubiak wished he could pretend that he had stopped by just to make her a cup of tea and to listen to her prattle on about old times.

  It took the sheriff a moment to realize that something was different. Mrs. Fadim’s musky perfume had been replaced with the fresh scent of lavender. Her unkempt hair was combed and coifed, and even her clothes were different. Instead of the usual blue checked housecoat, she wore a faded pink-flowered dress that cascaded over her knees and fell nearly to her ankles. The red sweater that was draped around her thin shoulders replaced her threadbare brown shawl.

  “You look quite dapper this evening,” he said.

  The old lady snorted. “You’re not here to pay me compliments.”

  Cubiak leaned against the cold radiator.

  “I have news for you,” he said finally.

  She patted the arms of the chair and then dropped her hands into her lap. “I knew you would, eventually. There will be tea, though? And a biscuit?”

  Bathard took his cue and stepped forward.

  “Tonight there will be something special. I brought an assortment of my favorite mini cupcakes. Hopefully one or two will appeal to you as well.” He opened the paper bag and let her peek inside. When she had finished her inspection, he gave it to Cubiak and reached for the medical bag. “While the sheriff tends to his barista chores, I’m going to give you the briefest checkup. With your permission, of course.”

  From the kitchen, Cubiak heard the soft murmur of conversation in the living room. What were they talking about? he wondered. Were all three of them stalling? Could Mrs. Fadim actually expect good news from him? She knew he had come about Margaret. Decades had passed since the girl had disappeared. How could the old woman expect a positive outcome? Why hadn’t he sat down and immediately told her the blunt truth?

  He dropped the tea bags in the pot and filled it with boiling water. While it steeped, he arranged the pastries on a plate. Odd how food seemed a natural accompaniment to bad news. He remembered the dozens of casseroles and cakes that his colleagues and neighbors had left on his kitchen counter and crammed into the refrigerator after Lauren and Alexis were killed. The same had happened to Bathard after Cornelia’s death and again after Sonja’s funeral. All of it well intentioned but tasting like straw and the emptiness that it was meant to soften and mask, to somehow make palatable. The food didn’t matter, but the gesture did. Of course he knew that. How like Bathard to remember to bring an offering, and how like himself to forget. With a pang of guilt, Cubiak stirred extra sugar into the tea. It was the best he could do.

  When he entered with the tray, Bathard was helping Mrs. Fadim from her place by the window. He escorted her to the chair near the sofa and then joined Cubiak on the divan. The three of them sat, knees nearly touching. For a few minutes the sheriff kept busy pouring the tea and handing over the cups. When he held out the treats, Mrs. Fadim fussed over which to choose. She decided on one with pink icing, then looked at it for a moment and set it atop a napkin on the small table at her side. Her hand trembled. She knows, Cubiak thought.

  He waited for her to try the tea. Somehow it seemed important that she approve.

  “Extra sweet,” she said. She tried to sound pleased, but there was sadness in her voice and her gaze was downcast.

  Another moment passed and she looked at Cubiak, as if letting him know that he could proceed.

  “I have news about Margaret,” he said as he laid his hand over her wrist.

  Mrs. Fadim stiffened, and the sheriff felt the jolt of surprise and fear that ran through her arm.

  “You found the man who took her.” The words came out both as a statement and a question.

  “Yes.”

  Her pale eyes locked on his. “Was he a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded as if the answer were reassuring.

  “Did he cure her? Did he straighten her legs so she could run?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but he did not.”

  “He did try to cure her though, didn’t he? He at least did that, didn’t he?”

  Cubiak hesitated. How much of the truth did the elderly woman need to hear? How much would she understand? Could he be honest without being cruel?

  “I don’t know if he tried to cure Margaret, but the truth is that there really was nothing he could do to help her. There was nothing anyone could do to make her condition better.”

  “Then why . . . ?” She found it impossible to go on.

  Bathard leaned toward her. “Margaret disappeared many years ago. It was a time when there were many serious diseases for which there were no cures. Scientists and doctors around the country—indeed, around the world—were searching for drugs and treatments that would alleviate the suffering.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Fadim said. She looked around the room wild-eyed and fearful. “So why did he take her if he couldn’t help her? What did he do to her?”

  The retired coroner clasped his hands together. “From what the sheriff has ascertained, there are indications that the doctor was one of those who was looking for ways to cure the disease that afflicted Margaret.”

  “Polio,” she said.

  It was the first time Cubiak had heard her utter the word.

  “Yes, polio, a terrible scourge. The doctor believed that her blood could protect other children from it, like a vaccine.”

  Mrs. Fadi
m gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God, no. No! He took her blood.” She grabbed the sides of the chair with her clawlike hands and tried to push up.

  “Mrs. Fadim, Florence, please.” Bathard and Cubiak were on their feet. Speaking over each other, they took hold of her arms and slowly lowered her back down.

  She breathed deeply until she was calm.

  “Did she suffer? Did he hurt her?”

  “No, he would not do anything to hurt her. He would have wanted her to be as strong as possible,” Bathard said.

  “She didn’t go hungry?”

  “No.”

  “There was never enough food for everyone back then. Not even on the farm.”

  Mrs. Fadim lapsed into silence.

  “May I?” Bathard said as he reached for her wrist. “I would like to check your pulse.”

  When he finished, he rested her hand on the arm of the chair. “You’re fine,” he said. Then he lifted the cup of tea to her mouth. “Try and take a sip,” he said.

  She was quiet a long time, and Cubiak hoped that she had slipped away to a different time and place. But when she spoke, it was to Bathard and still about Margaret.

  “He used her as a guinea pig, didn’t he?”

  The physician grimaced and didn’t try to hide the shame he felt. “I am very sorry but, yes, it appears that he did. And not just Margaret, but others as well.”

  Mrs. Fadim took this in. “He was a beast in our midst, preying on the innocent.”

  She turned to Cubiak as if remembering that he was there. “You’ve arrested him, haven’t you? You’ve got him in jail and you’re bringing Margaret home.”

  “I couldn’t arrest him because he was dead by the time I learned what he had done.”

  The sheriff held his breath, worried that she would ask how the doctor had died. What would he tell her? That part of the story was one he hoped she would never have to face.

  “And Margaret? Where is Margaret?” she said.

  “I’m afraid there was an accident. A fire,” he said.

  Mrs. Fadim frowned and narrowed her eyes as if she were struggling to understand. “I dreamed of a fire,” she said quietly. “The animals were trapped inside the barn. They all died.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Margaret is dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “And her body?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know that anyone does.”

  “Poor Margaret. Cheated in life and death both.” Mrs. Fadim lifted her knobby fingers to her forehead and slowly crossed herself. Then she grabbed their wrists. “Pray with me, please, for Margaret,” she said, pulling at them with surprising strength.

  Cubiak and Bathard bowed their heads. It had been years since the sheriff had prayed in the usual way, and he was uncertain what to expect.

  “Our Father,” Mrs. Fadim began.

  The doctor joined in. “Who art in heaven.”

  Cubiak was the third in their small trinity. “Hallowed be thy name.”

  As they continued Mrs. Fadim tightened her grip.

  “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done . . .”

  When the prayer ended, they fell into a companionable silence that went on for several comfortable minutes. The solemn mood was shattered by the roar of an approaching car on the road. A problem with the muffler magnified the sound of the engine, and the radio blasted, leaving the incomprehensible words to a familiar tune to trail behind on the windless night.

  They listened as if mesmerized by the intrusion. When the noise finally faded, Mrs. Fadim took a sip of tea and picked up the cupcake from the side table. She took a single, small bite and put it back down again. She turned to Cubiak. Her eyes were rheumy and her features gaunt.

  “She never had a chance, did she? I’ve been fooling myself for a long time. I know that now. Life is hard and people can be so cruel. Sometimes it’s difficult to imagine the amount of meanness in the world. I suppose we all get a taste of it, but some seem to get more than others.”

  She dipped her head and then raised it again. “How horrible for you, Sheriff.”

  “Me? I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Don’t you? People like me can hide in our little houses and live in our imaginations, our fantasies, but not you. You have to go out there and confront the evil. You’re the one who has to face all the monsters.”

  Unexpectedly, Mrs. Fadim asked that they turn on the TV. They watched a sitcom until nearly nine when her other grandson, Jason, arrived from Janesville.

  He was the opposite of his brother, Tom, in both appearance and demeanor. Husky and soft spoken, he seemed a kindly man, if one who was overburdened by life. When he bent to kiss her cheek, Florence swatted at him.

  “Well, it’s about time you got here, Tommy,” she said. Then she pointed to the television. “Turn that thing off.”

  Cubiak clicked the remote and the room went quiet.

  Mrs. Fadim fidgeted in her chair. She frowned and grabbed the sheriff’s arm. “Have you found her? Have you found Margaret?” she said.

  Cubiak patted her hand. “Not yet, but don’t worry, I’m still looking,” he said.

  23

  A DAY OF MIRACLES

  The case left Cubiak unsettled and unable to sleep. He had no sympathy for anyone involved except the many innocent victims and their families, and he was helpless to do anything on their behalf.

  Both Leonard Melk and Harlan Sage had been murdered, but the sheriff couldn’t feel sorry for either one. Not after what they had done. Nor did he have any pity for Linda Kiel and Tom Fadim, the two he had arrested. The daughter-father duo hadn’t acted out of a desire for revenge or justice; their motivations were unmitigated greed and self-interest. Fadim killed for the money he needed to pay off his gambling debts; Kiel killed in pursuit of literary fame. On her laptop, Rowe had found a list of the publishers she intended to approach and a draft of her query letter, which described her book as “the explosive true story of how a renowned physician used innocent children as guinea pigs in a search for miracle cures.”

  When sleep finally came for Cubiak, it was troubled. He woke in the dark of early morning. The numbers on the bedside clock read 3:34, an ungodly hour to be up. Cubiak closed his eyes and willed sleep to return, but when he looked again, barely an hour had passed. It was pointless to stay in bed any longer. He slid his feet out from the covers, pausing long enough to let Cate roll over to her other side. She wasn’t an early riser, and he didn’t want to disturb her to the point of waking. His luck held. She snuffled and went still again.

  He groped in the dark for the pants and shirt he had tossed on the chair the night before and carried them down the short hall to Joey’s room. The boy was sprawled nearly lengthwise across the mattress, one arm flung over his pillow and the other wrapped around his stuffed goose. Kipper lay on the floor beside him. Cubiak pulled the covers over Joey’s feet and then bent and rubbed the dog behind the ears. When the boy was a toddler, the dog had curled next to him on the bed, but age made it impossible for him to jump and he settled for the rug.

  “Good dog,” Cubiak said. For years, Kipper had been Cate’s companion and self-appointed bodyguard, and he had paid the price for his devotion with serious injuries. His loyalty never lagged, and after Joey was born, he transferred his allegiance to the boy.

  In the kitchen, Cubiak made coffee. While it brewed, he dressed and watched the sky transition from night to day. When the coffee was ready, he poured a cup and carried the mug outside, letting the steam rise into his face. A scrim of fog lay over the lake. Once the sun was fully up it would be gone.

  It hadn’t taken long for Linda Kiel and Tom Fadim to turn on each other. Kiel claimed her father had orchestrated the murders of the two physicians from the Institute for Progressive Medicine. She said her father had been an abusive spouse and she was afraid that he would harm her if she didn’t follow his directives. Tom Fadim accepted blame as the blackmailer in the two-pronged scheme but insisted his daughter was the kill
er. Cubiak had his own theory. He believed that Kiel had acted alone to murder Melk but that the pair had worked together to kill Sage. That was what he had told the county prosecutor who filed murder charges against the two and how he planned to testify in court.

  Until then, the sheriff and his staff had plenty to do following up on the responses to the newspaper ads that Kiel had sprinkled around the state. Each story they uncovered would add another sad chapter to Melk’s legacy of deceit and abuse. Thankfully, some families would eventually learn the unfortunate fate of their long-lost relatives, but the chance of identifying and tracing the children brought from other countries was almost nil.

  The only person the sheriff might hope to help was Francisca, but even that seemed an impossibility. Even though the trail had gone cold, he had promised her that he would do everything he could to find Miguel. The harsh reality was that her brother was probably lost forever. Still, he couldn’t dispel the nagging suspicion that Miguel was alive and that the answer to his whereabouts had been within his grasp, only he had failed to see it.

  The sun was well over the horizon when the patio door slid open and Cubiak heard the soft click of Kipper’s nails on wood. He turned and saw Joey in his rumpled pajamas, the dog at his side. Bleary eyed and barefoot, the boy clutched an oversized picture book to his thin chest.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Cubiak said.

  Joey blinked against the morning light. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  The child shook his head and crossed the dewy wood to his father’s side. “Can I have some coffee?”

  “No, but you can take a whiff.” He held the mug to the boy’s chin.

  Joey sniffed and made a face.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “You got up early to read?” Cubiak said, indicating the book.

  Joey held it out toward him. “I was trying to find Robert the Robot. He’s supposed to be on every page but I can’t find him.”