Death at Gills Rock (16 page)

“That's right, we didn't. Not like these women who go on television and blurt out the family secrets. We weren't like that. For us, it was just too private. The one time I asked Ida if she wanted another child, she got flustered and said that she and Terrence couldn't have kids. I was pregnant at the time and it seemed cruel to ask why. Neither of us ever brought the subject up again.”

Stella fell silent, as if debating how much more to reveal. Finally she continued. “I was the eldest of six girls, Sheriff. Five beauties and me. I was the one who wasn't supposed to get married, much less have a baby, so you can imagine that I was immensely grateful when Jasper asked me to marry him. After a while, things between us became intermittent and eventually tapered off. Jasper blamed residual trauma. I remained quiet about the whole business and gave thanks for what I had.”

“You didn't kill your husband or join in with the other two women in murdering the three of them?”

Stella inhaled sharply. “No. I have an alibi. We all do!”

“Indeed, but it's one you provide for each other. I assume no one else was at book group that evening?”

“No, but Olive ordered our dinner at the Sunset Café.”

Cubiak nodded. “And when she picked up your order she probably told Mabel or whoever waited on her that you ladies were meeting that evening.”

“I'm sure she did. We had nothing to hide.”

Cubiak let the comment be. “Were you ever able to reach your son?” he said.

“Martin? Yes, he left a message saying he'd be here as soon as he could.”

“When he gets back, tell him I'd like to see him.”

On the way out Cubiak led the way and Stella followed. As he passed the family room, a large photo of a young man in cap and gown caught his attention. “Martin?”

“Yes.”

Alongside the portrait hung dozens of other photos that documented the early years of the Wilkinses' only child. Martin had been a high school wrestling champion. In one picture, he and Walter Nils stood side by side clutching twin trophies. “Martin and Walter are the same age?”

“Walter is three years older than our son.” Stella looked at Cubiak. “Martin
is
our son. It's possible, you know.” Chin up, she laughed bitterly. “We were a family. The ultimate sham.”

B
y the time Cubiak made his way back to Ida's house, heavy cloud cover blotted out the sun and the air smelled of fish, not cinnamon rolls. Ostensibly he'd come for the two lists of names she'd promised, but more importantly he knew the three women would have talked by now and he was anxious to see if Ida's demeanor had altered.

“Come in,” Ida said when he knocked.

Big Guy's widow sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded on top of a typed sheet of paper. The morning's warmth and sweet aroma had seeped from the room just as the softness had vanished from Ida's face. Her mouth was set and her eyes hard.

“Now you know,” she said.

Cubiak lingered inside the doorway. She had not invited him to sit down.

“Why didn't you say anything about Agnes when I was here after the funeral?”

“It didn't seem relevant.”

“Even after she accosted you and Olive and Stella? Even when you knew that she'd shot Joe?”

“It was her place to say why she did those things, not mine to speculate.”

“You may think that, but in a murder investigation information of any kind can be useful.” He took several steps into the room. “May I sit down?”

Ida dipped her head slightly.

In the heavy silence, Ida uncurled her hands and laid them flat as if bracing herself for what was to come. “Do you think Agnes killed my husband and the others?” she said after a moment.

“No.”

“I see.”

He waited. “Do you think Olive or Stella could have done it?”

Ida looked up. “I can't speak for my friends. You'll have to ask them yourself, Sheriff.”

“I did, and they both denied any involvement. What about you, Ida? Did you kill Big Guy and his boyhood friends?”

Ida smirked. “Why? Because they were homosexuals? No, I did not.”

“You weren't angered then, by what you'd learned last December?”

“Surprised, yes, but not angry. I had long suspected that something was going on.”

“But you said nothing to your closest friends?”

“I couldn't have imagined doing so. What if I was wrong? Think of the embarrassment.”

“You and Big Guy were married for more than five decades. That's a long time to go without physical intimacy. Didn't you resent all you'd missed?”

The familiar softness returned to Ida's face as she relaxed against the back of the chair. “I can see where you might think that but it wasn't like that at all. I have my memories and a good imagination, and I used them both when I had to. Sex isn't everything. And I had Walter to care for. You don't understand, Sheriff. You can't begin to know what it was like for me. I was just seventeen and pregnant when my husband was killed in the war. In the government's eyes I was a widow entitled to a few dollars, but in reality I was a scared kid with nothing. I had no education. No job. And no place to call home.”

“You had your family. Couldn't you…”

“My family! They were the worst. I'm not going to sit here and resurrect my childhood nightmares for you. But I will tell you this: Christian Nils rescued me from my family, and I couldn't—I wouldn't—crawl back to them, not even with a baby. I had no one and no decent options. Terrence marrying me was like a miracle, an answer to all my prayers. He saved us, me and Walter. That's all I cared about.”

Ida looked at Cubiak. “You don't believe me?” She pulled a small notepad and pencil stub from her pocket and scrawled something on the top sheet. “Here's your lists and an address. Take a good look where I live now and then go there and see what I came from.”

Cubiak folded the paper. “You were his cover.”

“Yes, and he was my salvation.” She frowned and then brightened. “Maybe Agnes didn't kill them. Maybe no one did. Accidents do happen.”

Cubiak blinked back vivid memories of the hit-and-run that had killed his wife and daughter. “I know,” he said.

C
ubiak walked into headquarters balancing three large lattes on a cardboard tray. A chai tea brew for Agnes, vanilla for Lisa, and plain for himself. In exchange for her drink Lisa handed him four messages. Two complaints about barking dogs, a dispute over a backyard fence line, and a reminder from the local crackpot that the end was near. Cubiak tossed the last note in the trash, put the others on Rowe's desk with a Post-it that read “Look into. No rush,” and carried the remaining two cups through the lobby to the cellblock.

Door County treated its incarcerated guests well. Prisoners ate nutritious meals, slept on firm mattresses, and lived in freshly painted and tidy quarters. They had access to television, playing cards, and counseling services. Some even commuted to local day jobs. In Cell 6, Agnes Millard perched on the edge of her bed wearing the orange shift that Rowe had special-ordered. The garment hung from her shoulders as she hunched over the Bible that lay open on her lap. She'd asked to be allowed to have the book and Cubiak had seen no reason to object.

“Good morning, Agnes.”

The prisoner continued reading.

“Morning,” Cubiak said again.

Agnes put a finger on the page to hold her spot and looked up. “Sheriff.”

“I have hot tea waiting. I thought we could talk a little more this morning. You can bring that with you,” he said, indicating the Bible.

In the interview room, Cubiak held the chair out for Agnes and then slid the chai toward her.

She glared at the drink as if it were toxic.

“Go on.”

After a moment's hesitation, she took a sip. Her eyes widened. “This ain't tea. What is it?”

“It's a special kind of tea. There's steamed milk in it.”

Agnes pressed her mouth to the lid. “I ain't never had one of these,” she said, almost smiling.

Cubiak gave her time to enjoy the hot, sweet drink before he activated the video recorder and announced the formal start of the interview, identifying date and time and those present.

His actions startled the prisoner. She set the cup down and looked at him as if he'd betrayed her by ending the party.

“Last week you confessed to killing your husband but you refused to give a reason for your action. I believe I have a clearer understanding of the situation now,” Cubiak said.

Agnes bristled.

“Joe was sexually involved with other men, specifically with your neighbor Terrence Huntsman and his longtime friends Eric Swenson and Jasper Wilkins. When I got here this morning, you were reading the Bible. There are some who believe the Good Book condemns homosexuality as an abomination.” He paused. “I feel I have reason to count you among them.”

Cubiak reached for the holy book. “May I?”

She let him take it.

“You know what I'm looking for, don't you?” he said as he turned the tissue-thin pages. “The book of Leviticus. Chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two.” He paused and waited for a reaction but Agnes remained stoic. In the best preacher's tone he could muster, he read, “‘If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.'”

Cubiak set the Bible down, open to the page. “I don't imagine you have to look, do you? That's one passage you know by heart. In fact, you probably know a large portion of the Good Book by heart.”

He nudged the tome toward Agnes but she continued to stare past him.

“You shot your husband because you thought you were fulfilling the scriptures. You thought you were doing the work of the Lord.

“I saw you in church that morning, sitting a couple of rows behind Joe. Everyone in the church went to communion, including the two of you. I was raised Catholic. I know how it goes. You can eat the consecrated bread and drink the blessed wine only if you're in a state of grace. So both of you had been to confession beforehand.”

Cubiak stood and leaned forward, towering over the prisoner.

“You shot Joe to save his soul.”

“Yes,” Agnes screamed, her spittle hitting his chin. “I shot Joe to save him from temptation. I shot my husband to save him from sinning again.”

“And by doing so, you sacrificed your own soul.”

Agnes grabbed the Bible and clutched it to her chest.

“Or has God forgiven you?”

She snatched his wrist. “You understand!” she cried, her eyes pleading with him.

“I understand the laws of men,” he said, loosening her calloused grip.

“The laws of men!” she said and kicked at the floor.

“They are based on God's law.” Cubiak sat down again and gentled his voice. “‘Thou shall not kill.'”

Agnes looked at him, and then she turned away and lowered her head. “I will pray for you.”

For several minutes her soft whisperings were the only sound in the room.

When Cubiak interrupted, his tone was firm and official. “Did you kill Terrence Huntsman, Eric Swenson, and Jasper Wilkins?”

Agnes wheeled toward him. “No!”

“But you wish you had.”

“They got what they deserved.” Her face flushed with anger.

The exact words used in the hateful note to Ida.

“You sent the anonymous letter.”

“What letter?”

Her puzzlement seemed genuine.

“You defaced the shed.”

“No. I didn't do that! I heard it was kids. You know, being mean. Kids are nasty these days, Sheriff, not like before.”

“Something I don't understand, Agnes. When exactly did you discover the nature of the relationship between Joe and the other three men?”

“The morning of the funeral.” Agnes yanked the lid off the cup and picked at the rim. “When we came back from the cemetery I didn't see Joe anywheres and figured maybe he was in the church basement helping set up for the lunch. I'd forgotten the salad I'd made for the luncheon so I went back to get it. When I walked into the house, I heard men's voices in the living room. They were talking dirty and laughing. I knew one of them was Big Guy. It didn't make sense. He was dead. I tiptoed through the kitchen to the doorway and saw my husband sitting on the couch watching that filth on the television. The four of them.”

Her voice caught. “Joe was crying, sobbing like a baby.”

The shards from the paper cup were scattered across the table. Agnes gathered them into a neat pile and nudged it over the edge, waiting for the pieces to settle on the floor before she went on.

“I ran to the VCR and pulled out the tape. Joe tried to get it away. I shoved him and we started fighting and he punched me in the face, here”—she pointed to her bruised eye—“and I fell into the couch. I must have laid there a minute or so, and when I sat up he was kneeling in front of the VCR player trying to put it back in. That's when I went and got the rifle and shot him.”