Death at Gills Rock (17 page)

“And the tape?”

“I burned it.”

Cubiak blinked and remembered the thin plume of smoke rising from the trash barrel behind the garage. “Were there more tapes?”

“No.”

“You looked?”

“Yes.”

“Joe didn't hear you drive up?”

“No.”

“The dog didn't bark?”

“He knows my car.”

“Did you try to help your husband after you shot him?”

Agnes pulled her hands into her lap and clasped them contritely. “He was dead. There was nothing more I could do for him.”

“Why did you go back to the church?”

“I didn't know what else to do. I thought maybe I should tell the priest what I'd done, that I'd sent Joe to heaven. And I'd made the salad. I couldn't let it go to waste. I figured they'd need it for the lunch.”

Cubiak looked at his cup of steamed milk and coffee. He'd yet to have a swallow. Waste not, want not, his mother had always said. Even under the most extreme circumstances he could imagine her doing just as Agnes had. “I see. Then why throw the beets at the three women?”

“I had to, Sheriff. Joe wasn't a nice man but I thought he was a decent person. Only he wasn't. He was filthy and I'd been living with his filth. I couldn't bear the shame and when I saw the three of them—Ida and Olive and Stella—standing there all proper and ladylike and holier-than-thou, I filled up with some kind of awful fury. I wanted them to feel dirty like I did. Ida especially. All those years, cleaning the mud off her floor, scrubbing the toilets for her and that man.”

As if offering proof of her humiliation, Agnes held out her rough, red hands for the sheriff to see. He'd already realized that her life had been unduly harsh, especially compared with those of the other three women. But Joe had denied her far more than material comfort, and in that she was not alone.

“For years, you'd accepted your husband's excuse about a war injury to explain the absence of physical relations in your marriage.”

Agnes started. “How did you… ?”

“Olive Swenson told me about the confrontation between you and her and the other two women last December. According to Olive, you said you had no use for the books they read—trash, you called them—and that you'd made your peace with your situation and didn't need to fantasize about something you couldn't have. You told the three widows that Joe didn't bother you, ‘because of the war injury,' and that you didn't need to be teased into wanting something you couldn't have. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What did the other women say to you?”

“They didn't say anything. They looked at one another and then stared at me like I was a freak.”

“You had no idea that their husbands had also claimed to have similar war injuries?”

Agnes gaped. “What?”

“They had never confided in each other. Sex was something they didn't discuss, so each of them thought it was her own burden to bear, until you brought it out into the open.”

“I'll be damned.” Agnes blushed and crossed herself. A quick laugh escaped her lips. She brightened and then laughed again. “The princesses didn't know!”

“Princesses?”

“That's what they acted like. That's what I called them.”

“You didn't like them, did you?”

“Had no reason to.”

“Just the women or their husbands as well?”

“I had no use for any of them. Especially Big Guy. You have to understand, Sheriff, that nobody ever cared much for Joe. He wasn't a likable person, but Big Guy? Everybody liked him. He made sure of that.” Agnes picked up the Bible again. “It just all seemed so unfair, you know? I hope him and the other two rot in hell.”

I
t was nearly noon when Cubiak finished with Agnes. He escorted her back to her cell, where a tray waited. In town, he picked up two turkey sandwiches, chips, and water and drove to Bathard's. The doctor was in the boat barn. Perched on a board that was balanced between two work horses, his feet dangling off the ground, he pried a stubby strip of dried caulk from the hull of the
Parlando
and tossed it on the floor with the rest of the droppings from his morning's labor.

“This is a pleasant surprise. Playing hooky?” Bathard said as Cubiak lowered the volume on
Aida
.

“It's a working lunch.” The sheriff held up the white paper bag and circled the boat, peering at the gaps between the curved planks.

Bathard dropped off the scaffolding and rapped on the hull. “Hear that? Sounds hollow. When I'm done, it'll have the fine timbre of a taut drumhead.” He pulled off his gloves. “You want to go to the house?”

“This is fine.” Cubiak handed a sandwich to his friend. “I don't have a lot of time.”

“Something wrong?”

“Not necessarily wrong. But complicated.”

They stood at the counter and, as they ate, Cubiak told Bathard what he'd learned about Joe and the three dead friends from the widows and Agnes.

At one point, Bathard put down his lunch, inclined his head, and listened until Cubiak finished.

“Well.” The physician folded his arms to his chest and sighed. “I had no idea. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? If they hadn't conformed to societal norms, they'd have been ostracized and condemned. Now they'll be condemned for a lifetime of deceit.” Bathard looked up. “This certainly casts a different light on their deaths.”

“Yes, but it doesn't help clarify the circumstances. I still don't know if Big Guy and the other two were murdered of if they died accidentally.”

“Agnes?”

“She killed Joe, but I believe her when she says she had nothing to do with the other three dying.”

“Assuming they were killed, you still think their deaths are connected with gambling?”

“I can't rule it out yet. And it's certainly one way of explaining why their incomes were so over the top.”

“You said Stella attributed their success, at least hers and Jasper's, to hard work and luck. You have to allow for that possibility.”

“Lots of people work hard.” Cubiak crumpled the empty chip bag and tossed it into the trash.

“But not everyone in this world enjoys good luck.” Bathard brushed an invisible crumb off the counter. “Of course, there may be more to it than good fortune. Why is it, I wonder, that I see Huntsman's trucks all over the peninsula? There are scores of plumbing firms around, good ones, too. You have to ask yourself why someone at the south end of the county would bypass local businesses and hire someone from forty miles away.”

“Longstanding friendship or even loyalty that stems from their service days might account for some of it. Maybe he charged less than the others.”

“Perhaps. But what about Swenson and Wilkins? They seem to have been fairly adept at empire building as well.”

Cubiak leaned back and looked up at the boat. Once in the water, more than half of it would be submerged and hidden from view. Like much of what went on at Huntsman's Rec Room. “Besides the weekly card games, the men hosted parties as well. A little too much alcohol during one of the gatherings or on a charter run, a compromising situation, a convenient photograph, and a gentleman's agreement: silence exchanged for business.”

“Blackmail?”

“Of a sort, maybe.”

“Up here a photograph wouldn't be necessary. A rumor would be sufficient to ruin a man's reputation.”

“You think?”

“No question. But something about this isn't sitting right. If what you're suggesting is true, think of the risk those three took with their own reputations. They couldn't guarantee that someone wouldn't talk. Why would they take that chance?”

Cubiak showed Bathard the lists of clients that he'd gotten from Ida and Olive. “These are people who either did business directly with Huntsman or, in the case of Swenson, recommended his charter service.”

Bathard didn't respond immediately. He picked up several chisels and hung them on the wall in ascending order. When he finished, he turned back to Cubiak. “These are some very prominent people. I know one of the men quite well. I won't tell you which, but I will talk to him in confidence and see what if anything I can learn.”

“Thanks. That would be helpful. In the meantime, I'll question Bruno Loggerstone. He's not on the list but he stormed out of the sawmill social club when the men started collecting money for funeral flowers, and Fielding said he's got a long-term grudge against Huntsman.”

T
he puppies were four weeks old and ready to start moving. Natalie had designated the kitchen as their playpen, and Cubiak had just returned from buying a child's safety gate. “You sure this is going to work?” he said as he secured the gate across the doorway, blocking the path to the rest of the house.

The vet peeked past his shoulder. “It's fine. But just to be safe, you probably should cover the bottom half so they don't try to crawl through and end up choking themselves.”

“Damn dogs are more work…” Cubiak took the piece of cardboard Natalie handed him and taped it in place.

“You can't smile and complain at the same time. It's not allowed.” The vet checked his handiwork and then rolled up the rug at the sink. “No rugs for a while. You'll have to wash the floor every day, at least once.”

He groaned.

“I assume you own a mop.”

“I even know how to use it.”

On the porch, the puppies yipped. Buddy, Nico, and Scout sniffed the back door as Kipper hung over the edge of the basket, ready to tumble out head first. Cubiak scooped her up and carried her inside. “She looks so small!” he said as he set her on the floor. Kipper pushed her nose into the soft leather of his boot and then backed away, slipping on the linoleum. Cubiak bent down for her.

“Don't. Let her be. She'll learn,” Natalie said.

It almost feels like home, Cubiak thought as he fried a pan full of bacon and the litter mates explored the room. By the time Natalie spread newspaper and set up the dogs' food and water dishes, the meat was nearly crisp, the way he liked it. He popped an English muffin into the toaster, pulled plates from the cupboard, and poured coffee. Lauren had made breakfasts like this on Saturdays when he wasn't working. The bittersweet memory lifted him away to another time and place, releasing an avalanche of pain so fierce it stopped his breath. Cubiak braced against the counter and turned on the radio. This was his new life.

“Do you think they'll like classical music?” he said, finding it hard to talk.

“They'll love it.” Natalie smiled at him.

As they ate, she told Cubiak about the animals she'd treated that week. Listening to her easy chatter, he felt his equilibrium return and he shifted his attention to the pups. “Scout's missing,” he said.

Natalie pointed under the table where the puppy lay draped across his foot.

“Too bad, I can't get up.”

“A poor excuse for not having to wash dishes.”

“That's what dishwashers are for.”

“But you don't have one.” Natalie began to clear the table. “You'll have to have someone check on the pups next Saturday,” she said, talking over the running faucet.

“I was going to duck out and…”

“You're the best man. You can't leave. You have to find someone else to take care of the dogs for the day.” She paused. “I can pick you up, if you like. We can go together.”

“I have to be there early.” It was a poor excuse and Cubiak knew it. He stood, forgetting the sleeping dog. He was being unfair. The only reason not to attend the wedding with Natalie was his vague awareness that Cate might be there.

“Fine,” Natalie said and turned back to the dishes.

A phone rang, breaking the silence. Natalie pulled out her cell, and after a short, clipped conversation, she reached for her jacket. “There's been an emergency. I have to get back.” She gave each of the pups a pat on the head and Cubiak a peck on the cheek.

When her car had cleared the driveway, he walked to the mailbox. As usual, it was empty save for a bill from the local utility and a flyer from a lawn care service. Across the road, Lewis Nagel rolled a vintage lawn mower over a stubby patch of grass.

He waved to the sheriff. “How're the little ones doing?”

“Good.”

Butch had emerged from the woods and materialized at Cubiak's side. When the neighbor reached into his pocket, the dog trotted over the blacktop and Cubiak followed. Nagel fed the treat to the dog and then scratched her head. “Popular fella,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you got one lady with a red SUV visiting and another one in a fancy black sports car looking like she wants to visit.”

Cate? But her car was red. The one he remembered.

“Yep, she pulled into the driveway but she must have seen the other car because she backed out and drove away. Real fast-like. Heading that way.” Nagel pointed north.