Death at Gills Rock (30 page)

“Sheriff, if I'd been in there and doing all those things like you said, I'd have died from the carbon monoxide along with them.”

“Not if you were wearing a gas mask. That morning when I talked to you, I noticed a red crease across your forehead. I thought it was from a hairnet. My mother used to sleep with one and sometimes her brow was lined like that in the morning. You were sitting in there”—he motioned toward the living room—“looking out at the water, probably planning when you were going to take the boat out to ditch the mask and the key. My guess is that if we could drain the bay, we'd find them both at the bottom, if they're not buried in mud or if the current hasn't pulled them out into Death's Door or even the lake by now.”

Cubiak poured more tea, leaving Ida to consider what he'd said.

“Roger confessed to the graffiti on the shed. That must have taken you aback but it also gave you the idea to go one step further and deface the boat. You wrote the letter as well, suddenly suggesting the possibility that a bunch of reckless kids or someone with a grudge could be responsible.”

“If what you say is true, would you blame me?”

“Grief makes people do things they wouldn't normally consider. I learned long ago not to judge people's motives when they've lost someone they love. But there is a difference between right and wrong, and you and I both know it.”

“So did they.” Ida pulled her cup close but didn't drink. “What if that part of your story is correct? That I went in with my rifle and told them I'd seen the photo? They would have asked how, and when I told them about meeting Tweet, they would have realized that if he was willing to tell me he'd probably be willing to tell others as well. They must have figured it was just a matter of time before the real story came out. Then what if they confessed and begged for my forgiveness? Which I would never have given. I would have told them that and then, satisfied that at last I knew the truth, I would have walked out—not just out the door but out of Terrence's life, and he knew it. The other two realized their wives would do the same. They were finished. Rather than endure the shame the truth would bring, they took the cowardly way out, which, ironically, preserved their status as heroes.”

“They closed the damper, and afterward you came back and reopened it?”

“According to my version of the story, yes.”

“But you wanted them dead.”

“They killed Nils, the only man I ever really loved. They killed my son's true father, a man who would have loved his child as a father should. I wanted justice.”

“At any price?”

“Is any price too high to pay?”

Yes
, Cubiak wanted to tell her. Life had taught him that much. But he knew she would not be swayed. Had she told him the truth? He hadn't considered the possibility that events had unfolded as she'd described, but it made sense. She'd gotten her revenge and given them an honorable way out. She had no way to prove that her version was true but he had none to substantiate his.

“What time was it when you went to the cabin?”

“It was about two. I figured they'd still be up, so I set an alarm for myself when I got back from Olive's.”

If the three were alive when Ida surprised them at the cabin, then Roger hadn't inadvertently harmed them. And if things had gone down either as the sheriff imagined or as Ida suggested, the men would have been dead long before the predawn hour when Walter arrived and tucked the dried leaves into the vent.

“What about the mark on your forehead?”

Ida raised her brows and looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “Women do wear hairnets, Sheriff. I have a drawerful that I can show you.”

C
ubiak finally left, worn down from the exchange with Ida. Had he intended to arrest her? He wasn't sure. He had no proof that she had murdered her husband and the other two men and had told her as much. Maybe hers was the correct version, that after she'd forced an admission of guilt from the three for killing her first husband, they'd taken their own lives rather than face dishonor. If she confessed, would a judge find her guilty or would she be accused of trying to divert suspicion from Walter and Roger? He hadn't arrested Roger, either, though he'd allowed Ida to assume the boy was in custody. How much discretion did he have in the matter? Some would say none but that was a naïve answer; an officer of the law often relied on personal discernment in making an arrest. There was a line, however, and Cubiak knew he was standing with one foot already planted on the other side.

From Huntsmans', Cubiak drove through Gills Rock and turned onto the twisty portion of the road that led to The Wood. He could have turned around and headed down the peninsula away from the memories. But he no longer possessed the will to resist what he knew he wanted. The Wood was gated shut. Maybe Cate wasn't staying there. Maybe she wasn't coming for the wedding. Half a mile farther, around a soft curve he slowed and eased onto the narrow shoulder across from the house where Cate's late aunt and uncle, Ruby and Dutch, had lived. Caught in the afternoon sun, the house glowed against the backdrop of cedars. Smoke pulsed from the chimney and a faint light shone from one of the front rooms. Desire urged him to cross into the yard; fear locked him in place. He craved nicotine and reached toward the dash for a pack of cigarettes. Nothing was there. Did Cate still smoke? he wondered as he lowered the window and inhaled air scented with burning wood and fresh pine.

A whistle shriek startled the sheriff from his reverie. The ferry had docked and in a few minutes a cascade of cars would tunnel through the forest past him, the drivers casting curious glances at the vehicle parked alongside a lonely stretch of road. Perhaps Cate would emerge as well and see him there, if she hadn't already spotted him from inside the house. Chagrined, he made a sharp U-turn away from her.

W
orkers were putting the final stakes into the corners of a large tent on Bathard's front lawn when Cubiak pulled up. Under the high peaked roof, another crew arranged two dozen round tables in rows for the next day's dinner and celebration. Sonja's catering crew had taken over the kitchen while the rest of the house pulsed with a flurry of activity involving flowers and strings of white lights. The sheriff found Bathard in the boat barn, sweeping the floor to a flow of simple, haunting music.

“Scheherazade?”

“Cornelia's favorite.” Bathard listened a moment and then gave the broom a quick shove. “The only way I could find to make myself useful,” he said.

Uncharacteristically the coffee pot was not on. The coroner lifted a glass of whiskey off the counter and proffered it toward his visitor. “Liquid courage. Want some?”

And uncharacteristically, Cubiak said no.

While the doctor worked the push broom across an already clean floor, Cubiak provided a condensed version of his conversation with Ida.

“Well, it is possible, you know,” Bathard said.

Cubiak nodded.

“What are you going to do?”

“Is Ida invited to the wedding?”

“Yes. Sonja's mother was friends with her and the other two; they're all on the list.”

“If she shows up, I'll talk with her again. If she doesn't come, I'll know that I misread her. Where's Roger?” Cubiak glanced around as if expecting to find the boy lurking in the corner.

“Last I saw him he was helping unload chairs from the truck.”

“Good. I need to talk to him, too.”

“Roger's a fine lad.”

“I know.” Cubiak hesitated and then pulled back the door. “Until tomorrow then.”

Neither man had mentioned Cate.

The sheriff intercepted Roger carrying a double load of chairs into the tent. “When you're finished,” he said.

The boy scowled but five minutes later he joined Cubiak on the lawn. The sheriff walked him to the fence, where they looked down on the rocky shore and bay.

“How's everything going?” Cubiak said.

“Doctor Bathard said I could help tomorrow. He said he'd pay me but I think I owe him more than that for letting me stay here. He's even asked me to keep watch on the place while he and Sonja are gone on their wedding trip. He said he doesn't like the term ‘honeymoon.'”

Suddenly the boy turned toward the sheriff. “Why haven't you arrested me? You know I did it.”

“The one thing I know for certain is that you did not kill those men.”

“What do you mean? I didn't clear out the vent well enough, and they all died.”

“Not by your hand.”

Roger scrubbed his hands over his face. “Then I'm innocent?”

“Not necessarily, although a good lawyer could probably get you off.”

“I don't understand.”

Cubiak explained the law's intent.

“Then you have to arrest me,” Roger said and stuck out his hands.

“I will”—Cubiak watched the color drain from the boy's face—“unless you agree to do what I say.”

The boy tensed.

“I'm trying to make a deal with you.”

Roger fell back against the fence. “You're letting me go?”

“No. I'm trying to help you. If you promise that you'll stop hanging around with that gang in Fish Creek and go back to school, I won't take the matter any further.”

“I fucked up. They won't take me back.”

“They will. I'll see to it. If not Eau Claire, someplace else.”

“Why?”

Because a boy growing up without a father—or with a lousy father—has the odds stacked against him? Because, as Bathard noted, Roger was a good lad? Because an arrest on the charge of murder—even if it was thrown out, which it would certainly be—would dog him for life?

Cubiak shrugged. “Because you got a lousy deal and I think you deserve a chance to prove yourself. Just remember this. What you did could be considered a felony and there's no statute of limitations on that. You screw up and I come after you.”

The sheriff let the young man absorb the full import of what he'd said. “Deal?”

Roger extended his hand. “Deal.”

C
ubiak studied his reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror. The deep charcoal suit he'd bought for the occasion, the first he'd purchased in two decades, made him presentable enough, he thought. If only he could remember what to do with the tie. He adjusted the ends and then closed his eyes and allowed memory to carry him through the steps of the one useful skill he had learned from his father: How to produce a precise, four-square knot. Right over left, under, over again, then up and around, through the loop and down. “Best done without looking. Concentrate on the wrists,” his father had instructed.

Cubiak woke early that morning, determined to be in a good mood for Bathard and Sonja's wedding. He completed a full three-mile run listening to a concerto of birdsong and fed the dogs to Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony. Happy music. He ate a breakfast of crisp bacon and fried eggs standing up so he could watch a migrating flock of gray geese circle the lake and the family of cardinals, the young males vividly red, at the backyard feeder. Life renewing itself; nature opening itself to the promise of tomorrow. No looking back, ever onward. Primed by a pot of black coffee, he showered and then dressed for the ceremony. New suit, pressed; old shoes, polished. He'd even unearthed a bottle of musky aftershave from the back of the linen closet.

If he'd owned one of the despised clip-on ties, he could have made it out the door without having to confront his first depressing hurdle, memories of good old Dad. Funny, he thought. His father hadn't dressed up often—for church on Christmas and Easter and the occasional funeral. Yet as a boy Cubiak had never wondered how the old man had learned to produce the perfect knot or why he was so particular about the result. Maybe the silky feel of the fabric on his rough hands provided a brief reprieve from harsh reality and carried him into a fantasy life where the butler would announce that the car was waiting instead of the usual carping “Hurry up. We're gonna be late” from his mother in the kitchen. A concert of bickering.

But the old tunes had to be silenced, especially that morning. Again Cubiak studied the image in the cloudy mirror. The knot was passable. He tightened and tugged it under his collar. In the kitchen, he scratched Butch on the head and ran a hand over the mound of snuffling puppies asleep in the middle of the floor. The little ones had progressed to solid food, and their dish as well as their mother's was licked clean. Cubiak poured fresh water and filled the food bowls halfway and left a note for his neighbor Nagel to do the same when he came later to check on the dogs. Nearly to the door, Cubiak doubled back and turned on the radio so the animals could have something to listen to while he was out.

The day was all sunshine and warm air perfumed with fresh pine. The wind had died during the night and the lake rested quietly against the shore. In the distance, a long, starched pleat of white clouds stretched above the horizon beneath an expanse of sky clear and blue. As Cubiak popped the glove box and reached for his sunglasses, his mood faltered. The jeep felt empty. He wondered if he should swing by and pick up Natalie. But he knew that was futile. He was early and chances were she wasn't ready.