Death at Gills Rock (32 page)

Ida trembled. Cubiak squeezed her arm reassuringly.

“I find it touching that you and Olive and Stella came to celebrate the wedding so soon after the tragic incident that claimed your husbands' lives. I'm sure Bathard and Sonja and all the other guests feel the same.”

Ida grasped his hand and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You are a good man,” she said.

S
oon after Bathard and Sonja drove away, the party started to break up. Natalie and her escort followed Pardy and her husband down the driveway. The three widows left in Ida's car with Olive behind the wheel. The outside bar had been dismantled, and as the remaining guests headed toward their vehicles, Cubiak wandered into the kitchen looking for the last of the champagne.

The musicians were eating at the table. Roger brushed past him toward the door.

“You leaving?” the sheriff said.

“Yeah. Got some business to take care of.”

Cubiak questioned the boy no further. Roger was on his own.

A
streak of ashen pink lit the horizon when Cubiak left the house. Dusk was settling over the peninsula, and overhead in the great wash of charcoal sky, a single star glistened. Anxious about the pups, he barreled east toward the lake, but at the highway junction he made a sudden turn north toward Fish Creek. He told himself he meant to check on the loitering situation outside the Woolly Sheep, but he knew that the real reason behind the detour was Roger. Despite the boy's promise and Ida's assurance that her grandson would keep his word, Roger's quick departure from Bathard's house and the excuse that he had “business” to tend to made Cubiak wary. Had he made a mistake in trusting the boy; and if he'd been wrong about Roger, had he erred in believing Ida as well?

Cubiak hit the slope into Fish Creek at fifteen over the limit and rode the brake hard down the hill. On the nearly empty streetscape around Founders Square, the motley crew outside the Woolly Sheep stood out easily. The sheriff crawled forward. Inside the brightly lit shop Kathy O'Toole rearranged skeins of yarn on the rear shelves. Cubiak drove up onto the curb opposite the store, not so conspicuous that he'd draw attention from the half-dozen tourists wandering the area but close enough for Timothy and his five cohorts to see him. Cubiak checked the clock on the dash: 8:10. He'd give them another ten minutes and then shag them away.

Besides the leader, Cubiak recognized four of the loiterers. The other was a new recruit who looked barely sixteen. Tim's girlfriend and the other girls were notably absent. Roger also was not with them.

The punks were smoking and talking but Cubiak couldn't make out more than an occasional curse word. Pop cans and bags from the local burger joint littered the ground. Cubiak wished one of them would crack a beer so he could run them in for underage and/or public drinking but figured they were too smart for that. At 8:15, Timothy hauled himself off the bench, gave fist bumps to a couple of his pals, and started ambling up the street toward the corner municipal lot. The others followed in his wake; one of them even stooped to pick up a discarded bag and toss it into a wire trash basket. When they were out of sight, the shop lights dimmed and the sheriff drove away.

A
s soon as he turned into his driveway, Cubiak noticed the lights through the kitchen window. Had his neighbor turned them on? A dark car stood in the shadows alongside the garage. Had Nagle traded in his brown truck and stopped by on the way from town rather than just walk across the road? And why so late? He said he'd feed the dogs at six and it was nearly nine. Could the car belong to Tim or one of his pals? Until then Cubiak hadn't considered the possibility of retribution for his stand against the troublemakers. At the thought of a welcoming committee waiting inside, the sheriff took a small handgun from the glove box and dropped it into his pocket.

Keeping to the grass, Cubiak crept up to the house. The porch smelled of dogs and fresh coffee. There was no evidence of forced entry into the kitchen but he heard voices inside. He tested the knob. It yielded easily. Cubiak turned it the rest of the way and kicked the door open.

Butch barked.

“Hey. You're back.”

Cate sat on the floor across the room. She wore a black turtleneck and jeans and leaned into the wall, her long legs crisscrossed lotus style. Two of the pups chewed the leather strips that hung from the cuffs of her black boots. Another slept in her lap. The fourth was at the water dish.

“How'd you… ?”

“Evelyn lent me his spare key. I stopped this morning to give him and Sonja my best wishes. He told me about the puppies and said he thought it might be all right for me to come see them.”

“I thought maybe you'd be at the wedding.”

She shook her head. Her hands and face were tan; her hair was deep brown and hung straight to her shoulders. She frowned at the open door. “It's getting cold. Would you mind?”

“Sorry.” Cubiak pulled the door shut.

“I've never seen you in a suit. You look nice.”

Almost apologetically, he glanced down at his new clothes, trying to remember what he'd worn to Ruby's funeral, the last time he'd seen Cate. “I was best man,” he said, as if that explained things.

“Evelyn said he'd asked you. Was it a nice wedding?” She shifted her attention away from the sheriff and began stroking Kipper.

“Very nice.”

“I'm happy for both of them.”

“Why didn't you come?”

Cate looked up suddenly. Her gaze was penetrating, the same look that had pierced him from the page of the
National Geographic
. “I thought it might be too distracting. You know how people are.”

He nodded. Her presence would have conjured up memories of the nightmare the county had been through only two years prior.

Cubiak took a step forward. “I…”

“Please, don't. I know what you're going to say and it's not necessary. It wasn't your fault. None of what happened was your fault.” Cate hesitated and lowered her gaze. “Or mine.”

At the door, Butch yelped and danced a nervous jig, her nails clicking on the hard floor. “She needs to go out,” Cubiak said, feeling cowardly but grateful for the reprieve as he followed the dog onto the porch and then into the yard. The moon was rising over the horizon. The night was still, as if the wind was holding its breath. Cubiak gulped in the cold air. Why hadn't Bathard told him Cate was back? Had she asked the coroner not to say anything because she wanted to surprise him, or because just a few hours earlier she hadn't made up her mind about seeing him?

Cate was still on the floor when he came inside. He scooped up one of the pups and slid down alongside her. Cate smelled like sea breeze. “That's Kipper,” he said, indicating the pup in her lap. “This one's Scout. The two at your feet are Buddy and Nico.”

“I didn't know you were a dog person,” she said.

“I'm not.”

“I see.”

He started to move toward her, but she pulled away from the wall and turned to face him. They were inches apart but it felt an enormous distance. Kipper stirred. Cate stroked the pup gently. “You've done a fine job so far.”

“I've had help from the vet.”

“Who's that?”

“Natalie Klein.”

“Ah, Natalie. She's good.”

They lapsed into silence and then spoke at the same time.

“Can I have one?”

“I've missed you.”

Cate bent her head, her face hidden by her hair.

Cubiak closed his eyes. He'd spoken too soon, acknowledged a reality he'd kept hidden even from himself. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” he said after a moment. “But with your travel schedule…”

“It won't be so bad anymore. I've cut back. And I thought that maybe when I take an assignment, you could dog sit.”

“You're moving back?”

“I already have.”

Cubiak felt his color rise. “That's good.”

Buddy and Scout rolled into a single, squirming ball that demanded their attention.

After a few moments, the pups fell away from each other, and Cubiak held out his hand to Cate. When she took it, he rose to his knees and pulled her up. With Nico and Kipper cradled between them, they melted into an awkward hug. When he tried to lift her mouth toward his, she burrowed her face into his chest. He heard her say something but the words were muffled.

“What?”

“I missed you, too,” Cate said, leaning away from him.

Their eyes locked.

“No guarantees,” she said.

“There never are.” Cubiak drew her close and kissed the top of her head. For him, for now, this was enough.

Like so many writers, I work in isolation but I could not do my work without the help and kindness provided by others. My gratitude extends to many:

To my daughters, Julia and Carla, who continue to offer their support and encouragement as well as their criticism, suggestions, and hands-on assistance.

To the women of my writers' group, B. E. Pinkham, Jeanne Mellett, and Esther Spodek, who enthusiastically read and critiqued every word of the novel.

To my early readers, Norm Rowland and Barbara Bolsen, whose candid reviews of the initial draft helped shape the final manuscript.

To Max Edinburgh, who read the completed work aloud to me—twice—giving the words a voice other than my own and thus offering an invaluable and sometimes humbling perspective.

To Rod Polacek, who shared experiences from his days of high school wrestling.

To Raymond Zielinski, who patiently tutored me on the complex process of repairing a wooden sailboat.

To Wayne J. Spritka, the former officer in charge of the Sturgeon Bay Coast Guard Station, for providing important factual information and escorting me on an extensive tour of the facility. Historic data was gleaned from several works:
The United States Coast Guard in World War II
by Thomas P. Ostrom;
The U.S. Army Campaigns of World War II
, vol. 6,
Aleutian Islands
, prepared by George L. MacGarrigle for the U.S. Army Center of Military History; and
Yank—The GI Story of the War
by the staff of
Yank
, the army weekly.

To Alex Skalka, my late father, who served in World War II. Though he seldom talked of his experiences, his stories made it clear that war was ugly and a far cry from the glamourous adventure portrayed in many late-night television movies.

Finally, my sincere thanks to the staff at the University of Wisconsin Press, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila Leary, Carla Marolt, Sheila McMahon, and Andrea Christofferson, for cheering me on through the second book of the Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery series.