Death Stalks Door County Page 4

  In the back room, Buddy Entwhistle sprawled on a narrow, worn cot. He was unshaven and slovenly. Entwhistle had started drinking heavily two days prior, and by the time he had hooked up with Macklin late that morning, he was barely cogent. Listening to Benny go on about what he’d seen Sunday morning at Falcon Tower, he took in a staggering amount of beer and then passed out. Unaware of his friend’s tragic demise, Entwhistle slept soundly, a crooked grin etched on his dissipated face.

  TUESDAY

  In the multi-ethnic European neighborhood where Cubiak grew up, death was a powerful magnet. When someone reached the end, both close friends and casual acquaintances endured the wake as a show of respect. From the receiving line, mourners moved to the lounge for a roast beef sandwich or a slice of homemade cake and then to a private back room for a shot and a beer if they were so inclined, and most were. But generally only family, intimates, and the usual cadre of professional mourners—people in need of either the company or the free lunch—participated in the funeral.

  By coincidence, Cubiak had witnessed Ben Macklin’s death and been a party to the unofficial wake. He had no intention of attending the funeral, but Ruta had baked a chocolate pound cake for the post-service coffee and asked him to drop it off at the Holy Light Moravian Church in Ephraim. Cubiak reluctantly agreed, intending to arrive after the ceremony was underway. It was his bad luck that a quartet of disapproving parishioners had detained the pastor, the Reverend Waldo Thorenson, in the small yard between the parsonage and the church, thus delaying the start of the service.

  As Cubiak approached, the women aired their grievances. “Benjamin Macklin was not a man of God. He doesn’t deserve church burial,” they insisted all of a voice.

  “What will people think?” trumpeted one, the obvious ringleader, whom he would later learn was Anne Cooper.

  “They will think we are good Christians,” Thorenson replied evenly.

  The women fell into a shocked silence, though Miss Cooper was quick to recover. “You’re an avowed abstainer. How can you eulogize a confirmed drunk?” she said, tossing down the gauntlet.

  “Why don’t you come in and see?” Thorenson said.

  The invitation sent the women off in a collective huff but piqued Cubiak’s curiosity. After depositing the cake on a table brimming with baked goods in the basement hall, he slipped upstairs to the rear vestibule.

  The little church was full. The fishing communities from the peninsula and surrounding areas filled the fifteen pews on one side. Ruby Schumacher, Evelyn Bathard, Martha Smithson, Otto Johnson, and Leo Halverson sat opposite with the townies, old friends, and neighbors, people whose lives had been touched by this one man.

  Thorenson was brief. He spoke about goodness and beauty and Door County. “Natural beauty is a reflection of God. It is our duty to respect and preserve the world that we inhabit. Doing so, we honor our Creator and come close to continuing his work upon earth. Our world is a small peninsula and we, each of us, must act as its caretaker. For all his faults, Ben Macklin knew this.”

  The inquests for Lawrence Wisby and Benjamin Macklin were held later that afternoon. Coroner Bathard had wanted to set a separate date for reviewing the circumstances surrounding Macklin’s death, but Halverson and Beck had prevailed. “No use draggin’ this stuff out, ’specially with the festival coming ’n all. Just puts everyone in a bad way,” the sheriff said.

  The Falcon Tower incident was first on the docket. Bathard reported that Wisby had expired at least one hour before his body was discovered. He also read a statement from the victim’s doctor stating that the young man suffered from vertigo. Given the diagnosis and lacking any witnesses to the event, the coroner ruled the death accidental.

  From a corner spot near the rear of the small assemblage, Cubiak watched the deceased’s parents, who were seated at the far end of the second row. The Wisbys were a diminutive pair, matched pillars of sorrow bundled in drab, charcoal-gray trench coats. They looked sickly, with their sallow complexions and their rheumy eyes that flickered behind the thick lenses of gold, wire-rimmed glasses each time they turned to confer with or console each other. As the coroner described their son’s injuries they clutched each other’s hands and looked down. Mrs. Wisby’s thin shoulders quivered in time with her soft sobs. The room grew even more still until the only sounds were the gentle cadence of Bathard’s voice and the weeping of the mournful mother. Cubiak sensed the rising tide of compassion among those in attendance but he felt no sympathy for the two. If anything, he was heartened by their emotional torment. Now they know what it’s like, what it will always be like, he thought.

  When the proceedings ended, he left the hearing room and took up a position near the exterior exit. He didn’t intend to confront the Wisbys but he wanted them to see him. They were among the final few to leave and approached with hands clutched and eyes averted. At the last moment, the husband glanced up and saw Cubiak. The man’s momentary confusion turned to shock. As the jolt of anguished recognition flowed from him to his wife, she looked up. All color drained from her face and then unexpectedly she opened her mouth as if to speak. Cubiak spun away and went out into the rising wind. He would not give her the satisfaction.

  Thirty minutes later, the parties reassembled for the second hearing. Fortified with vodka, Cubiak returned. Through a haze of alcohol and shame, he heard Halverson report that on the day Macklin died, he had arrived in Fish Creek directly from Sturgeon Bay. His movements on the previous day were not mentioned, and Cubiak assumed that they had been traced and dismissed as irrelevant. As Les Caruthers had predicted, Macklin’s death was attributed to an accident, an undetected leak in one of the boat’s two gas tanks. Case closed.

  By early evening, with the unpleasant events of the day wrapped up, the county once again turned its attention to the important business of summer tourism. In the first floor foyer of Jensen Station, Cubiak stood inspection under the bright glow of a small but freshly polished chandelier as Ruta plucked a piece of lint from the sleeve of his charcoal corduroy sports coat.

  “You look good,” she said, giving a final tug to his lapel. “You have good time.”

  Cubiak glimpsed himself in the hall mirror. He didn’t look good. His skin was pallid. He needed a haircut. His jacket pulled across the shoulders. His twill pants had long since lost their crease; his black turtleneck was pilled and limp from numerous launderings. But he didn’t care; he intended to keep drinking for the next several hours but not to enjoy himself.

  That morning Johnson had tossed an invitation on his desk and appointed him the park’s official representative to the evening’s festivities at Beck’s house. “Command performance. Someone has to go. You have the honors,” the superintendent said. The announcement was not subtle. The party was Beck’s annual fete for local merchants and county officials. A rah-rah, get-the-juices-flowing party before the big Fourth of July celebration that kicked off the official summer season on the “Cape Cod of the Midwest.”

  Like its East Coast big sister, Door County courted tourists. In case anyone forgot, Beck spelled it out: Some two million visitors a year. More than 60 percent of the peninsula’s economy dependent on the summer trade. A bad season, a bad year all around. More people on welfare during the winter. Fewer taxes and user fees for state and local agencies.

  Two tragic deaths in one week weren’t going to derail the resort area’s summer plans. Would anyone at the party mention Wisby or Macklin? Cubiak doubted it.

  The ranger squinted at the jeep’s windshield. Under heavy cloud cover, the premature twilight made it hard to distinguish landmarks along the road. Waning night vision, his ophthalmologist had called it. Another sign he was slipping too quickly through midlife. Cubiak supposed he should feel some angst. But there was none, just a vague sense that nothing mattered much except the next drink.

  Nearing Sturgeon Bay, he nearly missed the turnoff to Bay Shore Drive, the gently curving road that ran along the well-manicured, waterfront estates of Door County�
�s prominent families.

  Cubiak pulled up behind a row of cars, as a sporty red convertible swung out of a nearby yard. The car screeched to a stop on the opposite shoulder.

  “Hey!” It was Barry Beck, the teenage son of Door County’s leading industrialist. “Do I get the job?”

  “Yeah.” The position was part-time and minimum wage, an aide-decamp at the Nature Center during the two busiest summer months. Cubiak suspected there were kids in the area who needed the job, but taking Barry on hadn’t been his decision. Politics being what they were, the park’s oversight committee had given a thumbs-up to the boy’s application.

  “Cool. Enjoy the party,” Barry said, waving with youthful enthusiasm as he sped away.

  On foot, Cubiak followed a wide driveway to Beck’s mansion. The house was three stories of gray granite punctuated with oversize windows and topped with a slate roof. A dark lace ruffle of neatly trimmed hedges hugged the perimeter, a quiet understatement of the language of power and money spoken within these walls. It was the kind of place where Cubiak’s mother would have worked had she not cleaned hotel rooms. He’d been in places like this in Chicago, houses where the front hall was larger than most kitchens on the side of the tracks where he’d grown up. In one case, the splendid surroundings hadn’t done anything for the owner, who had been found lying next to an in-ground swimming pool with a bullet hole in his chest, as lifeless as the terra cotta tiles beneath him.

  Standing outside Beck’s front door, Cubiak heard a dim murmur of voices, accented by an occasional burst of laughter. He put on his best blank face and pressed the buzzer.

  The door opened to a rush of noise and light and the impressive figure of a young female Viking. Cubiak blinked. The apparition transformed into a tall, blond teenage girl flashing a bright, practiced smile.

  “Hi. Good evening.” The salutation was crisp, well rehearsed.

  Cubiak pulled a crumpled invitation from his right pocket.

  “Oh, that’s not really necessary.” A giggle ruffled the girl’s routine. Her white jumpsuit shimmered. Around her neck, a string of glass cherries sparkled. When she turned to show him the way, Cubiak noticed the cherry tree branch silk-screened across the back of her outfit. “Like it? They’re ordered special for the greeters. We act as the official hospitality staff for all the different summer events on the peninsula. Mr. Beck’s prefest party is always the first job we work and the first time we get to wear our new outfits.” Her exuberance bounced the words toward Cubiak.

  “You know everyone?” she said, gesturing toward the living room, a sprawling arena decorated with white gardenias and buzzing with local civic and business honchos.

  Cubiak didn’t recognize a soul. “Sure.”

  “Great. Otherwise my instructions are to introduce you around. Mr. Beck likes people to mingle.” The greeter gave him another vacuous grin and then stepped aside to let him pass.

  Thirsty, Cubiak approached the nearest bar and asked for a beer.

  “No beer.” A muscled young man in white pants and starched, nautical shirt—no cherries—handed him a flute of champagne.

  The glass was chilled, the bubbles cold. Cubiak drank it in one gulp. He helped himself to another and slowly wove his way around the periphery of the room. The west wall was plate glass; the others were hung with soft abstract paintings. A pair of low-slung white leather couches faced each other in front of an enormous fieldstone fireplace. Scattered elsewhere were several groupings of comfortable low chairs in rich gray-green. Tables were mahogany. Rugs thick, probably hand-knotted Orientals. Cubiak scanned the crowd for Bathard.

  “Glad you made it.” Out of nowhere, Beck appeared at Cubiak’s side. The scion of Door County was deeply tanned and nautically dressed. He studied the ranger’s appearance critically. “That the best you can do?”

  Cubiak shrugged.

  Beck gripped the ranger’s elbow. “These are the movers and shakers, the people who count,” he said as he turned his guest around the room. “My job is to make Door County prosper and to do that I have to keep them happy. Your job is to help me do mine well.” He released his hold. “Got it?”

  “My job’s at the park,” Cubiak said and finished off his third glass of champagne.

  “Precisely.” Beck beamed. “The park is pivotal.”

  “Whatever,” Cubiak said.

  Beck looked at him and laughed. “Chitchat’s not your forte, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  From across the room, someone important raised a hand and caught the host’s attention. Beck saluted over the crowd. “Buy yourself some new clothes,” he said as he moved away.

  Cubiak grunted and downed more champagne. Little more than supercharged soda water as far as he was concerned. A drink for women, effete socialites, and wedding toasts. He checked his watch and felt a familiar stab of anguish. The watch had been a gift from his wife on their first Christmas together. He tugged his cuff down. Only fifteen minutes since he’d arrived. He figured another fifteen and he could leave. Maybe stop on the way back and have a real drink.

  “Eloise Beck. We haven’t met.”

  A petite, dark-haired woman offered her hand to Cubiak. She wore a slim-fitting silver cocktail dress and was extremely well put together, almost artfully enough to hide the slight puffiness in her cheeks and the fine network of lines that radiated from the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said when she heard his name. “Beck’s boy.”

  He colored slightly, and she giggled and moved closer. “Don’t worry. Everyone here is a Beck’s boy, and besides I’m a little looped.”

  Eloise tittered again and slipped away.

  A waiter materialized, offering a tray laden with food. Cubiak sampled the smoked salmon and cherry canapés and looked out at Green Bay and the last shreds of daylight. An impressive expanse of manicured lawn separated the house from the water. On the right, a white stone walkway led to a dock outlined with tiny white lights. A luxury cabin cruiser, a boat large enough to qualify as a yacht, was tied up alongside, bobbling gently with the chop.

  Cubiak guzzled several more glasses of champagne. Anesthetized and with a full glass in hand, he zigzagged between the guests and down a rear hall into a contemporary family room, more vaulted space tastefully grafted onto the house. Three people he didn’t recognize huddled inside the doorway and laughed at a private joke.

  He eased past them. The noise level dropped dramatically, and Cubiak sank into a low small couch, feeling surprisingly calm. Whether it was the effect of the alcohol or simple exhaustion he didn’t know. Beyond Beck’s twinkling dock, an ore boat similarly ablaze with lights and riding high in the water slid silently toward the harbor at Sturgeon Bay. Cubiak decided he would leave when the boat reached port.

  “May I join you?”

  Startled, Cubiak looked up. The ore boat had vanished.

  A woman perched on the arm of a chair studied him over the rim of her glass. She was startlingly good looking, long and lanky, dressed completely in black, with tangerine hair.

  Despite himself, Cubiak sat up straight.

  “Cate Wagner,” she said. “Ruby Schumacher’s niece. I noticed you this morning at Benny’s funeral, figured you must be new. I served coffee after the service, but I don’t think you came down.” She looked past him and blinked hard several times before going on. “Poor Benny. He loved that old boat. I can’t believe he’d do something stupid like that. Must’ve been losing it.”

  “He was pretty drunk.”

  Cate grinned. “His natural state. You know, he used to take me out fishing when I was a kid. Made me bait my own hook. ‘Just ’cause you’re a girl, don’t mean nothing,’” she said, mimicking a husky voice. “Guess I can’t begrudge him the pecan rolls.”

  “Pecan rolls?”

  “Sunday special at the Ephraim Bakery. You are new, aren’t you?” Cate said. “Every Sunday morning, Martha Smithson makes pecan rolls that are very popular with the locals. This past Sunday, Ruby and I st
opped in around ten, hoping to snag a dozen, but they were already gone. Martha said Benny had been in bright and early and bought a sack full.”

  Cate tilted toward him. She wore perfume and had the same sculpted cheekbones and thick, straight brows as her aunt. “Wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you . . . ?”

  “Dave Cubiak. I quit.”

  “Right.” Cate unwound herself from the chair. “Give me a sec,” she said.

  As Cubiak watched, she strode up to a trio of men who were pretending they hadn’t noticed her. When she returned, two cigarettes lay across the palm of her hand. She passed one to him, cutting short his protest. “Look at your fingers, for God’s sake.”

  Silent, he struck a match for them to share.

  Cate inhaled deeply. “Mister Cubiak. You are a . . . painter? No, hands too unsullied, save for the nicotine. Woodcarver? Owner of a gift shoppe?” She pronounced the final e.

  “Park Service,” he said stiffly.

  “Oh. You work for Johnson then.” Cate searched the bumpy, thick carpet at the base of the chair until she found a place to put her empty glass. “Strange man. You know he used to date Beck’s sister Claire. Hard to imagine, the park super with a sweetheart.”

  “Love is strange.”

  Cate laughed. She was nonchalant and at ease in the room. It struck Cubiak that she fit in about as well as he did not. “Greeters.” She indicated one of the young girls in white. “It’s a fun job when you’re sixteen.”

  Right, Cubiak thought. The summer he was sixteen, he had worked in a wet-end extrusion factory on South Kedzie. One morning, a fat-faced foreman with a cheap toupee made him stick his right hand through the intake of a plugged dryer. Blood and worse dripped out as Cubiak tugged at a tangled blob of sausage casings. When he finally pulled his arm free, he noticed that the hair had been burned off up to the elbow. He quit on the spot.

  “You always this glum?”