Death by the Bay Read online

  Cubiak poured a drink. For most of his adult life, he had been a shot and a beer guy, tossing down the familiar combination of cheap whiskey and cheap beer that had been a mainstay in the working-class neighborhood of his youth. Only recently had he come to appreciate the lingering comfort of a fine wine sipped leisurely at the end of the day.

  “You need to start locking your doors at night,” he said.

  Bathard waved a hand dismissively. “It is not yet night.”

  “The sun’s down.”

  “That means that twilight is nigh. But thank you. I appreciate the concern.”

  Cubiak smiled. He had been raised by a father who defined his masculinity by how much vodka he could hold and how loud he could yell and sometimes by how mean he could be to his wife and son. The old man, as he liked to call himself, had never thanked anyone for anything his entire life and had never seemed capable of seeing the good in anything. When Cubiak had met Bathard, the sheriff viewed his gentle manner and generous spirit with cynicism. No one could be that decent all the time, he thought. For weeks and then months, he waited to be disappointed, but the day never came, and gradually Cubiak came to realize that Bathard was a genuinely good man and that he was honored to call the old doctor his friend.

  Bathard waited until his visitor was settled in the matching armchair across from the unlit fireplace before he spoke.

  “Do you know how to make God laugh?” he asked.

  Cubiak raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Plan your life.” The coroner paused and then gave the sheriff a quizzical look. “It is supposed to be a joke.”

  “Not a very funny one.”

  “Not at all, but if it were true then between the two of us we would have had him—or her—in stiches.” Bathard said. “Do not look at me that way. You know it is the honest truth.”

  Cubiak turned away from the coroner’s gaze.

  Like his friend, he had once had a different life. Born and raised in Chicago, he had lived in the city until that night fourteen years ago when he drove more than two hundred miles through a snowstorm and knocked on the door of the ranger station at Peninsula State Park. He was a broken man, a husband and father who had lost his wife and daughter to a drunk driver, a homicide detective at the country’s third largest police force who had drunk himself out of a job and was barreling headlong down a path to self-destruction when his former partner interceded. Malcolm dragged him out of the muck of self-pity, badgered him to go back to school and to start a new career, and then pointed him north to Door County. Cubiak arrived fortified by the vodka he had learned to drink at his father’s knee and the assurance that he had to stay for only one year, long enough to keep his promise to Malcolm. He came to escape all memory of death and found himself surrounded by it. Not the kind of death that comes quietly in the night but the random, terrifying species of death that comes at the end of an arrow or a bullet or worse, weapons wielded by a vengeful killer. Others tried but failed to halt the rampage, and Door County lived in fear until Cubiak solved the case. Why? Because he knew how to track and stop a killer and because he was compelled to act, because the pledge to serve and protect had never really left him. Now he was sheriff. Now he was a husband and father again. Now he had new dreams, but if truth be told, the old ones remained as well. They were the dreams that would never come true.

  Bathard had his unfilled dreams as well. He had lost his beloved Cornelia to cancer and had been swept into a new life with Sonja. But cruel fate revisited the aging physician and stole that life too. Cubiak worried about him.

  The coroner pulled the hassock into place and swung his foot onto it. “You didn’t come to listen to my feeble attempts at waxing philosophical about life.”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you’ll talk about Leonard Melk.”

  Bathard grimaced. “I had a feeling that was what brought you here under the cover of soup. My apologies for not offering you any.”

  The sheriff smiled again. “I’ve had my soup. Let’s just say I detected a coolness in your manner earlier today at the lodge. Correct me if I am wrong, but I get the feeling you don’t approve of Melk. Or Sage for that matter.”

  “Or the Institute for Progressive Medicine. You may as well toss that into the mix too,” Bathard said.

  “Why?”

  The physician lifted his empty glass. “Just a drop,” he said. When Cubiak finished pouring, he went on. “I find it distasteful to tell tales on one’s colleagues.”

  “Melk is dead. And anything you tell me goes no farther than this room.”

  “For now.”

  Cubiak shrugged. “I have a job to do.”

  “Leonard Melk died of a heart attack.”

  “I’m not disputing that. I’m wondering why Sage was so annoyed by your presence and determined to keep me out of the picture. It was almost as if he was trying to hide something.”

  “I must say, his actions didn’t surprise me. Melk and his institute have always been shrouded in secrecy. I imagine that Sage has been steeped in the same culture.”

  Cubiak settled back against the cushions and waited.

  “You’re familiar with the Hippocratic oath.”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, more or less it goes like this: ‘Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrongdoing and harm, especially from abusing the bodies of man or woman, bond or free.’ There’s more to it of course, but that is the kernel of it. Most doctors take the commitment seriously, but to some it is more like a hypocritical oath.”

  “And you put Leonard Melk into the latter category?”

  “At this point, I am not in a position to go that far but I can tell you this: his institute—the Institute for Progressive Medicine—literally appeared out of nowhere. One day, a meadow of daisies grew on that field outside Green Bay. Then the flowers were plowed under and a multimillion-dollar treatment facility sprang up from the rich loam of the Midwest, and Melk opened the doors to a medical Lourdes, promising to heal every conceivable malady with what I would consider little more than magical water.”

  “Sage said they practiced traditional as well as nontraditional medicine.”

  “I am sure they do, but what is the mix and what exactly are these alternative methods? I had several patients to whom I had to give the unfortunate news of serious illness, the kind we all dread: cancer, incurable heart disease, ALS. I presented them with standard treatment options and gave them the sobering data about their chances, and then I never saw them again, only to learn later that they had gone to Melk. Granted that in some instances I had little to offer because conventional medicine had little to offer. But Melk? He had the kind of answers that appealed to desperate people. A modern-day version of snake oil, if you want my professional opinion. For years, the sick and the dying have flocked to the institute.”

  “Do you think the sheer volume of patients is enough to fund the operation?”

  “That may be how it is sustained, but my larger question is: where did he get the funding with which to start? I admit that after I lost several of my patients to his promises, I looked into his background. His medical credentials were unassailable. And his personal story the classic American success story of poor boy makes good. Certainly, he came from very limited means; his father drove a delivery truck for a meatpacking firm in Green Bay, and his mother was a grocery store clerk.”

  “How did he afford medical school?”

  “Scholarships and such, no doubt. There’s no question that he was a very bright young man, the kind who deserved the opportunities he was given. But more to the point: where did he get the money to underwrite the institute? As a doctor, he would have earned a comfortable salary—nothing like the incomes enjoyed today by many physicians, particularly those who specialize—but enough to set himself up in a modest private practice.”

  “But not enough to underwrite the institute.”

  “I would not think so.” Ba
thard paused. “Have you ever seen it?”

  Cubiak shook his head.

  “There had to have been major money involved.”

  “Investors?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What about research? Is there money in that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cubiak told him about the boy in the photo in the Forest Room and related what Sage had said about Alzheimer’s and Down syndrome.

  “He is correct that this is a promising field of study, although I have never heard of children being involved, and I cannot imagine that the institute is equipped to handle that kind of work. As for the money, it probably runs into the tens of millions, taking into account government research grants and what the big pharmaceuticals spend to develop new drugs. The payoff, of course, would be enormous.”

  “What do you think all this means?”

  Bathard frowned. “To be honest, I cannot really say.”

  “That’s unlike you.”

  Cubiak was pleased to hear the coroner chortle at the remark. The moment passed, and the doctor turned somber again.

  “I mean that in all seriousness. Melk and the institute may be clean as the proverbial freshly fallen snow, but it is also possible that there is something untoward going on that we are missing. If you like, I can do a little digging—play detective, as it were. I still have a number of reliable contacts, and I certainly have plenty of time on my hands.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Bathard smiled. “It would be good to feel useful again.”

  6

  TRUE IDENTITY

  On Tuesday morning, Joey finished his breakfast first. After he went out to play, Cubiak told Cate about the previous day’s events at the Green Arbor Lodge, starting with the death of Doctor Melk.

  “The Leonard Melk? I haven’t heard that name in years,” she said as she stirred milk into her coffee.

  “You know him?”

  “Not really, but I remember hearing Ruby and Dutch talk about him,” she said, referring to the childhood summers she spent with her aunt and uncle in Door County.

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t pay that much attention, but I had the feeling they didn’t really care for him, or for the institute that he ran. Why do you ask?”

  Cubiak frowned. He wasn’t even sure himself. “Comes with the territory, I guess. I see a dead man and I want to know if anyone had it in for him.”

  Cate passed him a plate of buttered toast. “People die, Dave.”

  The sheriff nodded. “First mystery solved.”

  “There’s another?”

  “Maybe.”

  He told her about the second event and his encounter with the two cleaning women. As best he could, he described the image on the wall.

  “Is there any way to authenticate a photo like that?” he asked. Cate was a professional photographer, and early in their relationship he learned to rely on her expertise.

  “I’d have to see it.”

  “You will, once I find it again. Everything was gone when I got back to the room. But Sage said it was a stock photo, so either he or someone at the institute must have a copy.”

  Cate had an odd look on her face.

  “Is something wrong?” Cubiak said.

  “That story you just told me. There’s something vaguely familiar about it. Almost as if I’ve heard it before.” She pushed an uneaten bit of toast around her plate. “It’s like déjà vu, only I don’t know where it’s coming from. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks.” She looked up at him. “Does that ever happen to you?”

  “Not really.” But it had and he didn’t want to talk about it. A month ago at the grocery store, he had seen a tall, slim woman walking away from him down the dairy aisle. She wore jeans and a red patterned top that looked exactly like one that Lauren used to wear. Without realizing what he was doing and with no rational basis for doing so, he started to follow her, convinced that she was his first wife. It made no sense: Lauren had died in his arms. Then the woman stopped. When she turned around, the sight of her unfamiliar face slapped him back to reality. Stunned and embarrassed, he spun away and grabbed a jar of mayonnaise off the shelf. The incident had haunted him for days, not just because of the intensity of the feeling involved but because it wasn’t the only one.

  What was he doing still chasing ghosts? he wondered as he stood and pushed away from the table.

  “I’m late,” he said and bent to kiss Cate good-bye.

  He was in the jeep when she ran out after him.

  “I remember what I wanted to tell you,” she said. Her long hair had fallen loose around her shoulders. As she pushed it out of her face, she leaned toward the open window.

  “For a couple of the summers that I was up here with my aunt and uncle, I was friends with a girl who lived in Southern Door. She had horses, and we used to go riding on the back roads around her house. There was one farm that she would never go past because she said that something about it spooked the horses. I thought she was being silly but she insisted. She said that the people who owned the place years ago had had a disabled daughter who vanished. According to my friend, a doctor came to the farm promising to cure her, and the father sent her away with him. The parents never saw her again, and the despondent father committed suicide. Whether it was his ghost or his daughter’s that my friend was afraid of, I don’t know, but she wouldn’t go near the place.”

  “What was wrong with the girl?”

  “She wasn’t sure.”

  “Do you remember the name of the family?”

  “No, but I can try to find out.” Cate pressed her hand against the jeep door. “Do you think it means anything?”

  “Probably not. I wouldn’t worry about it. Kids like to make up tales about haunted houses. The story about the girl may not be true.” He started to drive away and then stopped. “But if you learn anything, let me know.”

  In Jacksonport, Cubiak pulled off the road and checked his messages. Pardy hadn’t gotten back to him with the autopsy results on Melk, and there was nothing from his assistant, Lisa. He called Sage to ask for a copy of the photo, but the doctor didn’t answer his phone. He tried the general number for the institute, but no one picked up.

  The sheriff was too restless to spend the morning at his desk. Nearing Sturgeon Bay, he detoured off the highway and took the scenic route along the water into town. From the east side, he studied the new developments on the other side of the bay. The upscale condos sparkled bright white in the morning sun, but where he was the houses were old and stately and set back from the street, their owners’ wealth and good fortune unobtrusive under the shelter of the tall shade trees.

  When he got downtown, he skipped the new coffee shop that catered to tourists and summer residents. Cubiak liked the lattes they served, but that morning he opted for the old diner favored by the locals. As usual, the wooden tables and booths were full. Cubiak slid onto a stool at the counter and ordered a coffee.

  The radio was tuned to state and national news that played softly in the background, but he was more interested in the local gossip that buzzed from one patron to another. The “Hey, did you hear about . . .” kind of chatter that kept him informed of local goings-on. Cate had suggested the routine to him. Cafés and diners in the morning, an occasional visit to one of the bars in the evening. “People like to talk. You’ll be surprised what you hear.”

  She was right. The banter he picked up ran the gamut from neighborly good deeds to rumors of layoffs at the shipyards, to gossip about battered spouses and kids behind barns sniffing substances that would fry their brains. He didn’t know how much of what he overheard was true. But later Cubiak would share what he had gleaned with his staff, because the more he and his deputies knew about what was happening, the better prepared they were to do their jobs.

  That morning, four women at a nearby table conferred in hushed tones about the deceased Doctor Melk. A miracle worker, one called him. “He
cured my husband’s cancer when the other doctors said it was fatal.” There was awe and reverence in her voice. “Always a kind word, and so good with children,” said another. The two companions murmured with appreciation.

  Did Melk’s institute dispense snake oil, as Bathard implied, or work miracles, as the one woman believed? What really went on there? Cubiak was tempted to ask the women for dates and details, but he stopped for fear that questions from him might prove incendiary. He came to the restaurant to pick up gossip, not to spark it.

  The sheriff needed to talk to Francisca again about her missing brother. Yesterday, she and her coworker Lupita left the Green Arbor, although he had asked them to wait for him. Why hadn’t they stayed? Was there something they weren’t telling him, or did Francisca fear that she had said too much? He checked the note the manager had given him with the women’s addresses and phone numbers. They lived about five blocks away, around the corner from each other.

  Their houses were not in the tourist part of town. No lace-curtained bed-and-breakfasts tucked behind picket fences, no old money or water views, no private docks—only the modest frame homes of people who worked with their hands, the kind of people Cubiak knew from his childhood. These were residents who not only took pride in neat lawns and freshly painted trim but did their own work to keep their properties up to standards.

  He thought of trying to get the two women together again so Lupita could translate, but decided to start by talking to the older woman without Francisca. He wondered if there were details that Lupita had left out of the story the day before and wanted to hear her version. A phone call would be too impersonal. He needed to see her face when they talked. He would learn more that way.

  Although the jeep was unmarked, Cubiak took the precaution of parking around the corner from Lupita’s house. He didn’t want to prematurely announce his presence or give the neighbors anything to gossip about. Better to arrive on foot.