Death Stalks Door County Read online

  “Got a cigarette?” the prisoner said.

  “Nope.”

  Up front, Halverson was busy with self-congratulations. Cubiak knew the sheriff was waiting for acknowledgment and praise from him, the former big city cop, but he refused to play the hypocrite. To him, Petey’s arrest wasn’t noteworthy, merely convenient.

  Cubiak lowered his window, hoping to catch strains of the animal concert. But he could hear nothing over the harsh screech of sirens wailing through the fog.

  THURSDAY

  Alice Jones was buried quickly and with little fanfare. Funeral services were held in a modest, cement-block evangelical church, a few blocks from the shipyards. The walls and ceiling of the claustrophobic sanctuary were desperate for a fresh coat of paint. And despite the best efforts of two tall radiators that hissed quietly in the background, an aura of dampness and mildew permeated the air.

  The prompt arrest of Petey Kingovich sent a tangible ripple of relief through Door County. People rationalized that Alice—cheap, tawdry Alice—had contributed to her own doom. They regretted that her death had been so gruesome but assured themselves that they—being so unlike her—were immune to such horror. Barely recovered from the deaths of Wisby and Macklin and now both wary of negative publicity and shamed by the brutal killing, the locals were eager to put this tragedy behind them.

  Even the minister talked euphemistically of Alice’s passing, as if her death had been little more than an unanticipated tumble through a doorway. The victim’s beleaguered parents, faced with the daunting task of rearing five younger children, fumbled through the service dazed and resigned, uncomfortable in the new attire purchased for the day. Besides the siblings, who cried throughout the brief ceremony, there were few mourners, only a handful, scattered amidst the scratched wooden pews: several disheveled young men, in worn denim jackets, clustered together, sharing a mutual hangover; two old-biddy neighbors, smug and disapproving, whispered conspiratorially across from them. To one side, Alice’s posse of girlfriends dabbed mascara-stained tissues at their tears, unaware that the outfits they wore, indeed their very best, were inappropriate funeral attire.

  Eloise had come, too, in open defiance of her husband’s wishes. Wrapped in a plain brown wool coat and with a beige scarf covering her hair, she’d braved Beck’s wrath as well as the stiff northeast wind that lambasted the peninsula and piled tall gray clouds up against the horizon. Seated quietly to one side, she witnessed the suffering of this family of strangers, allowed their pain to supplement her own. Barry remained at home, forbidden by his father to attend the funeral. Beck had allowed his son to talk a second time with Halverson about the murder, again with the family lawyer present, and had kept the boy’s name out of the paper.

  Cubiak slouched in the rear of the bleak chapel. That morning Johnson had woken sick with flu, and the junior assistant had been delegated to attend the service. He agreed to go only as a show of respect because Alice had made her transition—another of the minister’s euphemisms—in the park.

  It was worse than Cubiak had expected. Alice’s casket was white, like Alexis’s. Unsettled by the sight of the coffin, he bore a look of such grim intensity that no one dared approach him. Afterward, as the other well-wishers followed the procession through the front door, Cubiak ducked out a side entrance.

  He rushed full throttle toward the fresh liquor bottle in the back of his closet, but never made it past Pechta’s. In true Pavlovian style, he swung into the driveway, only vaguely aware that the lot was empty and the window displays dark. His mouth burned with the remembered taste of vodka as he pushed the door in. The interior lights were off and he hesitated. Had Amelia forgotten to lock up the night before? He hadn’t noticed her at the funeral but perhaps she’d sat on the far side and was among the mourners on the way to the cemetery. Cubiak turned to leave.

  “Dave, that you? Come on in.” Amelia beckoned from the shadows at the far end of the bar.

  He moved toward her.

  “Pull up a stool and join us,” she added.

  Too late, he realized Amelia was not alone.

  “You two know each other?”

  Cate Wagner glanced up. Her hair, pulled back severely off her face, had turned dark, black like her sweatshirt and pants. They acknowledged each other warily.

  “You at Alice’s service?” Amelia went on as she reached for an extra glass and poured three shots.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, at least they caught the bastard,” she said, shoving one drink at Cubiak and another at Cate. “To Alice,” she said, proffering a toast. “Poor kid.” The whiskey went down warm and smooth. Amelia poured a second round, passing over her own glass, then pushed the bottle to Cubiak.

  “Help yourselves. I’m going to lie down. Bum knee’s killing me,” she said and shuffled toward the back room.

  Above the bar, a neon beer display sputtered on. Cubiak refilled his glass and offered the bottle to Cate.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  He tossed down his drink and started to get up.

  “Wait, please,” Cate said.

  He hesitated and then eased onto the edge of the stool, poised for flight. Cate reached for his arm but stopped short and rested her fingers on the counter. “I want to apologize for the other night. I didn’t mean anything by it, just trying to be friendly.”

  Cubiak tensed. He didn’t want to have this conversation.

  “You never mentioned you had a daughter.”

  Their eyes met in the cracked mirror. His were steel hard; hers soft with sympathy and something else Cubiak couldn’t read. He looked away.

  “Ruby told me. Last night.”

  Cubiak swallowed another shot. The story was getting around.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “No.”

  “I understand.” Cate hunched over the bar, hugging herself. Cubiak was uncertain what to do.

  After a moment, she looked up. “I miscarried. Twice,” she said. Her stricken reflection stared back from the mirror. Cubiak didn’t know what to say.

  The first pregnancy ended before she had time to adjust to the idea of having a child, Cate told him. But the second time was different. She carried the baby for three months before things went wrong. “I was convinced I was going to have a baby girl. I had a name picked out and started a list of all the things we’d do together as she grew up.”

  Cubiak turned away. He didn’t need to hear this.

  Fetal development inexplicably ceased, Cate explained, and the baby died in the womb. “It changed who I am,” she said.

  “Yes,” Cubiak said finally, unable to manage any more than a solitary word. He steadied himself against the bar. He knew the power of death. It had robbed him of his purpose in life and his passion for living.

  “I named her Polly. My pretty Polly.”

  “Alexis,” Cubiak said finally. “And Lauren. My wife.” Having misinterpreted silence for loyalty, he had not spoken their names out loud since the funeral; in naming them, he realized how mistaken he’d been.

  They sat together through the afternoon. Cubiak did most of the drinking and Cate most of the talking. The only links they shared were growing up as only children and in cities on the shore of Lake Michigan. Her childhood had been as plush and easy as his had been stingy and mean. She’d gone to Smith and lived in Cushing House, the oldest residency hall on the quad; he’d ridden the L to the University of Illinois Circle Campus just south of the Loop. She had a trust fund; he did not. Cubiak had known women like her and had found them to be shallow and callous, but Cate seemed kind and vulnerable, and he found himself drawn to her.

  They were half through the bottle and three-quarters through a pack of cigarettes when Amelia reappeared with a tray of sandwiches and coffee. “Figured you could both use some of this about now,” she said.

  The sandwiches were ham and swiss on rye, heavy on butter and mustard. The coffee was black and strong. “Not like at that café by the dock. You can alway
s tell when it’s tourist season. Evangeline starts watering down the coffee,” Amelia said as she flipped on the bar lights.

  A single, framed, black-and-white photo hung near the switch. She lifted it off the wall and set it on the counter. A small cadre of fiercely handsome young people dressed in traditional outdoor gear stared back at them.

  “The Door County High School Survivalist Club.” Amelia’s voice swelled with pride. “Kids trained in hunting, trapping, all the tough skills. Not like kids today. Fat slobs, most of them.” The club had had Jocko Connelly for an instructor, the best. Amelia jabbed a crooked finger at the imposing figure on the right.

  “You know all these folks,” she said to Cate. For Cubiak’s benefit, she tapped her index finger across the glass. “Beck. Les Caruthers. Cate’s uncle, Dutch Schumacher. Used to be sheriff. Handsome as the devil, ain’t he? Otto Johnson. Frank Halverson, Leo’s father.” A shadow crossed the barkeeper’s face. “Real shame, what happened to him.” One girl stood amidst the boys. She was lithe and strong, with a halo of curls and a saucy, devil-may-care look on her face.

  “Who’s that?” Cubiak said.

  Amelia smiled ruefully. “That’s me,” she said in a whisper.

  Cate continued staring at the photo. “Dutch died a couple years ago. Ruby took it real hard. I . . .”

  The front door banged open, shattering the afternoon’s intimacy. As if guided by the narrow beam of afternoon sunshine that sliced through the dim interior, Beck strode toward the trio. He was a noisy intruder, jangling his keys and slapping the leather soles of his shoes against the hardwood floor.

  “Asshole,” Amelia murmured, sweeping the photo off the bar.

  “Ladies. Gentlemen,” Beck said. Dressed in a navy wool blazer and charcoal pants, his pale blue shirt open at the collar, he looked like an upscale tourist who’d wandered off the beaten path.

  Amelia dodged a peck on the cheek. Cate shuddered through a kiss and a quick hug. Cubiak ignored the outstretched hand.

  Beck pretended not to notice and rested his elbow on the bar. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Got a minute?” he said.

  Cubiak seemed to consider the question. Then he tipped his hand to his two companions, slid from the stool, and followed Beck out the door to the side porch, where half a dozen mismatched chairs stood in a row along the outside wall. Beck chose the two sturdiest, twirled them to face each other, and sat. Cubiak claimed the other, determined to act sober.

  “No time to waste on pleasantries,” Beck said, leaning in confidentially. “The Conservation League is meeting tomorrow evening and Johnson’s on tap to talk about the park. Probably up to his usual bag of tricks. I need to know what he has to say and what kind of reception he gets from those crazy tree huggers. I’d go myself but I have critical business elsewhere. Besides, those people don’t like me much. On the other hand, you show up, and it’s kind of like you’re just doing your job.”

  Cubiak caught little more than half of the rapid-fire prattle.

  Beck thrummed his manicured fingers on the arms of the chair. “You know, Halverson says he doesn’t trust you because you have nothing to say. But I believe the old adage about still water running deep. The question is: what’s down there?”

  He paused, waiting for a response. Then he went on. “Okay, it doesn’t matter. You don’t want to talk to me, fine. Just so long as you listen. There are people up here who can’t think beyond today. They have no vision. I’m not like that, and I’m sure you’re not like that. Some of these people will be at the meeting. I need to keep tabs on them and what they’re thinking. The festival is coming up fast and it’s important it goes off without a hitch. It’s always important, but this year more than usual. Make sure you understand that.”

  “Right.”

  Beck winked. “Good things are going to be happening and you could benefit,” he said as he stood and brushed himself off. “Better have some more coffee, before you get behind the wheel.”

  As Beck walked away, Cubiak offered a one finger salute.

  FRIDAY

  Cubiak was irked that he’d acquiesced to Beck, but he’d been too numbed by alcohol and sadness to argue. Grudgingly, he coasted downhill into Ephraim, trailing the remnants of an early evening storm. Low, wind-driven clouds scudded inland over the sleepy village, backdrop for a pale rainbow that arched over the gray chop of the town’s U-shaped harbor. At the base of the incline, the road leveled and followed the bottom rim of the shoreline, running past vacant cottages and under giant sugar maples that shivered raindrops over the jeep’s windshield, enough to require an occasional swipe of the wipers. One of the oldest communities in Door County, Ephraim was quixotically laid out, with a hodgepodge of spider-leg lanes that radiated out from the old Village Hall and ran steeply uphill to the top of an inland ridge. The village’s genteel, fairy-tale look was enhanced by whitewashed shops and cottages nestled amid miniature flower gardens and elfin lawns. Ephraim banned the sale of liquor and imposed strict limitations on live music, yet despite its prudish demeanor, it was one of the most popular resort towns on the peninsula.

  Tourists adored the waterfront village, and the faithful returned every summer without regard to lake levels, gas prices, or weather. On his way to the Conservation League meeting, Cubiak passed the ever-popular Milton’s Ice Cream Shoppe where a man and a woman in heavy sweaters huddled under a red-and-white striped umbrella on the roadside patio and dipped long-handled spoons into enormous whipped cream–topped sundaes as new clouds gathered on the horizon. In the fading light, a lone sailboat bobbed alongside the long, wooden dock, its halyard clips chiming rhythmically against the metal mast, and a handful of fishermen in sturdy slickers cast for bass and perch off a low wall of large, gray rocks. Behind the young lovers—for what else could they be in that setting—smatterings of cars and bicycles peppered the parking lots of the surrounding B&Bs. Only the Christiana, a grand, clapboard hotel near the town’s center, was deserted. Clinging to an old custom, snobbish in a way few could comprehend, the Chris waited until summer was well underway to begin the annual season, opening its doors with a fresh coat of white paint and setting out the rocking chairs along its famed porch in time for the Fourth of July Festival.

  Uphill from the Chris was the Holy Light Moravian Church, where the league met. In direct counterpoint to its name, the church was a bleak, cold edifice. A granite plaque near the front door honored the founding minister, who, it explained, made the church of simple measure so as not to compete with the natural surrounding beauty. A paper sign directed meeting attendees downstairs to the social hall where Reverend Thorenson manned a small table inside the entrance.

  The minister’s warm greeting embarrassed Cubiak, who had no interest in the organization and was attending the event under false pretenses. He took a seat in the last row. Among the sparse crowd were Bathard and Les Caruthers. On one side, Evangeline Davis and Martha Smithson sat shoulder to shoulder. A stern Anne Cooper perched nearby, notebook in her hand, talking to herself. Cubiak listened to the hum of voices. In the five days prior, three people had died within a ten-minute drive of the church. One of the funerals had been held upstairs. He found it unsettling how quickly life returned to normal for those on the outskirts of loss. For a week after Lauren and Alexis died, he’d failed to pick up the morning newspapers from the front porch, not because he forgot but because everything commonplace seemed superfluous. His perspective had been so altered by death, he could not comprehend a world in which someone would continue to drop a daily paper at his door. He was only beginning to understand that for those not directly touched by it, death was a transient event.

  Thorenson banged the gavel. Cubiak looked up. Six people he’d never seen before sat two rows ahead. Thorenson called the meeting to order and gave the lectern to Ruby. The room quieted instantly. Following the minutes and treasurer’s report, Ruby spoke about the future of Door County and the need to balance development with conservation. “The league does not stand in th
e path of progress. We are its partners. The challenge to protect the natural environment is one we take very seriously.” Ruby paused. “However, our resources are not limitless. We have finite time and only modest funds for our noble work. So we choose our battles carefully.”

  Otto Johnson, she explained, had developed a proposal regarding the future of Peninsula State Park. Ruby looked across the room to the superintendent, who stood framed in the rear doorway. “Otto, do share your thoughts with us.”

  Johnson was the antithesis of Ruby, as nervous and unsure of himself at the podium as she had been calm and confident. Speaking so quietly the audience had to strain to hear him, Johnson reminded his listeners that for years he had lobbied for ways to reduce tourist amenities in the park. Due in large part to support from the league, the park had fewer cross-country trails per acre than other public-use lands. Snowmobiling was banned. Campsites were limited. The previous year, bow hunting had been sharply curtailed, a first for any state facility.

  Now, Johnson wanted them to go further. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “I challenge the Conservation League to declare Peninsula State Park a wilderness area.”

  A gasp went up in the room. Martha Smithson and Evangeline Davis exchanged worried looks. Three of the young people cheered.

  Johnson continued. “All nature programs will cease. All trails, campsites, and facilities will be dismantled. The park would revert to its natural state and be operated as an animal refuge. Public access to the park will cease. Only Jensen Station, restructured as a nature museum, would be open to the public.”

  Caruthers jumped up and shook a finger at the park superintendent. “That’s the most absurd idea I’ve ever heard. You close the park and you bankrupt the peninsula. People are going to think we don’t want tourists up here. I say no. Absolutely. Positively.”