Death Stalks Door County (15 page)

John Breuder was waiting on the last wharf north of the village center, a clunky cabin cruiser at the ready. “Tank's full,” the dock manager announced after Cubiak introduced himself and flashed his ID. “Get you where you want to go and back, assuming you ain't going too far or staying too long.”

“Just around the cove.”

“Fishing?”

“No.”

Breuder pointedly surveyed the pier, noting the absence of any appropriate equipment. “Didn't think so. Traveling light if you was.” Slightly bowlegged, he nudged the boat out with the toe of his boot and remained silent until it drifted back into the rubber bumper. “Be surprised, the stuff folks bring out with them. Enough to sink a battleship.” He grinned at his own wit. “So where you off to?”

The sleeves of Breuder's blue workmen's shirt were rolled neatly to the elbow. He wore a gold wedding band on his left hand and dangled the contract in his right. He hadn't yet offered it up for a signature. Cubiak said something about writing up an official report about the incident at the tower and told him his itinerary. He was happy he had.

The boat handler knew the precise route Macklin took from Ephraim to Chambers Island after he'd drop off his catch. The fisherman religiously followed the same path, hadn't varied it in years, Breuder explained, as he squinted over the glistening water and pointed the way. From the fishery north of town, he'd steer along the top of Horseshoe Island and then hang a left and make a direct run west to his pier on Chambers Island.

“Why go around Horseshoe? Isn't it closer to cut along this side of the island?”

“Aye.” Breuder blinked into the sun. “Shorter distance for sure, but takes longer cause of the currents.” As he talked, he handed over the contract and watched Cubiak scrawl his name.

When the formalities were complete, Cubiak stepped into the boat, regaining his balance as the bottom shifted underfoot.

“Course you're talking about Sunday, and on Sunday Benny would've gone into town first, before heading back,” Breuder drawled on, pretending not to notice Cubiak's clumsy attempt at righting himself. “Martha Smithson over at the bakery makes her fresh pecan rolls every Sunday morning starting in early June. Benny had a soft spot for them. Some say for her, too.” He hesitated. “It was Sunday, wasn't it?”

Breuder was right, Cubiak realized. At Beck's party, Cate had told him that Benny had gone into Ephraim early for pecan rolls. If he was on the water, returning home, around the time Wisby was on the tower, he might have seen what happened.

Cubiak was suddenly self-conscious about engaging the motor in front of Breuder, but the old man seemed to have forgotten him. While Cubiak fiddled with the controls, the pier manager stared past the boat toward the park and Falcon Tower. Was he thinking the same thing? Before Cubiak could ask, Breuder turned on his heel and shuffled back toward his shanty office.

Cubiak was grateful that the water was calm. Dodging a cluster of small pleasure craft, he retraced Macklin's path as best he could. According to Breuder, Macklin would have moored at the Christiana's private pier. It was the near the bakery and since the season wasn't officially underway, he wouldn't have worried about trespass warnings—not that Macklin would have heeded the signs even during season, Breuder added. Cubiak didn't share that luck. The Chris's water access was cordoned off for swimming and the dock hopscotched with guests' floating jetsam, making it impossible for him to get within one hundred feet of land. Offshore, he idled the engine and let the boat coast to an easy stop. As it rocked beneath him, Cubiak pulled out the binoculars.

They were deceptively light. He draped the thin strap around his neck and, for a quick test, scanned Ephraim. The lens power surprised him. The village's narrow lanes ran at his feet. Uphill, the cottages were an arm's length distant. In one garden, he watched a young woman carefully snip roses, both the flowers and her face visible in vivid detail, down to the delicately scalloped edges of the petals and the mole on her right cheek.

Comfortable with the heft and manipulation of the binoculars, Cubiak reengaged the motor and pivoted the boat 180 degrees. He moved at a trolling speed, taking his time, as he pictured Macklin doing with the
Betsy Ross
that Sunday morning. Like Benny, he crossed the cove, running parallel to the park and occasionally scanning the cliff face with the binoculars. He made several passes, each one equally frustrating. No matter where he was when he looked up, the bluff blocked Falcon Tower from view. He was approaching Horseshoe Island before he got a clear view of the upper portion of the structure through the lenses. Even then the result was disappointing. There were several people moving about on the platform and two people ascending. Cubiak could make out the people on top but the faces of those on the stairs were blocked by the steps and hidden in shadow. Assuming Benny had noticed a second person coming up the tower after Wisby, he wouldn't have known who it was.

Breuder was out when Cubiak returned the boat. A lanky, suntanned teenager haphazardly hung the key on a pegboard inside the office door, scribbled his initials on the receipt, and returned Cubiak's driver's license. Breuder would have asked how it went. The boy didn't bother.

Cubiak headed back to square one. Falcon Tower.

Falcon Tower loomed over the surrounding trees, a symbol of humanity's dominion over nature. The trapezoidal structure was supported by thick corner beams that gradually tapered inward as they rose up seven floors. Cubiak climbed to the first platform and then trudged past the second.

The last flight carried him above the treetops. He'd seen the view before but it still grabbed him. This was Door County at its purest: water, land, forest.

Two adults and a teenage girl stood at the railing. “Horseshoe Island and the Strawberry Islands,” the man said, pivoting from right to left and stabbing his index finger in the air. “Come and look,” he said to two children, a boy and a girl, who huddled in the center of the deck.

“Stop acting so silly. There's nothing to be scared about,” the woman said, her tone mean and dismissive. Was she the mother, the stepmom, or maybe Dad's new girlfriend?

Cubiak grinned reassuringly at the youngsters. “It's okay to be afraid. Lots of people are,” he said.

The woman started to say something, then noticed Cubiak's uniform and clamped shut, settling for a raspy throat noise instead of a snappy retort.

Finally, they left and Cubiak was alone on the tower. He scanned the inlet. Most of the cove was visible. There were even more boats out now, two of them proximate to the route Macklin would have taken. Without the binoculars, the vessels were little more than smudges against the blue water. Cubiak could discern color and, on several, humped shapes at the helms but nothing else. Certainly not enough detail to allow for a positive identification. The same was true looking out from the stairs.

If Macklin couldn't make out who'd been on the steps the morning Wisby had dropped off the top, what could he have told Entwhistle that would make any difference? And if the alleged second person couldn't ID Macklin's boat, where was the motive for murdering him? Could the fisherman's death really have been an accident? Cate said Macklin loved his boat and that even drunk he wouldn't be reckless around the
Betsy Ross
. Which brought Cubiak back to the unknown figure Macklin saw climbing Falcon Tower the morning Wisby died.

From the water, Macklin could distinguish two people on the tower but he couldn't say more than that. If the second person, the one on the stairs, knew Macklin was in the bay that morning, then the old man might have been killed as a precaution, making the death look like an accident. But who, other than a local, would know anything about Macklin's routines? Was it possible the fisherman was killed by someone he knew?

According to Beck, Macklin told Entwhistle he saw two people on the tower that morning, “one on top, waving like all get out, and the other coming up the stairs.” That put Wisby facing toward the bay. With his back to the stairs, he wouldn't see anyone below still on the steps. If he was on his own, he wouldn't even realize that someone had followed him up.

Cubiak imagined three different scenarios. One: The person on the stairs was a young woman known to Wisby. They'd started the climb together but he reached the top first. Spotting Macklin's boat, he waved. Then, foolishly hoping to impress his female friend when she finally reached the upper platform, he climbed the railing and slipped off just as she got to the top. Two: They were lovers. Perhaps he intended to propose atop the tower. When she announced that she was leaving him for another man, Wisby became overwhelmed with despair. Threatening to do himself in if she left him, he scrambled onto the railing and accidently plunged to his death. Three: Wisby had climbed the tower alone. Waving and shouting at Macklin, he was taken by surprise, knocked off balance, and hurled over the ledge by the mystery climber. Why? And who was the unknown assailant?

From Falcon Tower, Cubiak proceeded to the other sites, following the order in which he'd listed the victims' names: the dock at Fish Creek, Turtle Bay Campground, William Garrity Lighthouse, Ricochet Hill. At each one, dozens of images materialized. He sank into them, hoping some new detail would emerge.

Nothing did. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something important. But what?

Driving back to Jensen Station, Cubiak drew a mental map of the route he'd followed that afternoon. The image reinforced what he already knew, that each victim had died in or near the park. But it also revealed something else. Each death had occurred in a locale that was readily accessible to someone familiar with the surrounding area and yet isolated enough that it could be reached by a killer intent on not being seen. There were probably dozens of people with that kind of intimate knowledge of the park but only one Cubiak could name who had a motive as well.

Whom to trust with his suspicions?

In a different life, when Cubiak was a real cop, he'd learned to follow his instincts, and instinct told him to confide in Bathard.

There was no answer at the coroner's office. Cubiak tried Bathard's house and caught the housekeeper as she was about to leave. She told him that the doctor and his wife were out to an early dinner and, yes, she knew where they had gone.

F
ish Creek was thick with tourists, and, in the hubbub, Cubiak nearly missed seeing the coroner near the side entrance of Babe and Ray's, one of the town's most popular supper clubs. Bathard had his arm around the shoulder of one woman and was talking to another. The ranger ditched the jeep behind Evangeline Davis's diner and caught up with the three as they slowly progressed toward Sarah Humble's.

Cubiak had never met Cornelia. A photo in the coroner's office showed her petite and waiflike even in good health. Cancer had diminished her to a wisp of flesh and bone. She was a sliver, hung on the arms of her companions, both of them hard pressed to mask their alarm. “So pleased to meet you,” she said. Her hand was a feather in Cubiak's calloused palm.

The other woman looked like Cornelia's robust twin. “My sister-in-law, Helen,” Bathard said, introducing her to Cubiak.

“I'm on a roll,” Cornelia chirped as the two shook hands.

Cubiak lowered his glance, barely able to look at her. “I need to talk to you,” he told the physician.

The two men settled Cornelia in the car with Helen and then followed the bike path to Pechta's. This far from the town center, the only sounds were the buzz of mosquitoes and the hard crunch of gravel underfoot. The wind off the bay smelled faintly of fish. The duo was quiet, each man caught up in his own thoughts. Inside the bar, they took a rear booth. The coroner ordered a whiskey, neat. Cubiak asked for tonic with lime. At that, Bathard allowed a slight rise of the eyebrows.

“Things change,” Cubiak said as Amelia went to pour their drinks.

“Indeed. Certainly did for me.” Bathard concentrated on filling his pipe. “I'm not just a country rube, you know. I worked in the big city, too. Until the day I got a parking citation for exceeding the time at the meter.”

“You give up easily.”

“The reason I overstayed my allotted time involved a medical emergency. I was in the library reference center when a middle-aged patron went into cardiac arrest. Fortunately, I was able to resuscitate the man before the paramedics arrived. Afterward, as a matter of principle, I accompanied him to the ER and waited for authorities to locate a family member. As you might assume, this took quite a while and I returned to the library to find not one but several citations slapped on the windshield. The patient recovered and called me several weeks later. It turns out he'd been ticketed as well. We considered going to court together and explaining the circumstance, but we never did. For some reason, I remained fixated on the travesty of the tickets and finally decided that this incident was probably the first in a long list of indignities and injustices I'd be forced to endure simply because of the nature of the city. Too big. Too impersonal. Six months later, I returned to Door County and I've been here since.”