Death Stalks Door County (34 page)

Facing the wrath of angry voters, Wisconsin legislators passed strict regulations limiting development on the peninsula as well as in resort areas throughout the state. The governor, long a proponent of growth, ran for reelection on a platform pledged to preserve Door County.

Otto Johnson, the cantankerous park superintendent, became a local hero. During the public inquiry into the murders at Peninsula State Park, word got out that at the first sign of trouble, Johnson had tried doggedly to shut the facility and halt the festival. For his actions, people treated him with new respect. When it was announced that Ruby, in her will, had bequeathed the one hundred acres of pristine shore land adjacent to The Wood to the Door County Conservation League as a wildlife preserve, Johnson was named to direct the project in response to public demand.

Following his wife's death, Evelyn Bathard retired as coroner and withdrew from public life. Restless and with too much time on his hands, he eventually took on the job of completing the history of Door County started by Dutch Schumacher.

Leo Halverson resigned as sheriff. Ensured of a county job that secured his pension and provided a government car, he began working as a supervisor in the highway department. Pleased with the regular hours and the financial arrangement he'd negotiated, he often bragged to locals that he'd gotten the better part of the deal.

After Halverson stepped down, Dave Cubiak announced his candidacy for the office of sheriff of Door County. He ran unopposed in the next general election and won handily. Shortly after he was sworn in, he moved from Jensen Station into a rented log house on a stretch of rocky shore on the peninsula's Lake Michigan side.

O
n a crisp evening, Cubiak was stacking wood in the stone fireplace when he heard a high-pitched whine outside. The new sheriff grabbed a flashlight and stepped onto the small, open porch. Clouds obscured the stars and intensified the darkness. Cubiak hunched his shoulders against the sharp northeast wind and listened over the crashing waves. The sound came again from the woods behind the house. It was an eerie cry clearly audible over the roar of the surf. Cubiak remembered what Cate had said about ghosts. As he eased off the porch, he heard a rustling in the underbrush. A coyote perhaps.

Something bumped Cubiak's knee. He swung the light down into the startled black eyes of a skeletal mutt.

“Shit,” Cubiak said.

The mangy animal dropped onto its haunches. In spite of himself, Cubiak laughed. “I didn't say
sit
.” At the sound of a human voice, the dog's ears lifted, its shoulders straightened to attention.

“I hate dogs. Go away, beat it. Scram.” Cubiak shooed his arms. The dog whimpered but didn't move.

“I don't want a pet,” Cubiak said and tromped toward the house. When he gained the porch, he glanced back and saw the dog gimping after him on three paws, its right front leg lifted at an awkward angle.

Cubiak groaned. “Okay, but just for one night,” he said and opened the door.

Two days later, Cubiak took the dog to the vet.

“Name?”

“Cubiak.”

“Not yours. The dog's.”

“The dog doesn't have a . . . Butch. The dog's name is Butch.”

The vet looked up, amused. “Unusual name, Sheriff. For a girl.”

Cubiak grimaced. “How'd you know who I was?”

Pushing back a mountain of brown curls, the vet peered into the animal's floppy ears. “Everyone knows who you are.” She kept up her inspection. “Butch isn't spayed. You want her fixed?”

“No,” he answered automatically.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he said, wondering if he really was sure.

Butch needed a splint, a full regimen of immunizations, and preventive medicine for fleas. “The free ones always end up costing the most,” the vet observed dryly as Cubiak wrote a check for the total. On his way out of town, he bought a dog bed and matching orange bowls for food and water.

As often happens in late fall, Door County enjoyed a brief interlude of unseasonably warm weather. Temperatures reached the low seventies in the afternoons and continued mild long past dusk. After supper one evening, Cubiak fed the dog, tidied up the kitchen, and cracked a beer. Navigating by starlight, he carried an old aluminum chair to the patch of scrubby lawn between the house and the water.

The lake was black and flat. As Cubiak watched, a giant hunter's moon crested along the horizon and released a line of liquid silver over the water. Drifting upward, the moon illuminated an increasingly larger segment of the shoreline, unmasking trees and rocks and welcoming spirits from the shadowy universe they inhabited. Ghosts from Cubiak's past and ghosts from pasts too long gone for him to know walked the damp sand. The luminous land made room for all and eased the pain of remembering. Transfixed, he sat quietly and thought of Lauren and Alexis. For the first time since they had died, he felt more love than sorrow, more peace than despair.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the night, sure that they were listening and could hear him.

Butch floated through the stillness and rested her chin on Cubiak's knee. Happy for the company, he scratched between the dog's ears.

After a while, he pointed to a bright dot low on the horizon. “There's Venus,” he said. “Or Mars. One of the two. Big Dipper's behind us.” Cubiak twisted around to make sure the constellation hadn't drifted from view. “North Star's up there, too. And the Milky Way. Not that easy to see tonight but it's there. You just have to believe me and take it on faith.” He lifted his chin in the general direction of the celestial roadway. “That's it. All I know.”

Butch sighed, deeply content.

Lulled by the shushing of the water over the shoreline pebbles, they fell into a companionable silence. When Cubiak finally rose, the moon had crossed to the west. The evening's glittery magic had faded, and the air had chilled. It was late.

“Come on,” he called to the dog. “Let's go home.”

During one of my first visits to Door County, Wisconsin, I sat on the Lake Michigan shore as a deep mysterious quiet settled over the peninsula. Anything can happen here, I thought. Indeed much did. Cozy Thanksgiving celebrations. Summer days of long walks and kayaking and creating castles and candles in the sand. Beach fires with wine and good friends. Nights tracking the moon's silvery path across the rumpled surface of the water.

When I began to write this book, there was no question of the locale. It had to be set in Door County. I learned much in the process and have many people to thank.

First, my dear Ray, whose belief in the story and my ability to tell it never wavered. Then, my daughters, Julia and Carla, who provided unfailing support and encouragement.

Others who have critiqued and helped shape the work include both friends and colleagues. My deepest appreciation to all: B. E. Pinkham, Esther Spodek, and Jeanne Mellett, the talented members of my writing group; Barbara Bolsen, Anna Fallon, Rachel Shefner, Jeanne Zasadil, Maura Kiley, and Betty Giorgi, the outstanding women of my book group; and the many others—Max Edinburgh, Tom Groenfeldt, Lisa Dresdner, Norm Rowland, Lee Somerville, Kevin Desinger, Pat Shaw, Carol Moffat, Jeffry Salyer, Lauren Phillips, Russ E. Stoll, and Jenny Lindsay—who either read the manuscript in its various stages or simply cheered me on. Your input was invaluable.

Special thanks to Door County Sheriff Terry Vogel, who graciously explained the workings of local law enforcement and understood my need to occasionally bend reality to fit the story, and who bears no resemblance to the fictional sheriff in my book. Also to Fred Shafer, whose editorial comments and suggestions always pointed in the right direction; the late Ruth Talaber, a woman of many talents who urged me to get on with my work because life is short; The Authors Guild, for help with the business side of being a writer; and Off Campus Writers Workshop, for a steady flow of inspiring programs and lectures.

Finally, my sincere gratitude to the staff at the University of Wisconsin Press, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila McMahon, Carla Marolt, Elena Spagnolie, Matthew Cosby, and Brontë Weiland, for their thoughtful and generous assistance.

Thank you all. Because of you, there is this one and there will be more.