Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  The sheriff helped the visitor to a chair in the lobby. “Wait here,” he said.

  Lisa had two friends who rented their spare bedrooms to guests during the busy summer months. Cubiak asked her to check with them, but both said the rooms were booked. Bathard and Sonja had three spare bedrooms, but there was no answer when he called. The only other place he could think of was Cate’s condo. The last renters had been called home on an emergency, so it was vacant.

  He called her and explained the situation.

  “Of course. It’s no problem and I’m happy to help. The next guests aren’t coming in for another week. She’s welcome to stay until then.”

  “It’s just for a few days.”

  “Whatever. That’s fine. I’m home on a break, so I’ll meet you there.”

  “You don’t have to bother. I have the key.”

  A half hour later, when Cubiak reached the condo with Helen, he knew Cate had bothered. How like her, he thought. The AC hummed on low and the drapes were open, letting in the soft afternoon light.

  Helen took in the pastel watercolors on the walls and bouquet of yellow daisies on the coffee table. “Nice place,” she said, as she moved to the window and took in the view of the water. There was something off-putting in her tone but he ignored it. The woman had just identified a corpse. Not an easy task for anyone.

  “Please, just relax and make yourself at home. The guest room is upstairs. You’ll find everything you need there and here.”

  Cubiak showed her the landline and basket of herbal teas next to the toaster. Then he opened the fridge to juice, bread, eggs, and other basics.

  Helen seemed startled by the food. “Am I under house arrest?” she said, trying for a joke.

  “You’re here as my wife’s guest,” he said.

  “Free to come and go as I please?”

  “Absolutely. And please stay through the weekend if you can. I’ll probably have more questions.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she turned and picked up a letter from the counter. “I think your wife forgot this,” she said as she handed the envelope to Cubiak.

  8

  UNSETTLING NEWS

  The sheriff headed north toward Jacksonport and home. He had barely seen Cate the last couple of days, and it would take only a minute to drop off the letter she had left at the condo and to pick up the photos she had printed for him. He needed the pictures for his investigation into Lydia Larson.

  They had a beach house south of town. It was an eco-friendly, one-story structure designed by a Danish architect, a friend of Cate’s. The two women had spent months putting together a list of basic musts: geothermal heating; solar panels for power; LEED certification; dual-pane, low-emittance windows; and a low-flow showerhead.

  Cubiak thought the plans embodied a lot of costly razzle-dazzle that they couldn’t afford, but Cate assured him that the house would eventually pay for itself. “We’ll lead by example,” she said. The thought of glass walls hadn’t appealed to him either, but when the architect framed three sides of the house with old barn wood, leaving the fourth open to the lake, he couldn’t say no. After the old-shoe feel of his rental on the rocks, he thought he would feel out of place in the modern setting. But after just a few weeks, he discovered that he liked the great wash of light and the openness that the design provided. Every time he crested the dune, he looked forward to seeing the house neatly rising up from the sand.

  Cate waved to him from the shaded deck. She had poured iced herbal tea and put out a plate of ginger cookies. Two large envelopes lay at the end of the table.

  “Everything OK with Ms. Kulas?”

  “Yes. Thanks for setting her up.” He grabbed a cookie and reached for the envelopes. He was eager to get back to his office. “I can only stay a minute. I’ll take these and . . .”

  “Come sit down. We need to talk,” Cate said, patting the spot beside her.

  He hesitated.

  “David, please.”

  She never called him by his full name, and an uneasy feeling settled over him. He looked at her, and then he sat down.

  Cate slid the envelopes off the table and leaned them against the bench. “We’ll talk about these later, after you’ve had a chance to go through them.”

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” Cubiak said.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Cate locked her eyes on his and took his hand. “I’m pregnant.”

  He felt himself slip off a high ledge.

  “I know it’s a shock. It was a surprise for me, too.”

  “You can’t be . . . ,” he said.

  She smiled. “Of course I can, and I am.”

  “But . . .” He remembered the first time they had really talked. It was years back, and they had just recently met. Earlier that day they had attended the funeral of a young girl who had been killed in a brutal attack at the state park, and later they found themselves sitting in Pechta’s bar in Fish Creek, both depressed and drinking. Uncharacteristically, Cubiak had shared the story about his wife and daughter, and Cate had told him about her unhappy marriage, her ex-husband, the two devastating miscarriages that left her despondent and close to suicidal, and the doctor who advised her not to try again. Prior to the conversation, he had not liked Cate, or, more correctly, he had assumed that because they came from such different worlds he wouldn’t like her. That afternoon, he discovered a common bond and began to view her in a new light. When they eventually fell in love and discussed marriage, he never imagined they would talk about children. He had always assumed that the conversation that sad summer day insolated them from the talk they were having now. You can’t be pregnant, he thought. You can’t take that chance. You can’t because the doctor told you not to. You can’t because if the baby dies, it will destroy you.

  Cubiak wanted to say all those things, but he couldn’t find the words because Cate appeared so very happy, the happiest he had ever seen her.

  “You’re sure?”

  She squeezed his hand. “I went to see the doctor this morning. She confirms it.”

  He stared at her.

  “Please, don’t worry. All that was before. Medicine has progressed. I’m well into my second month, and I have a new doctor, a better doctor, and she says I’m fine.”

  “But . . .” He tried again and faltered.

  Cate put a finger to his lips. “I know this is hard for you. It has to be. It’s not anything I expected either.”

  She kissed him. “Trust me, David. This will be good for us.”

  The conversation with Cate left Cubiak unsettled. Halfway to Sturgeon Bay, he spun off the highway and retreated deep into the countryside. Since that morning, nothing in the surrounding world had changed, yet everything seemed altered. Life was different now. He lowered the window hoping that the breeze would tamp down the roar in his head, but the rush of wind had no effect. “I’m pregnant,” Cate had said, and her simple, powerful announcement played in an endless loop that he could not quiet.

  Cate had been calm, almost serene, when she told him the news. Her message had been as straightforward and clear as the narrow road that stretched out before him, but the implications were daunting. A child affected the scope and rhythm of life. They had never talked about having children. And for good reason, he thought. He was nearly forty-nine. Given his age and Cate’s medical history, he had never considered the possibility or thought to ask how she felt about being pregnant again. He had assumed that she would not want to take that chance. They had taken the appropriate precautions. But nothing was foolproof.

  The reality she had eagerly shared with him that day was a reality he couldn’t accept.

  If only there was a way to step back in time and undo what’s already been done, Cubiak thought. But second chances belonged to the future, not the past. He had learned that bitter lesson when Lauren and Alexis died.

  What to do?

  Nearing the ship canal, Cubiak hung a U-turn and detoured east toward the lake. He needed to sort through his co
nfusion, and for that he needed to be by the water. Houses and cottages lined most of the shore, but there remained patches of wooded, undeveloped areas. He drove to his favorite spot and got out of the jeep. The wind had died and the air was warm. As he headed toward the lake, he rolled up his sleeves. He hadn’t walked the trail since spring, when the way was open and easy to follow. During the summer, blackberry bushes had overgrown the narrow passage. He thrashed through the thick foliage, shoving past the thorny branches that raked his face and hands, drawing blood, and snagged his shirt. Sweat made the cuts burn, but he was thankful for the pain because it pierced the numbness he felt.

  Cubiak often turned to the mighty lake for solace. That day he came hoping to find raging seas that would match his own turmoil, but with the wind gone, the water lay flat and quiet. The tranquility mocked his distress and left him feeling betrayed again. Distraught, he picked up a handful of rocks and hurled them at the water. How could Cate have been so careless to let this happen? He watched the ripples move across the surface and fade. Determined to stir the waters to meet his mood, he threw more rocks. But his efforts were futile. Lake Michigan swallowed his taunts and showed him only its peaceful side. Finally, exhausted, he stopped and rubbed his shoulder, letting his anger ebb until it matched the calm of the water. How could he blame Cate when he was as responsible as she?

  “It will be good for us,” Cate had promised.

  Remembering what she had said, Cubiak shuddered.

  He could not be a parent, again. As a young man, he was convinced that he could defy the legacy of his own miserable father, but when his chance came, he had failed in the worst way. “But . . . ,” he had said to Cate and then silently recited the litany of logical reasons she couldn’t—shouldn’t—be pregnant. Her physical health. Her emotional well-being. He couldn’t bear to lose her or bear to see her endure the agony of another miscarriage. All that was true.

  But there was another layer of truth, and it was there that the real reason for his objections fermented. If he were to speak that truth, what he would say was: “We can’t do this because I am afraid of failing again.”

  Somehow and soon, he would have to find the courage to tell her.

  Cubiak didn’t get back to the justice center until late afternoon. Again he slipped in through the rear door. In his office, he wiped the smears of dried blood off his face and hands and pulled on a clean shirt. He sat in his chair and slowly began to feel more settled. He had work to do. There were emails to read and calls to return. But more important, there was the mysterious death of Lydia Larson to investigate. He was still no closer to discovering who had killed her and why. Nor did he know when or how she had arrived on Washington Island.

  He ignored the messages demanding his attention and moved to the conference table with Cate’s photos. The first batch of pictures showed the musicians rehearsing and performing. The second group focused on the extras and the audiences at the different performances. He discarded nearly a dozen before he came across the first shot of Lydia Larson. She sat under a tree with her back against the trunk, her eyes closed and her face lifted up to the sunlight that leached through the branches. The photo was in black and white, and Cate had used a filter that gave it a gauzelike quality. The missing bag was on Lydia’s lap, and her hands rested on it. She looked content, Cubiak thought.

  In the next shot, Lydia was in a crowd that had gathered on the bleachers for a small outdoor performance. Except for her shabby attire, she was nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the audience. There were three more photos of Lydia, and in each of them she was with Richard Mayes.

  It was clear the two were arguing. Lydia’s eyes were wide and her mouth contorted as if she were shouting. In the first picture with Mayes, she leaned in toward him. He held both arms out and stood with one foot behind the other, as if he were trying to fend her off or flee from her.

  Mayes initially said that Lydia had wanted a job and had become angry and unreasonable when he said he couldn’t hire her. Later he admitted that he had fabricated the story, so that wouldn’t explain her distress. Most likely she was upset because he had told her there was no money in her mother’s estate.

  There were two more photos taken in the same setting. In the first, Lydia was shoving a book toward Mayes. In the other, she held it open and pointed to something on the page, as if demanding that he look. In each of the photos, Lydia seemed to grow increasingly enraged and Mayes more bewildered and desperate to escape. Was she showing him the diary entry where her mother named George Payette as her father? Was that even true? He had only Helen Kulas’s word on the matter, and he wasn’t sure he believed everything she said, perhaps not even much of it. He needed to find the missing bag and the journals—if they existed.

  Cubiak set the five photos aside and kept looking. But there was nothing more. He was about to give up when he came upon a group shot of seniors seated in folding chairs in the shade of the performance center. Behind them were the blurred figures of a man and a woman caught in earnest conversation. Something about the woman’s outfit seemed familiar. He looked at the photo through a magnifying glass. The woman was Lydia Larson, and the man with her was Eric Fielder, the catering employee.

  “Well, well, how about that,” the sheriff said.

  According to the date in the lower right-hand corner, the photo had been taken the day before Cubiak saw Lydia eating the free lunch Fielder had given her.

  Fielder claimed that he didn’t know Lydia and that he hadn’t met her until Wednesday when he gave her the leftover food. Either he had confused the dates or he had lied.

  Cubiak added the group shot to the pile with the other photos of Lydia Larson and continued sorting through Cate’s work. She was good, he thought as he scanned the photos. He hoped to find more of Lydia but that was it: six pictures. Not much, and yet plenty for him to work with.

  He called the catering company, hoping to learn more about Eric Fielder. It was a small, family business headquartered in Egg Harbor, run by the owner and his daughter and son-in-law. They hired cooks and servers as needed for the summer, their busiest season.

  When Cubiak asked to speak to the HR person, the owner laughed.

  “My daughter does the hiring, but she’s out.”

  “Did she hire extra help for this week?”

  “She had to. Landing the contract for the music festival was a real coup. We were up against stiff competition and didn’t think we had much of a chance. So it was also a surprise and she had had to bring on more staff on short notice.” The man paused. “We’ve had no problems with our licensing or our food. So what’s this about?”

  “Just routine,” he said and explained that he was looking for information on Eric Fielder.

  “Eric’s one of the good ones—and he’s fully documented.”

  “Of course. But have your daughter call me anyway.”

  Shortly after he hung up, Cubiak’s cell phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed across caller ID, and he figured it was the daughter from the catering company getting back to him.

  Instead, the gruff voice of Oskar Norling boomed out.

  “That you, Dave?”

  Cubiak hoped the ferryboat captain was reaching out because he had remembered important details about Lydia Larson’s death, but his worried tone hinted at something quite different.

  “What is it?”

  “We got another one, Sheriff,” Norling said.

  9

  ACROSS DEATH’S DOOR

  Oskar Norling was a man of few words, but there was no escaping his meaning: the captain had discovered another body on his ferry.

  “Male or female?”

  “Male.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I’ve seen him around but I don’t know his name.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the island. My grandson will be waiting at Northport. He’ll bring you over.”

  Cubiak reached the ferry landing in time to see the lopside
d oval of a moon lift above the horizon. In Chicago, the luster from a quarter-million streetlamps made the celestial body seem an afterthought in the night sky. But up north, the moon was queen. Her magical light cascaded over the ferry landing, transforming all it touched. The forest looked ready to reach out and reclaim the nub of land that had been stolen from it to build the harbor. But the inanimate buildings, the restaurant, and the ticket booth seemed shrunken and defenseless. Even the three ferries, massive enough to carry semis and tour buses along with convoys of cars and SUVs, bobbed like toys alongside the dock.

  Only the great water refused to bow before the power of the moon. Undulating quietly, the inland sea spread out to the horizon, where its distant reaches spilled beyond the scope of the light and lolled in total darkness, as if taunting the lunar orb to try harder, to reach farther.

  Against this backdrop, the familiar blue motorboat idled by the dock. Waiting onboard was the same young man who had transported Cubiak from the island the day Lydia Larson’s body was found. What was his name? The sheriff remembered just as he stepped over the gunwale.

  “Kevin, good to see you. Sorry to have to bother you again,” he said.

  “It’s no trouble.”

  As soon as Cubiak sat, the boy started the motor and spun the prow around toward the harbor entrance. Once past the breakwater, he opened the throttle.

  “Hang on,” he said as they sped into the strait.

  Instantly, the heat of the land disappeared and the two plunged into the ghostly chill that rose up from the deep water. Kevin tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. The sheriff pulled his jacket closed and wished he had brought a hat.

  Despite the cold wind in his face, Cubiak looked out over the bouncing prow. In the silvery moonlight, the ride across the Porte des Morts was both beautiful and terrifying. Kevin knew many of the old stories and legends and, perhaps sobered by the repeat purpose of his mission, he shared them as they sliced through the heaving rollers.