“Does he have any relations? Anyone I should contact?”
“Richard was an only child and his parents are both dead. There’s an uncle somewhere. Montana, I think. I was going to call him after the festival, as soon as the arrangements were made.”
“You’ll have to wait on those.”
Payette looked puzzled. Then he nodded. “Of course. You’ll let me know,” he said.
“I will. In the meantime, I’ll need the uncle’s name and number. No one else?”
“There may be cousins, too. I’m not sure.”
“Was Richard ever married?”
“No.”
“Did he have any offspring?”
“You mean children? No, of course not. At least none that I ever knew about and I think I knew him pretty well.”
“And you met . . .”
“At Appleton. We were both at the Lawrence Conservatory.” The answer came before the question was completed.
“What about Annabelle Larson?”
Payette was halfway to his feet. He grunted and dropped back down again. “Ah, Annabelle. I wondered how long it would take before you got around to her,” he said, as a sad, sweet smile flitted across his face.
“Didn’t she go to Juilliard?”
“Yes, she did.” The musician looked past Cubiak, as if lost in the past. “Richard and I met her at a conference in Milwaukee and then we started playing together as a trio. But I’m sure you heard all about that already from Richard. He told me you’d talked.”
“You were the GAR group.”
“We were, and we were good.”
“So I understand. Richard gave me one of your CDs but I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet. Would you say Annabelle was the linchpin of the trio?”
“I think we all contributed differently but equally. But a trio requires three people and once Annabelle pulled out, we were no more.”
Payette stood. “It was tragic, really. Annabelle had the gift and the calling but she lacked the strength to sustain her talent. Music demands more than love and natural ability. It requires discipline and stamina. What do you think it took to keep Beethoven composing after he went deaf? Or Mozart when he was penniless? How does a man who cannot afford to buy a crust of bread ignore the pangs of hunger to create the most complex and beautiful music? The rest of us, those of us who make music, have to practice for hours every day to attain the basest competence. The drudgery is enough to discourage most people. It’s a daily struggle. Even if you are born gifted, as Annabelle was, you have to work to nurture your skill. And beyond all that you must find a way to believe in yourself when the world turns its back. That is what we all must do. But Annabelle? She could not sustain her faith, in her ability or in herself. Annabelle fell apart because someone stole a viol.”
“She was a suspect?”
“We all were.”
At the drinks table, Payette stirred up a fiery red drink. “Campari and soda. Very bitter, just like the memories.” He hoisted the glass and gave Cubiak a knowing look. “But you’re not here to rehash history or to critique Annabelle’s musical talent. You’re here because of that poor woman who claimed to be her daughter.”
“It appears that Lydia Larson is her daughter. We have a positive ID on the body from a source who claims to have known them both.”
“Ah,” Payette said again. He drained the glass in a long, slow sip.
“Lydia also alleged that you were her father.”
Payette still had the glass in hand, and Cubiak waited for him to pour another drink, but instead, he set the tumbler down. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his coupled hands to his mouth as if he were praying or remembering.
“Yes,” Payette said finally. “Richard already told me about that, but isn’t it obvious what she was up to?”
When Cubiak didn’t respond, the musician went on.
“It’s no secret that Annabelle ended up badly. From what little I know, she’d had a rough go of things and struggled financially for years. I, on the other hand, had made a success of my career. And this woman, Lydia, wanted money. That’s all. I don’t mean to sound harsh or disrespectful, but facts are facts. And if you think that I had anything to do with her death, you are very wrong. Indeed, to be honest, I resent the implication.”
Most people do, Cubiak thought. Even the guilty ones.
Payette continued. “The real question is why would anyone want to kill both Richard and this Lydia woman? There’s no possible connection between the two.” He hesitated. “You’re assuming the same person is responsible for both deaths, aren’t you?”
“I’m not assuming anything at this point, but I am looking for information. For example, how many people here might have known both of them?”
Payette shrugged. “No one that I can think of. As I understand, this Lydia was a young woman. Richard was from a different generation.”
“The only link between them was Annabelle.”
“It would appear so.”
“When was the last time you saw Annabelle Larson?”
“Our professional relationship ended nearly forty years ago when GAR dissolved. That was some eighteen months after the Dixan I debacle.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” Cubiak wanted a beer but resisted the urge to ask for one. “Did you ever see her after that?”
There was a long pause before Payette replied. “Once, a few years later. I was at a music conference in Aspen, and she was waiting tables at a local restaurant. I went to dinner with a group and she came over in her waitress outfit to take our order. You can imagine how awkward it was. I recognized her immediately. But she pretended not to know who I was, so out of respect for her, I said nothing. It pained me to see her like that. To look at those beautiful hands that I knew were capable of producing such beautiful, delicate music instead balancing platters of pasta and salad.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t remember exactly, maybe twenty-five, thirty years ago. I attend four or five festivals a year. After a while they all blend together.”
“Did you try to help her?”
Payette frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did you offer her any financial support?”
“No. I would have liked to but she was a proud woman. It would have been an insult.”
Cubiak wasn’t sure he agreed.
“You met with her, though?”
“Yes, before I left the restaurant that evening I arranged to see her again. The following morning, we had breakfast at a little café and talked for more than an hour. For a while it was like old times, except that she never mentioned music—and neither did I. Maybe I should have. I wanted to, but there was something in her manner that put me off.”
“And you never saw her after that?”
Payette looked away. “No.”
He’s lying, Cubiak thought.
The musician checked his watch. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but we have performances the rest of the afternoon and then the final concert tonight, and I’m already well behind schedule.” He hesitated. “You think we should have canceled, don’t you, out of respect for Richard?”
“It’s a tough decision to make.”
“I considered it, of course, and discussed it with the board. Ultimately we decided that the finest tribute to him was for the festival to go on as planned. This was Richard’s event as much as ours and he would have wanted us to see it through.”
Payette stood. “Do come, if you can. It will be a special performance, dedicated to Richard. I’ll leave two front-row tickets for you at the box office.”
As if summoned by secret signal, the housekeeper appeared in the hall outside the library. Wordlessly, she led Cubiak down the corridor and held the door for him. When he reached the walkway, she slammed it shut.
He looked back at the fortress wall. What secrets lie buried here? he wondered.
Payette had neither confirmed nor denied that he had fathered Annabelle’s child. And th
en talking about Lydia, he had referred to her as “this Lydia woman.” Why? Was he trying to divert attention from himself or had Mayes said something to confirm Payette’s suspicion that the dead woman was an imposter? Perhaps Mayes had information that would either substantiate or disprove her claim. It was possible that Payette knew he was Lydia’s father and didn’t care.
In the jeep, Cubiak checked his phone. There was a text from Cate. Call me. Important.
A rush of panic hit him. Something had gone wrong already. He knew it. Hadn’t he wanted to warn her? He tamped down his fear and called.
“Are you all right?”
“What? Yes, I’m fine, but Helen Kulas is gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not at the condo.”
“Maybe she went for a walk.”
“No, she’s vanished. I went over to see if she needed anything and the condo was deserted. There was no sign of her anywhere.”
“Did she leave a message saying how to contact her?”
“There was nothing. It was like she was never there.”
“Did anyone see her?”
“I talked to a couple of people on the beach but they said they didn’t see anything. And the caretaker was busy fixing a faucet at the other end of the building, so he didn’t notice anybody coming or going. There’s no one else around.”
“Is anything missing?”
“Not as far as I can tell. And she did leave the key.”
“So she’s not coming back.”
“Apparently not.”
Cubiak heard the hesitation in her voice. “What else?”
“I’m probably being silly, but I found two mugs in the dish drainer. When I drink coffee or tea, I use the same cup over and over. It seems odd that she wouldn’t do the same.”
Unless someone else was at the condo with her, Cubiak thought, but he kept his concerns to himself. He didn’t want Cate connecting dots that maybe shouldn’t be connected. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
She gave a small laugh. “You were just trying to help. I wouldn’t worry about it. Helen was pretty strange, so perhaps we shouldn’t be too surprised by her odd behavior. At any rate, no harm, no foul,” Cate said.
Payette said that music soothed the soul. But that didn’t seem to hold true for the Dixan festivals. During the first event, an innocent woman died needlessly and a priceless viol was stolen. During the second, which was still ongoing, two people had been murdered and two more were missing.
Although the two festivals were separated by four decades, Cubiak was starting to wonder if the incidents weren’t related. He was sure Payette hadn’t revealed everything he knew. As for the two who had disappeared, it could be coincidence that both Eric Fielder and Helen Kulas had dropped out of sight, but the sheriff didn’t believe in coincidence. If they knew each other, Fielder could have been at the condo with Helen. And what about the strange Ms. Kulas? What was the real reason she had shown up at his office the previous day?
12
MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD
Onboard the ferry to Washington Island, Cubiak searched the internet for information about Helen Kulas. No matter what key words he entered, he came up blank. Which really wasn’t that unusual, he thought. Most people didn’t leave a trail in cyberspace.
But someone as well known as Annabelle Larson would have. He entered her name and found a flood of information, including a profile on Wikipedia and a half-dozen feature articles in several music magazines. A small notice mentioned her death earlier that year, but there was no reference to any children. Most of the material dated back to Annabelle’s early career and performances throughout the region, including at the Birch Creek Music Festival when she was sixteen. The stories focused on her lofty status as a member of GAR and a rising star in the small universe of viola da gamba. Back then, she was a delicate beauty, with a petite face framed by tumbling long dark hair, her gray eyes intense with intelligence and spirit and a sweet smile. Nothing at all like her ostensible daughter. A more recent article listed Annabelle as the head violin instructor at Chicago’s Crawford Avenue music school, the same school where Helen Kulas said she taught.
Cubiak viewed the school’s website. Annabelle was no longer on the list of current staff, but Helen Kulas was. Her posted credentials pretty much matched what she had told him earlier, but the profile photo was that of a kindly woman on the far side of middle age. The Helen Kulas on the website was a little plump, a little sad, a little frumpy, and decidedly not the woman who had sat in his office earlier that week and said she was Helen Kulas.
At Detroit Harbor, he issued a BOLO notice for the imposter: Be on the lookout for missing woman. Last seen near Valmy. He gave a physical description and then added: may have altered appearance.
When he finished, he called the Crawford School of Music. The director was on another line.
“I’ll wait.”
After several minutes, a man’s voice boomed out at him. “Harry Toramic here. Why is a Wisconsin sheriff calling me? What’s going on?”
“I’m looking for information on one of your employees, a Helen Kulas.”
“Former employee, you mean. Helen no longer works at the music school.”
“She’s on your website.”
“That thing’s always out-of-date. What’s Helen done? Is she in trouble?”
“Nothing like that, but what happened? Did she quit or get fired?”
“Neither. With no warning, she stopped showing up for work. No call, no message. Nothing.”
“When was this?”
Toramic thought a moment. “About five months ago. We were in rehearsals for the spring recital. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to walk off the job.”
“Did you try to get hold of her?”
“Of course. We called and sent urgent emails, but there was no answer, no response. I even went over to her apartment—she lived just a couple blocks from the school. The landlord said she’d left a check for six months’ rent and said she was going on vacation.”
“He didn’t think that was odd?”
“How the hell would I know? He got his money; that’s all he seemed to care about.”
“How long had she worked for you?”
“Nearly twenty years! We were planning a party for her.”
“And she’d never done anything like that before?”
“Never. Until this, Helen was an exemplary employee, the kind of person who got along well with everyone. I have no idea what came over her. But with these spinster ladies, well, you never know.” He coughed. “Though I’ve got to admit, she was a bit quirky. Maybe she came into an inheritance and, poof, off she goes to Tahiti. But Wisconsin? What’s she doing there?”
Cubiak ignored the question. “What do you mean by quirky?”
“Fussy, I guess. We rotate the rooms depending on who’s got students that day, but Helen insisted on using the same room for every lesson, even if it meant rescheduling a student. And pretentious too. If someone famous was in the city, she’d talk like she knew them personally. It was kind of pathetic really.”
“Did Miss Kulas live alone?” the sheriff said.
“I . . . I’m not sure. I think so. There was never any mention of . . .”
Cubiak cut him off. “When we’re finished, you’re going to contact the police and request a wellness check on your Miss Kulas.” He used the possessive advisedly, hoping to instill a sense of guilt into the man.
“Helen is a very private person. We wouldn’t want to . . .”
“Helen may be in serious trouble.” He paused to let the notion sink in. “Call the district office and tell the desk sergeant exactly what you told me. Explain that you have reason to believe your former employee is in danger, that you’ve done everything you can to reach her, and that you need help from the authorities. Explain that you’re following up on a lead from the sheriff’s department in Door County, Wisconsin. That the sheriff has new information about Helen Kulas’s
unexplained disappearance.”
“You do?” Toramic sounded alarmed.
Cubiak grunted and hung up.
A lot of things—good or bad—could happen to a person in six months, the sheriff thought as he wandered around the marina. From a distance he looked like any other tourist as he checked out the two-masted schooner that was tied up at the dock and read the historic plaque about the island’s history. He even wandered through the small museum and ate an ice cream cone. But the sheriff wasn’t in a vacation frame of mind. Instead, he was thinking about the dead and the missing. About Lydia Larson and Richard Mayes, who had been fatally poisoned; the deceased Annabelle Larson, who was Lydia’s mother and Richard’s former musical colleague; the man with the assumed name of Eric Fielder, who had gone missing; Helen Kulas, who had disappeared from her Chicago apartment several months ago; and the pretend Helen Kulas, who had vanished twenty-four hours after she arrived in Door County and identified Lydia’s body. Had she told the truth when she said she knew Lydia or had she lied? What if the fake Helen Kulas was the real Lydia Larson?
Cubiak was on his second circuit around the harbor when he spied Oskar Norling at a picnic table outside the restaurant. He was working his way through a cheeseburger and a mound of french fries.
“Mind if I join you?” the sheriff said as he slipped in across from the ferry captain.
Norling shooed a hungry sparrow away from his plate. “Be my guest, only don’t tell the wife. She’s always after me to eat more salad. ‘Lettuce will keep you healthy.’” He grimaced. “Whatever. You want something? I’ll get Agnes.”
Cubiak shook his head but Norling had his hand up and the waitress was heading their way. She had a smile on her face and came toward them with a mug and coffeepot. “Sheriff?” she said.
He knew it would be rude to refuse but even before he had a chance to respond, Agnes set the cup down. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black’s fine,” he said and waved away the menu. “Nothing else. Thanks.”
“The ladies work hard here,” Norling said as the waitress retreated.
“Everyone does. You sure had your hands full this week.”
Death Rides the Ferry Page 11
