Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  “Everybody, sit,” Ubell said.

  They retook their positions and settled into an uneasy truce. Ubell unfolded a map and bent over it, tracing his finger in one direction and then in another. Helen-Marlene leaned against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. Cate remained immobile. Somewhere in the dark, a voice called out a bright farewell, and Cubiak saw his wife’s shoulders stiffen as if the sound conveyed hope. Then a car door slammed. After a couple of moments, another door thudded shut and the car drove away. Cate’s resolve dissolved. There was no one to help them. Still, she offered him a weak smile that tore at his heart.

  In the silent room, the black phone on the desk rang.

  Ubell snapped to attention. His eyes narrowed and Cubiak imagined him counting the rings, calculating his next step. The sheriff wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed since he had left home, and he didn’t dare check his watch. The call could be from anyone. It might mean nothing, but he prayed it was Bathard phoning as planned. He pushed up and moved as if to answer.

  The German reacted the way the sheriff expected him to. “Let it go,” he said.

  After six rings, the voice mail clicked on, and the retired coroner’s cheerful, cultured voice spilled into the void. “Cate, it’s Evelyn. I tried to reach your husband but he didn’t answer. I’m calling to invite the two of you to dinner tomorrow. Sonja is making her special dessert. I hope you can join us around five thirty. Dinner will be served at six. You know we like to eat early. Let me know,” he said.

  Ubell snickered. “You Americans. Six o’clock is late lunch, not dinner. But see, I can be reasonable about this. If you do as you are told tonight, you will enjoy a lovely meal tomorrow with your friends.”

  “That would be nice,” Cate said. She understood, Cubiak realized. They both knew that Bathard and his wife preferred dining late, and further that Sonja was visiting her sister in Wausau and wasn’t due back for another week. Whatever Bathard had meant, it was a message, and Cate was telling him that she assumed he understood what it was about.

  Ubell started pacing again. “Enough of this nonsense. Back to the boat. Where is it?”

  “It’s either docked in Sturgeon Bay or somewhere out on the water.”

  “How long to get here?”

  “From Sturgeon Bay, an hour, maybe less. If Rowe is out fishing in Green Bay, it would be longer.”

  Helen-Marlene grabbed her partner’s arm. “I don’t like it. It’s a trap,” she said.

  He shook her off and turned to Cubiak. “Give me your mobile,” he said.

  “I can make the call,” the sheriff said.

  “So you can give secret messages or codes or whatever? No. I will text your friend. What is the name of the boat?”

  “The Speedy Sister.”

  “Ah, good, sounds fast.”

  He typed out the message: Come alone. Bring SS to . . .

  “How will he know to come here?”

  “Tell him Cate’s condo. He’s been here before.”

  Ubell finished texting. “How to sign off?”

  Now was the time for the lie. “Kubi.” Cubiak spelled out the word.

  Ubell gave him a curious look. “Kubi?”

  “Departmental nickname.”

  The German sniggered. “I told you, don’t play me for a fool. You are not a nickname kind of man. The number is enough. Unless your friend is an idiot, he will know who it is from,” he said as he hit Send.

  The simple act of conveying the message seemed to energize Ubell. Holding the phone loosely in his hand, he stalked the perimeter of the room. He was just under six feet and from where the sheriff sat on the floor, he looked even more formidable. As he strode back and forth, he muttered an incomprehensible sequence of gibberish. Then he smiled and said, “Ja.” A moment later, he frowned and muttered a word that Cubiak didn’t understand. From the pattern of the monologue, Ubell seemed to be going over a plan.

  Every few minutes the German glanced at the phone as if expecting a response to the text. Would Rowe reply? Probably not, Cubiak thought. Given an order, the deputy usually did as requested and then asked questions later. If anything he would send an OK or Got it to indicate that the message had come through. But not always and today, Cubiak hoped he wouldn’t. He wanted to keep Ubell on edge as much as possible.

  Five minutes passed.

  The German waved the cell at the sheriff. “Why is he not answering?”

  Cubiak shrugged.

  Another ten minutes elapsed. Ubell stood at the balcony door, his back to the others. Helen-Marlene lounged on the bed and inspected her nails. Cate remained ramrod straight but Cubiak sensed the ache in her shoulders. He started to edge away from the window toward her but Ubell whirled on him.

  “Stop. Halt. No fraternizing.” He glared at Helen-Marlene, who pulled herself upright and tried to look alert. Then he hurled the cell at the barrel chair. “Your friend is not very dependable.”

  “He’ll be here,” Cubiak said.

  Ubell made a harsh noise. “You better hope so.” He frowned at his cohort. “I want food. See what there is to eat in this place.”

  “I’m not your servant.”

  Ubell barked something in German and pointed to the door. When she didn’t move, he lifted the gun from his side. She scowled. “Fucking men,” she said as she slid off the bed.

  The fake Helen slammed the door and stomped down the uncarpeted stairs. They had no trouble following her progress through the downstairs to the kitchen. Cabinet doors were opened and then banged shut. The silverware drawer rattled. A pot slid across the tile floor. “Damn!” she said, loud enough for them to hear. A moment later two plates pinged against the granite counter.

  After five more noisy minutes, Helen-Marlene reappeared. She had several bottles of beer tucked against her side and carried a tray piled with bread, cheese, and a garlicky salami or sausage. She gave a beer to Ubell, who had returned to the chair, and then divided the food on plates for each of them but nothing for Cate or Cubiak. He didn’t care. He wanted a cigarette, not food. But he worried that maybe Cate was hungry, and he was surprised when Helen-Marlene half-heartedly held out a slice of bread to her.

  “No, thank you,” Cate said.

  “No, thank you,” the fake Helen repeated, mocking her.

  “Shut up,” Ubell said. He drained his bottle and set it at his feet. Then he tucked the gun between his leg and the arm of the chair and began eating. After several bites, he glanced from the sheriff to the Glock.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ubell said before he shoved more food into his mouth.

  18

  A DESPERATE GAMBLE

  As Ubell ate, he peppered the sheriff with questions.

  “This Rowe, you said he liked to go fast.”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Good. Is he a careful man or a man who likes to take chances?”

  Cubiak pretended to cringe. “Not careful enough sometimes.”

  Ubell laughed. “Good, again. I like a reckless man. What about you?”

  “Do I like a man who takes chances?”

  “No, are you one?”

  “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

  The German smirked and set aside his empty plate. Then he took up the gun. “I will, won’t I?” he said, and with that the levity vanished.

  Across the room, the fake Helen dropped her plate to the floor. “Now what?” she said.

  “We wait.”

  Ubell leaned back into the chair. His shoulders slouched and the hint of a paunch swelled below his ribs. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then he opened them and poked at his teeth.

  “He better be here, soon. This deputy of yours,” he said and opened another beer.

  “He will.”

  “No tricks.”

  Cubiak shook his head. “No tricks.” Bathard would have alerted Rowe to the seriousness of the situation, and the sheriff trusted his depu
ty to act accordingly.

  “So as I said, we wait. And while we wait I would like you to tell me your theory about how Payette got away with the yellow viol.”

  “You’re sure it was him, then.”

  Ubell snickered. “Oh, I know it was him, but you already surmised that. So, yes, for the sake of the story . . .”

  Cubiak’s legs were cramped, and an uncomfortable tightness was building in his shoulders. He wanted to stretch but settled for shifting his weight and rocking slightly back and forth on the hard floor. “You’ve heard the expression ‘hidden in plain sight’?” he said.

  “I have. Go on.”

  Even Helen-Marlene leaned forward, listening carefully. Cate hadn’t shifted position but Cubiak sensed that she was paying close attention.

  “Very well then. Time and location were on Payette’s side. He was traveling and recording with the GAR group and didn’t live in Door County full time back then, but he’d spent much of the previous summer on the peninsula teaching at Birch Creek and playing at different venues. Being around as much as he was, he could go back and forth to Washington Island without drawing attention to himself. And as a musician, it wouldn’t seem unusual for him to bring an instrument. It’s just a theory, as you say, but I think he used his presence here in the months leading up to Dixan I as cover to transport several old viols to the island.”

  “Why would he do that?” the fake Helen asked.

  “He needed them for his scheme to work. The extra instruments had to be on the island, hidden away.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, but it really doesn’t matter. He could have stashed one under the stairs of the old dance hall and another two or three in a deserted barn. There are plenty of out-of-the way spots where he could hide the extra viols. Places he could access quickly but where no one else had any reason to look.”

  “And how many of these did he secret away?” Ubell picked at his teeth again.

  “I think he would have needed four or five.”

  The German smiled, as if in agreement.

  “Everything Payette—the alleged thief—did was in preparation for the final step, the moment when he could finally get hold of the yellow viol. I’m guessing that he planned to snatch it the night of the last concert, perhaps after the final performance when everyone was celebrating the success of the festival. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a difficult and risky heist to pull off, but there were no other opportunities. Then, fortunately for him, the circumstances changed. Your mother unexpectedly went into labor, and between the medical emergency surrounding her situation and the approaching storm, the yellow viol was left unattended for a full day. Instead of minutes, Payette had twenty-four hours to nab the viol.”

  “But surely it was under lock and key,” Helen-Marlene said.

  “The viol was locked inside a summer cottage. The protection was flimsy at best,” Cubiak said.

  She gestured impatiently. “Yes, yes, perhaps it was. But then what? What did he do after he got it?”

  “He disassembled it.”

  The fake Helen gasped. “No. That is impossible.”

  “It is very possible.”

  “How?” Cate said.

  The three of them looked at her. She ignored the two captors and spoke directly to him.

  “How could he take apart the yellow viol without destroying or seriously damaging it?”

  “I wondered about that for a long time. So did Dutch.”

  “Who is Dutch?” Ubell demanded.

  “Dutch Schumacher was the sheriff at the time the viol disappeared. He knew that these instruments—viols, violins, or whatever—were pieced together, and like most people who are unfamiliar with the craft, he assumed that it would be nearly impossible to separate the components without destroying them. Given how delicate the instruments are, it’s a logical conclusion. I made the same mistake, but then I got curious and looked into the process. As it turns out, the people who make string instruments don’t use wood glue to hold the pieces together. They use a water-based glue.”

  “Which is water soluble,” Cate said.

  “Did you know that?” Helen-Marlene asked her colleague.

  He waved away the question. “Let our guest tell his story.”

  “I talked to a luthier who said he could take apart a stringed instrument like a violin or cello in less than an hour using a slim spatula, a small handsaw, and a dab of water.”

  The German slapped his knee. “Yes! By God, you are right, Sheriff. But to dare and try such a thing with the yellow viol.”

  “The traditional viols were made of very thin wood, which would require very careful handling. And because the yellow viol was especially old, the wood would be brittle, making it even more challenging. But the principle remains the same. With time and care, it could be done.”

  “Are you suggesting Payette disassembled my father’s yellow viol and then smuggled the pieces off the island by slipping them inside the instruments he’d previously hidden on the island?” Ubell spoke up again.

  “It’s an interesting idea, but I don’t think that’s what happened. If my theory is correct, the decoys had been on the island for weeks or even months, giving him plenty of time to take them apart. Once he had the yellow viol, I think he combined the various pieces—some from the relatively worthless viols and some from your father’s viol—to create a series of hybrid instruments.”

  “Frankenstein viols!” Ubell said.

  “Something like that. The authorities had photographs of the yellow viol and so they knew what they were searching for: an instrument that looked like the one in the picture. They inspected every case that left the island, went through all the luggage, searched every vehicle, but none of the instruments, nothing that Payette or anyone else transported back to the mainland, matched the missing viol.”

  The sheriff stood. When Ubell didn’t object, he rubbed his arms gingerly and walked to the window. The German reached for the gun but Cubiak pretended not to notice. “It was a carefully laid out plan, expertly executed.”

  “What about the decoy instruments? If what you are saying is true, there were many leftover pieces that had to be destroyed.”

  “You’re right, but there’s an explanation for that as well. Records show that the summer was among the hottest in memory and that the month of August in particular was sweltering. In his case notes, the former sheriff drew attention to an odd fact: The musicians stayed at cottages and vacation houses donated by festival sponsors. The owner of one particular cottage, the Knotty Pine, found ashes in the fireplace when she returned a couple of weeks later. Normally this wouldn’t be unusual. Even in summer, evenings on the island can be rather cool. But not that year. So there was no logical explanation for anyone making a fire.”

  Helen-Marlene scoffed. “The ashes could have been from an old fire.”

  Cubiak shook his head. “According to the owner, the house had been thoroughly cleaned before the guest musician arrived.”

  “Is that where Payette stayed?”

  “He was assigned to a cottage a half mile up the road, but from what I’ve learned the musicians often traded accommodations for their own reasons. He may have swapped with someone, claiming that he wanted to be nearer to Richard Mayes and Annabelle Larson, the other members of his trio, who were both assigned cottages near the Knotty Pine.”

  “And you think that Payette moved in and burned the extra pieces in the fireplace?” Cate spoke once again.

  “It’s possible,” Cubiak said. He hesitated. “Even likely. The house was fairly remote so a small fire would have gone unnoticed, and it gave him a quick, easy way to dispose of the extraneous pieces. If not for the unusually warm weather, there probably would have been fires in any number of the houses and no one would have commented on finding ashes.”

  “What about the extra music cases he brought to the island?”

  “He would have destroyed those as well. Ultimately, the only thin
g that he had to do was make sure the number of instruments he left with from the island approximated the number he’d brought to the festival. Officially, there was no record, but his colleagues would remember if he had several instruments, and, of course, he did. So he left with several cases. He used one to carry the viol he played at the festival and the others to transport the bastardized instruments.”

  A long silence followed.

  “I think you are correct,” Ubell said finally. “It is—was—an ingenious plan.”

  The fake Helen snorted. “I think the thief came to the island on a boat and left the same way, with the viol intact.”

  The others ignored her.

  “But then what?” Cate said, still addressing Cubiak. “Once Payette got the pieces off the island, what happened next? Do you think he reversed the process and reassembled the yellow viol?”

  “He had to.”

  Cate looked skeptical. “It would take a lot of nerve to reconfigure such a rare instrument and presume it would retain the special quality of sound for which it was known.”

  “He was willing to take that chance.”

  “Wouldn’t all that meddling alter the viol’s intrinsic characteristics, to the point where the sound would be completely different?” she said.

  “Perhaps, but if the plan worked, then he’d pulled off one of the biggest heists in musical history,” he said.

  The German motioned Cubiak back to his place on the floor. “Payette had nothing to lose by failing and everything to gain if the plan worked. The more I consider what you say, the more I am convinced this is what happened. So congratulations, Herr Sheriff, you have solved the mystery of the missing yellow viol.”

  “But . . .” Helen-Marlene started to protest.

  “Silence! It could be done, yes. If the instrument was reassembled correctly, the sound would be similar, not quite the same but close enough. But only if”—he gestured to the ceiling—“the reassembly was completed quickly, within hours or even a few days of the disassembly. The yellow viol is a very old instrument. The wood is thin and brittle, as you said, and even the slightest warping would make it impossible to rejoin the pieces perfectly. So the work had to have been done vite, vite. And if it was, then, yes, what Herr Cubiak suggests is possible. In fact, it may be the only plausible explanation of how my father’s precious viol vanished from Washington Island.”