Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  “That, and more.”

  The monk fell silent, and the wall clock ticked off several minutes before he returned to his story.

  “I hadn’t thought about Karl in nearly two decades, until a few years ago when he emailed me and suggested we get together. ‘For old times’ sake,’ he said. I hardly recognized him—not just physically because, of course, so much time had elapsed, but in his personality. He’d been a modest, unassuming kid, but as a man he was full of braggadocio. He told me he was a freelance journalist who traveled the world on assignment. Near the end of our conversation, he said that he wanted to write a book about the yellow viol. He hoped that we could sit down and talk more about it, possibly even collaborate on the project. ‘Share a byline,’ he said.”

  “Did you?”

  Brother Franz dipped his head. “I admit that it was tempting. There was a moment when I almost agreed to his suggestion. It was only later that I realized that he assumed I’d been searching for the viol and wanted to know what I’d learned. But, no, I didn’t accept his offer.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, I’d worked hard to put my past behind me, but also, I couldn’t. I was about to enter the monastery and commit to a long period of isolation. It seemed misguided to immerse myself in old worldly concerns just as I was about to embark on this new path of spiritual growth.”

  “I see, and what did this entail, this period of isolation?”

  “There was to be no communication with the outside world for twenty-four months.”

  “Two years?”

  The visitor nodded. “Unwittingly, I gave my former friend both carte blanche to abscond with my identity and ample time to do his evil deeds.”

  “You know that he wasn’t a journalist.”

  “I know that now. He was a sound engineer. With the skills he acquired from his work and the information I’d given him about the viol, he was convinced he could find it.”

  “There’s no reason to blame yourself. It was a common enough story, wasn’t it? As I understand, there were many articles written about the theft.”

  “Yes, but I told him things that no one else ever knew. How my father became fixated with finding the yellow viol and how he systematically listened to every gambist recording he could find, convinced that he would know the yellow viol by its sound.”

  “You mean the wolf tone?”

  Brother Franz looked surprised.

  “The man pretending to be you told me about it.”

  “Ah, so there it is. Don’t you understand, Sheriff? I told Karl what to do; I drew the blueprint for him to follow. And then he succeeded where my father had failed.”

  “You can’t blame your father. By the time Payette began to release recordings made with the yellow viol, your father had already died.”

  “That is very true. As it was, my father eventually gave up his quest and accepted the theory that the thief had fled by boat, and that both the robber and the viol sank in the storm. I think that my father lost so much that night, he could survive only by believing that the thief had been punished as well.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Cubiak ignored it.

  “Whatever became of him, George Payette, the thief?” Brother Franz said when the ringing ceased.

  “Ultimately he was punished, as your father assumed. The statute of limitations on the theft expired over three decades ago, but once the story came out, Payette’s reputation was destroyed. After he recovered from the beating that Ubell—sorry, Jager—gave him, he left Door County. His house is up for sale, so it’s probably safe to say we’ll never see him here again.”

  “Poetic justice,” the monk said.

  “Something like that. But what of the yellow viol, now that it has been recovered?” Cubiak said.

  “As you can imagine, there were many doubts about its legitimacy, but the International Viola da Gamba Association has authenticated the instrument, and it has been returned to the Guttenberg heirs.”

  “You have no claim on it?”

  Brother Franz shook his head. “None at all. But the family has agreed that it will allow the yellow viol to be featured annually in a series of concerts and that a portion of the proceeds will be donated to the clinics and schools that my order operates in areas of need around the world. It is what you Americans call a win-win situation.”

  “You’ve come a long way to tell me this.”

  The monk touched the cross that hung on his chest. “I came to thank you for recovering the treasured yellow viol that was stolen from my unfortunate father so many years ago. It is a great debt that I owe you, and one that I needed to pay in person.”

  From the hall came the sounds of the staff leaving for the day. Brother Franz had talked for more than two hours. But he wasn’t finished. “I regret the deaths of the innocent people,” he said, his voice soft but hoarse.

  “You were not responsible for that.”

  “No? Perhaps if years ago, I had done what this devious fiend did, I could have discovered the viol and prevented this second tragedy.”

  “Perhaps, but probably not.” Cubiak leaned forward. “You seem to be a humble man. And isn’t it a sign of humility to acknowledge that which is outside our control?”

  The visitor was quiet a moment. “Thank you, Sheriff. That is very kind of you to say that. You are a man of faith, are you not?” he said finally.

  “I was once.”

  Brother Franz smiled. “Faith withers, but I believe that it never completely disappears. I have a gift for you that perhaps will help the seed to germinate again.”

  The monk reached into the folds of his robe. Cubiak expected him to fish out a Bible or a prayer book from a hidden pocket. Instead Brother Franz pulled out a single CD. “This is the last recording my father made with his beloved yellow viol. It is music that speaks to the soul,” he said as he handed the slim plastic case to the sheriff.

  As the visit drew to a close, Cubiak invited Brother Franz to come for dinner and to stay the night, but the monk declined.

  “Thank you, but I have made arrangements to go to Washington Island. It is a place that has shaped my life, and I would like to spend a little time there. I’ve heard that it is very beautiful.”

  “It is.”

  “I think that I should see it before I die, don’t you?” he said.

  Cubiak nodded.

  After a moment, the monk stood. “May I give you a blessing?”

  Cubiak hesitated. He had long ago stopped participating in religious rituals, but the man was so sincere he didn’t think it right to refuse. “Of course,” he said and closed his eyes.

  Brother Franz placed his hand on the sheriff’s head. For a moment, the monk seemed lost in silent prayer but then he spoke. “You have known sorrow, but you will know joy again. My prayer for you is that when joy comes, you will embrace it.”

  I will try, Cubiak thought.

  After the visitor left, Cubiak removed two roses from the bouquet. He put one flower on Lisa’s desk and the other on Rowe’s. The rest he took home for Cate.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said.

  “Yes, I should have, but I didn’t.”

  Over dinner, he told her about Brother Franz. “The flowers were his way of showing his gratitude for the recovery of the yellow viol, but given what you did that night, I say you deserve them more than I do.”

  Cate smiled. “I wanted to make sure this baby had a father.”

  While Cubiak cleared the table, she moved to the couch and pulled her feet up on a pillow. Now that she was past the first trimester, she was sleeping better and had relaxed into what the doctor called the “golden period.”

  Ever since that night on the island, Cubiak had worried about Cate and their unborn child. Sitting with her that evening, he realized that his anxieties had eased as well. They were going to be fine.

  “The baby’s moving,” Cate said.

  He rested his hand on her abdomen. Earlier, when Brother Franz said that he
would know joy, the monk hadn’t qualified the prediction. Feeling the sure, quick thrust of life, Cubiak realized that the joy would come from the baby and his new family.

  Thank you for that gift, Brother, he thought.

  The house was quiet. The lake had pummeled the shore for days, but that morning it had changed its mood and by evening the water lay flat and still.

  Cubiak dimmed the lights and put on the CD the monk had given him. He had seen the photo of Franz Acker with the yellow viol and pictured the gambist bent over the venerable instrument. As the master performed, the room filled with the pure, sweet sound of his music.

  Brother Franz called it music that spoke to the soul. As he listened, Cubiak understood what the holy man meant. It was almost as if, like his son, Acker understood the heart’s longing and through his music paid homage to humanity’s hopes and dreams.

  Cubiak settled next to Cate again. If the revered gambist played with such grace on earth, what beauty would he create in heaven? Surely, the sheriff thought, it would be music worthy of the saints and angels. Music worthy of all the world’s children waiting to be born.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing can be akin to jumping off a high ledge with a closed umbrella firmly in hand. The umbrella is the idea that inspired the work, and as you plummet downward, you pray it will open. If the parasol remains shut, you’re out of luck. But if it unfurls, you stand a chance of landing on your feet.

  As I worked on this book, I asked many people to help open the umbrella. I am humbled that they all stepped up and embraced the task. My deepest gratitude to Susan Rozendaal, who introduced me to and explained the finer points of the viola da gamba and early music.

  My thanks as well to David Baldwin, Peter Jang, Hoyt Purinton, Julianne Hill, and Monica Haley Heenan, who provided much-needed information and guidance on various plot points.

  To B. E. Pinkham, Jeanne Mellet, and Esther Spodek, the talented and devoted women in my writers group, who read and critiqued the manuscript as it progressed through the stages of development and then read it all over again at the end. To Norm Rowland, whose carefully considered comments made me rethink important elemnets of the story. To Barbara Bolsen for her vigilant reading of the final (not quite!) draft. To Max Edinburgh, who read the completed manuscript out loud to me not once, but twice. His was a gift that all those who write will understand and appreciate.

  Finally, to my daughter and creative mapmaker Julia Padvoiskis, who suggested using the ferry as a locale as we made the crossing from Washington Island to the Door County peninsula one sunny day. And to my daughter Carla Padvoiskis, whose keen insight and suggestions challenged me to look at aspects of the story in a different way. Thank you both for your unwavering support.

  Since the publication of the first book in the Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery series, the University of Wisconsin Press has proved to be outstanding. My sincere appreciation to Director Dennis Lloyd and his exemplary staff, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila Leary, Sheila McMahon, Andrea Christofferson, Anne McKenna, Lindsey Meier, Adam Mehring, Terry Emmrich, Scott Lenz, and Amber Rose. Thanks as well to copyeditor Diana Cook, for her vital review of my work, and to graphic designer Sara DeHaan, for another enticing book cover.

  I remain humbled and inspired by the support from readers, librarians, and booksellers. Thank you all.