Death Stalks Door County (22 page)

The weaving was not the kind of art Cubiak appreciated. He liked things literal: trees that looked like trees, for one. There was no discernible tree image in Ruby's work. If anything, she'd produced a desolate landscape seemingly devoid of life, except for the Native American bird figure. Unless the dark smudge in the bottom left corner represented a tree. The first tree? Life's beginning? Cubiak appreciated the intricacy of Ruby's work; he only wished she'd made something he could recognize. Cate would understand it.

He spotted her in the doorway and raised a hand but she'd already turned aside and was talking to a well-dressed couple. Had she seen him? Cubiak excused himself. He was halfway through the crowd when Beck grabbed his elbow.

“Anything?” he said.

“Not yet.”

“Which may be for the better.” Beck pursed his lips and gestured toward the wall hanging. “Something patriotic would have been more fitting,” he complained sotto voce. “But I should have known better. Too mundane for Ruby. Instead we get modern art and fucking Indian shit.”

When Cubiak looked again, Cate was gone.

W
hat Ruby did not provide in her weaving, Beck made up for at the festival fish boil that followed. During the afternoon, the town had been transformed into a faux colonial village. Stars and stripes fluttered from every flagpole. Doorways were draped in patriotic colors. Balconies and porches bore garish decorations. Greeters wore Uncle Sam hats. A roving fife and drum duo played endless rounds of “Yankee Doodle.” With traffic diverted from the waterfront, the area around the Village Hall was cordoned off with red, white, and blue bunting and packed with tourists waiting for Beck's festival fish boil to begin.

The fish boil was a Scandinavian tradition imported to Door County as an efficient and economical way to feed settlers, logging teams, and fishing crews at the end of the workday. It became a popular tourist attraction, and at the festival it was transformed into high culinary art. This was no small undertaking. On a long, narrow stretch of sand, ten campfires burned, each one straddled by a raised metal frame that held an oversized black iron kettle filled with salted water. A crew of men directed by Les Caruthers fed pieces of dried wood into the flames to heat the water.

Outfitted in a yellow slicker with matching pants, tall heavy boots, and a fisherman's cap pulled tight over his ears, Caruthers waved a flag. When the water began to simmer, he blew on a sailor's whistle. At the signal, the boil masters, twenty burly men in white chef 's hats, emerged from the shadows. The cooks bowed to the crowd, then paired off and carried in ten large metal baskets filled with small red potatoes. One container was ceremoniously lowered into each cauldron. While the potatoes cooked, the chefs stood arms akimbo and sang sea chanteys to entertain the hungry diners. They had just finished one of the numbers when Caruthers gave another toot, a signal for onions to be added to the broth. After more songs and another blast from Caruthers, the men carried in a second set of smaller baskets, brimming with chunks of locally caught whitefish, and set them into the kettles.

The cooking fires whipped up and licked the sides of the kettles. A gray foam of fish oil formed over the surface of the roiling water. Caruthers blew a long and two shorts. “Boil over,” he yelled as the chefs tossed kerosene onto the fires. Flames skyrocketed into the air. The supercharged water bubbled over the sides of the cauldrons, spilling fish oil onto the burning logs and sending plumes of black smoke into the air. The crowd cheered. When the last whistle sounded, the boil masters, still working in pairs, slid heavy metal poles through the wire handles and lifted the heavy baskets from the kettles. Water streamed off the fish—the thick fillets, sweet and delicate, cooked to perfection—as the cooks carried the baskets from the beach to the tents where they were set on solid wooden tables that bore the scars from past boils. Using red, white, and blue plastic dishes, the local ladies served up the potatoes, onions, and fish, the famous Door County fish boil dinner—each meal complete with a slice of cherry pie.

Cubiak didn't eat fish. He bought a hot dog near the docks and wandered back toward the tent, still intent on the weaving. Ruby had titled the work “Tree of Life,” which implied a positive connotation, so why the tears? Unless the bird was weeping for joy, but Cubiak didn't get that feeling.

“How's it going?” one of the chefs called out to him.

Cubiak recognized the man as one of Halverson's deputies from the afternoon. “No problem.”

The man wiped his brow. “Some show, huh?”

“Yeah. Guess.”

The man turned back to the job of rekindling his fire for the next round. A coworker must have said something because Cubiak heard a sharp chorus of disagreement. Moving away, he thought about Beck's nasty remark about Ruby's weaving. Given the long history they shared, Cubiak had assumed they were close friends. Maybe he was wrong.

W
hile the fish boil prepared for a third seating, another audience of visitors began filing into Peninsula State Park's outdoor theater for the evening's performance by the Door County Folk Troupe. Children and adults tramped the wooded trails, arms loaded down with blankets and jackets to protect against the inevitable cool night air that would later engulf the forest.

Cubiak stationed a half dozen of Halverson's men around the facility and checked out the obvious potential problem spots. The theater was a plain but serviceable facility. Trees felled to make the clearing had produced enough lumber for benches to seat one hundred fifty comfortably as well as the stage, complete with trap door and portable platforms, and a plain wooden fence for a backdrop. As with most of the troupe's productions, scenery was minimal. Little more than the forest's dark shadows and the thin moonlight filtering through the forest canopy was needed to generate the mood for the group's new musical, a production of ghoulish folk tales and songs. Given recent events, Cubiak found the selection macabre. It was a full house. The curtain was delayed ten minutes and extra seats brought in to accommodate the overflow crowd.

The audience loved the show. Cubiak didn't. Nighttime in the woods was eerie enough without skeletons popping up from wooden coffins and anguished screams in the dark. When a trap door slammed in the middle of act two, he grabbed for the gun he no longer wore. Afterward, people filed out, trailing the aroma of bug spray. Cubiak stayed an extra hour and helped the actors replace props and secure the stage.

Driving back, he checked the three campgrounds. It was nearly midnight when he reached Jensen Station. He wanted vodka and settled for tea. Ruta had baked brownies and left the foil-covered pan where he could find it. Cubiak cut two large pieces. Exhausted, he lay down and tried not to think about Cate.

C
ubiak found a note from Ruta on his desk. “Beck's house 11.”

What the hell? Cubiak thought. There hadn't been time at Ruby's opening for him to tell Beck about the Conservation League meeting, but he couldn't imagine that with the festival moving into its second day, he'd be summoned to the house for that.

Heavy traffic made him late and ill tempered. Poised for a face-to-face encounter with Beck, he rang the bell and was surprised when a middle-aged woman opened the door. She wore a black dress and the unmistakable white-lace apron of a maid. She looked disapproving.

“I'm expected,” Cubiak said.

“Yes.” The hired help led him through the living room and down the rear hall to the family room where he'd first met Cate. The view by day was as impressive as by night.

“Where's Beck?”

“Please.” The maid indicated a small sofa near the window and disappeared.

Ignoring the couch, Cubiak approached the glass wall, aware of the thick carpet underfoot and an intense overbearing stillness. The air inside the house was chilly.

“I'm sorry, but Beck's not here.” A woman stood in the doorway, diminutive and overdressed, her parchment complexion unseemly in a resort community that worshiped sun and placed a premium on healthy outdoor activity. She floated across the room and extended her hand. “We've met, haven't we? I'm Eloise Beck.”

Cubiak remembered her from Beck's preseason party. She'd been tipsy and insouciant that evening.

“We have. I have an appointment with your husband. Where is he?” Cubiak said.

“Who knows?” Eloise eased into a chair. “Please, sit down. I insist. I get so few visitors, though you're the second today.”

She raised her eyebrows at Cubiak, inviting his curiosity, but he ignored the hint. He wasn't in the mood to play games or fill out her social calendar. “I told you, I came to see Beck, but I can come back another time,” he said, turning to leave.

“No, wait. Please. I sent for you, not Beck,” Eloise said.

“You? Why?”

She pointed to a facing chair. “I thought it was important. There are things you need to know if you're going to work for my husband.”

“I don't work for Beck.”

Eloise ran her hands up and down the armrests. “Everyone works for Beck. You're working for him now, aren't you?”

Cubiak hesitated. “More like a favor.”

“I see. And just how do you think you got the job at the park in the first place? Beck pulled a lot of strings to get you up here. He obviously did it for a reason.”

Cubiak sat down. “You got ten minutes,” he said.

“My husband is an ambitious bastard. He's good with plans and making things happen. He lets nothing stand in his way, and he'll do anything that gives him an advantage. He married me, a girl from the wrong side of town who worked in one of his factories, because he thought he could mold me into the perfect doting wife. Didn't quite work out that way. He was desperate for a son but what he really wanted was a clone. Instead he got Barry, our late-stage miracle baby, who was more me than him. The kid never had a chance.”

Cubiak glanced at his watch. “Sorry, that's of no interest to me.”

“Just wait. It gets better. You know Alice Jones, the girl who was killed? Do you think Beck cares about her or who attacked her? He doesn't. Just arrest someone, anyone, which is pretty much what happened. His only real worry was that Barry caught something nasty from her. ‘Stick your dick in dirt and it gets dirty,' he said to him.

“I've never known anyone with less of a soul. Maybe he doesn't have one. There's no compassion, no sense of decency. He's like a shark. He'll devour anything, even his own young, to survive.”

Eloise got up and moved to the stone fireplace. “He did it to Dutch.” She whirled round. “You know Dutch?”

“I've heard the name.”

Eloise tittered. “Who hasn't?” She began walking around the room. “Nobody understands their rich-boy, poor-boy relationship. I think there was something genuine there on Beck's part when they were younger. He admired Dutch and wanted to emulate him. But after we came back from New York—we'd lived there several years—things began to change. At first it was like old times. We saw Dutch and Ruby often. Even went sailing a couple of times. Beck solidified his position at the shipyard and took over his father's role as undisputed spokesman for the county. Dutch got elected sheriff and solved a murder. ‘The little people's hero,' Beck started calling him behind his back.”

“Why? Wasn't he relieved the crime was solved?”

She smirked. “Beck had his own ideas about the situation and Dutch didn't listen.”

“Beck was one of those who worried about bad publicity?”

“Yes, so you've heard about this. But even more than that . . .” The maid entered with a tray and set it on a low table near Cubiak. It held a silver urn of coffee, two china cups, a small pitcher of cream and individual saucers of whipped cream, sugar cubes, and a dish of lace cookies. Eloise returned to her chair and helped herself. Cubiak poured his own.

“You could crush that cup without trying,” she said, looking at Cubiak's hands. “I'm used to men with big hands. My father. Beck.” The name rolled out flat and emotionless. “How am I doing on time?”

Cubiak wanted to hear more about Dutch and Beck. “Okay,” he said.

“I think Beck felt threatened by Dutch's success. Beck was born into money and power; Dutch had to make his own way in life. My theory is this: when Beck compared himself to Dutch he didn't come off too well.”

“And he couldn't tolerate the idea?”

She nodded. “Then the park superintendent job came up. Dutch supported Otto, and Beck hated Otto.”

“Because of Claire.”

“That and other things, too. Otto was a purist who believed in protecting the land above all else. Beck had grand schemes for developing the county and didn't tolerate opposition. He did everything he could to undercut Otto, but that was one time he had no clout at the top. Approval for the park job had to come from the director of the state forestry department, who was appointed by the governor, who just happened to be a one-term maverick, a populist who was anti–big business and such. When Beck realized he couldn't legitimately stop Otto, he tried to discredit him. Dragged out the tired old business about the war and his CO status. Halverson was the point man on that. Anyway, the plan backfired. Dutch publicly backed Otto. Here was a decorated Vietnam veteran supporting Otto's right to be a CO.”