Death in Cold Water (3 page)

After several minutes of silence, Cubiak turned around.

“I thought small-town folks pretty much kept to themselves.”

Andrew snorted. “That's what they want everyone to think. But folks like to be entertained and believe me, they've got their radar out for every juicy tidbit they can pick up.”

“Your father ever have trouble with any of his neighbors?”

“Not that I'm aware of. Still, you know, people talk, and sometimes there's resentment against those who are more successful.”

Or those who have given people something to talk about or resent, Cubiak thought. And maybe Gerald Sneider was one of that ilk. Or maybe he was losing a good night's sleep on a fool's errand.

T
hey were north of Sister Bay when the fog came up and walled them in from all sides.

“Can't see a fucking thing,” Rowe said, slowing to a crawl.

The edges of the road had vanished, forcing the deputy to drive down the middle. They were hostages, functioning at the mercy of this greater force. Cubiak sat up, on alert for deer and unexpected curves. After some four years in Door County, he knew the geography of the peninsula well, yet in the surreal environment of the nighttime fog, he had difficulty following their progress. When the back road they were traveling finally connected with Highway 42, the sheriff was momentarily disoriented.

“Where are we? How much farther?” he said.

“Couple miles. Another five minutes,” the deputy said.

It took nearly three times as long for them to reach the high plateau outside Ellison Bay. The rise was on a segment of the limestone palisades that cut down from Canada and extended along the western edge of the peninsula like a gently curving spine. In daylight, the ridge provided a spectacular view of the forested cliffs and blue water that spread out below. But on a fog-shrouded night there was only descent into murky darkness.

Andrew had fallen asleep again, but as the jeep started to roll down the incline toward the village, he jolted awake. “We're there,” he said as they crept down the slope.

Ellison Bay had a year-round population of 165 and a smattering of shops in the tiny heart of the town. Half the businesses were shuttered for the season, and the rest had long been closed for the night. Despite what Andrew had said about people skulking around at all hours, there was neither movement nor sound and almost no light in the sleeping community.

“Left past the restaurant,” Andrew said as they came up to a building with a faded sign advertising a weekly fish boil.

“How much farther?” Rowe said.

“I'll tell you.” Then, after a few minutes, Andrew said, “Up there,” pointing to a pair of dim reflectors that blinked through the murk.

The entrance to Gerald Sneider's estate was an unremarkable dirt path cut through dense forest. Then, some fifty feet in, they pulled up to a massive iron gate. Was it a prelude to what lay ahead? Cubiak wondered. The gate was déjà vu for the sheriff. He remembered the first time he'd seen The Wood, the estate Cate's grandfather had built farther north, at the tip of the peninsula. Behind the gate at The Wood, which he'd opened with a massive, iron key, he'd gotten his first look at the kind of old wealth that had long claimed Door County as its own.

“Hold on.” Andrew pushed a button on a small black remote and the gates opened.

From there, the road was paved and where the fog occasionally fanned out into a fluttery wisp, the forest appeared neatly trimmed back. After two gentle curves the lane straightened again, and as they approached lights flickered low on either side of the road, illuminating the mist with a ghostly bluish-gray hue and then fading as the jeep rolled past. They were north of town where the peninsula jutted out toward Green Bay, and Cubiak knew instinctively that they were heading to the water.

Suddenly the headlights flashed across the façade of a monstrously large building that loomed up through the veil of fog.

Andrew grabbed the back of Rowe's seat. “Here. Stop.”

Rowe hit the brakes and cut the engine.

In the silence, Cubiak heard the familiar bang of waves crashing on a rocky shore. He stepped away from the jeep and looked around, but in the eerie darkness he saw nothing. Had he imagined the gigantic house?

“No lights?” he said.

“Father prefers the dark.” Andrew pushed another button on the remote and a row of decorative flower lamps glowed, revealing a wide flight of marble stairs not twenty feet away.

Cubiak and Rowe followed Andrew up the steps to a massive oak door.

I
nside, Andrew disarmed the security system and turned on the lights, giving the sheriff and his deputy their first glimpse at Sneider's grand home.

“It's not to everyone's taste,” Andrew said apologetically as he waved at the interior.

Standing in the foyer, Rowe gawked at the stream of water bubbling from a wall fountain that hung on a richly veined slab of marble. “No shit,” he said and tried to smother his comment with a cough.

Cubiak frowned at his deputy. “We're not here on an architectural tour,” he said. Then he asked Andrew, “Where would you normally expect to find your father this time of night?”

“Upstairs in his room.”

“Start there, then. Check all the rooms on the second floor. My deputy will come with you.” Cubiak gave Rowe another kinder look that said: don't let him out of your sight. “I'll take the downstairs.”

A thick, green and russet Oriental runner ran down a hall lined with gilded mirrors. To the right an archway opened to a living room stuffed with ornate Louis XIV furniture that appeared more decorative than functional. Heavy draperies framed the oversize windows, paintings that looked authentic to the sheriff 's uninformed eye filled the ecru walls, and a crystal chandelier the size of a newborn elephant hung from the ceiling. In the dining room, Cubiak counted sixteen chairs around a gleaming Queen Anne table over which dangled another sizable chandelier. He was no expert on fine crystal and china but guessed that the two glass-fronted cabinets held Wedgewood and the kind of dinnerware only the upper crust knew by name.

Despite their studied perfection, the two rooms seemed steeped in a sad emptiness. Perhaps once they'd been host to lavish parties and festive celebrations, but the glory days were behind them. Cubiak wondered if the elderly widower even bothered with them now.

Life is unfair, Cubiak's father used to say. It's the one thing he got right, the sheriff thought as he moved through the house. So many had so little and so few had so much.

His mother would have given anything for such a house, but Cubiak was unimpressed—until he stepped into the library. He could have camped out for months in that room, which looked like something lifted from a British manor house. The library had a massive fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along three walls. He ran a hand along the spines of the leather-bound books—books on philosophy, religion, and history and all the classics. But no current fiction. No magazines or newspapers. He tapped the glass-topped desk, bare except for an old-fashioned pen stand and black rotary telephone.

The tenor of the house changed when he reached the rear addition. Here he found Sneider's office. The room was small compared to the others but still large enough for a working desk and a conference table with four upright chairs. Next to it was the media room with two cushy sofas, three leather lounge chairs, a flat-screen TV that covered half a wall, and built-in speakers for the sound system. A cranberry wool throw tossed carelessly over the back of a chair indicated that someone, perhaps the owner, had been there before the cleaning woman had a chance to tidy up.

And then there was a family room that could only be called Packer Land. It was a sprawling space filled with nostalgia and memorabilia. Signed footballs and posters. Original jerseys in heavy gold frames. More and more. A trove of treasures worth a small fortune. Here, finally, was a worn leather chair, indicating that this room was special. He'd found Sneider's retreat.

Cubiak had to detour back through the dining room to find the kitchen, which, with its two pantries, occupied its own separate wing. There he saw high-end appliances, ceramic tiles that were probably imported and expensive, cabinets that he guessed were ash or some exotic light wood.

On the far side of the kitchen, a cozy breakfast nook with large uncurtained windows looked out to either the water or the forest. The room was furnished with a simple round oak table and chairs. A row of healthy asparagus ferns lined the deep sills, and a Tiffany-style lamp hung over the table. After the bling of the rest of the mansion, the unadorned room barely warranted a second glance.

Cubiak had started to turn away when he noticed a thick cord dangling from the lamp. The clunky string didn't fit with the delicate fixture. It couldn't be a pull chain, because there was a light switch on the wall. The sheriff turned on the lamp and stepped in for a closer look. The cord was a length of dirty white-and-blue rope, and suspended from the end was a Super Bowl ring. The gaudy piece of jewelry was festooned with glittery white diamonds that rimmed the surface and outlined the raised
G
on the face.

The heavy ring swung slowly back and forth like a pendulum bob. As it moved from left to right and then back again, it passed over a piece of thin cardboard, nearly grazing the surface. In this house of wealth, the cardboard, like the shabby piece of rope, was an aberration. The flimsy piece of corrugated paper looked like the end flap torn from a case of beer. There was a message on it, a note that was half-written and half-printed in bold, red paint.

Pay or he dies
.

G
erald Sneider had been kidnapped.

Or had he?

“Pay or he dies,” the message read. If the
he
referred to the owner of the estate, then the note was a demand for ransom.

But what if the
he
referred to someone else, someone like Andrew? Pay up or your son dies. If that was the case, the note was a threat against Andrew that had been directed to Gerald. After all, the message had been left in his kitchen. Did Andrew have large outstanding debts? Cubiak wondered. Was Andrew being targeted by someone with a long-standing grudge against the man who'd become famous for his support of the Packers?

Was it possible that Gerald was testing Andrew? By pretending to disappear, had the father set the stage to see how his son would react? Cubiak had seen more bizarre things happen in families.

The sheriff pinched his eyes shut. He was tired, overtired, and losing his focus. Always start with the obvious, he reminded himself, and in this case that meant that the note referred to Gerald.

Cubiak dabbed at the paint. It was wet. He sniffed and recoiled at the acrid smell. The message was still fresh. It had been written that evening, perhaps within the past hour or two. And it had been left inside the house without the alarm being triggered, perhaps intending that it not be discovered until the next day.

The rumble of voices came from deep inside the house and moved toward the kitchen.

“Over here,” the sheriff said as he snapped off the breakfast room light. He intercepted Rowe and Andrew in the kitchen. “Anything upstairs?”

“Just the five bedrooms,” Rowe said. Then he mouthed a word Cubiak couldn't make out.

“Nothing's been touched in Father's room,” Andrew said, filling a glass at the sink.

Cubiak motioned his deputy toward the far doorway. “Turn on the light when I give the signal,” he said quietly and pointed to the breakfast nook.

“Sorry, forgetting my manners. You two want anything?” Andrew said, turning from the sink.

“Nothing, thanks. I'm fine,” Cubiak said.

Andrew looked round, puzzled. “Where'd Mike go?”

“Don't worry about Rowe. There's something I want to show you,” Cubiak said.

The sheriff took Andrew by the elbow and propelled him toward the darkened room.

“What the hell's going on?” Andrew said.

Cubiak coughed and Rowe hit the light switch. Andrew glanced at the deputy and then over to Cubiak. Somewhere in the background a clock ticked. Seconds passed and then Andrew noticed the dangling ring and the note.

“Oh, God,” he said and lunged toward the table.

Cubiak caught his wrist.

“Don't touch anything,” the sheriff said.

Andrew resisted. He was pale. A sour aroma of sweat and fear rolled off him. Cubiak tightened his grip, hooked a chair with his foot, and pushed Andrew down.

“They snatched him. I told you something was wrong.” Andrew looked like he was about to be sick. He turned on Cubiak. “I knew it. I told you, didn't I?” He was shouting now.

“You did and here we are. Now we take this a step at a time.” Cubiak kept his voice low and tone neutral.

“We need to find my father before something happens to him. You should have started earlier, when I told you to. Not now. Look at the time you've lost. But no, not you two”—he looked at them with disgust—“you've done exactly nothing. What a fucking joke.” Andrew was flushed and panting.