Death in Cold Water (32 page)

On his first time sailing solo, all the old fears came back. The twenty-six-foot boat was quick as a flea and seemed to respond to the slightest twitch. When Cubiak finally docked, he was exhausted. But hooked. And things got steadily better from there.

“You're quite good at this,” Cate said as the
Parlando
sliced through the water.

“I've had a good teacher,” Cubiak said.

“Indeed.” Cate smiled and pulled up her hood. Hugging her knees, she leaned back on the bench and lifted her face to the sun. “It's nice out here,” she said.

They continued like this for another half hour, Cubiak alert at the tiller and Cate immersed in her own thoughts. When they came within sight of Sherwood Point, she went below for the cooler. On deck, she poured two beers, filled a bowl with crackers, and then sliced salami and cheese on a square cutting board.

“A Wisconsin lunch,” she said.

As they ate, a two-masted schooner approached from the west. The vessel moved with a magical grace, its giant sails a blinding white in the afternoon sunlight as it flew past. It was headed into Sturgeon Bay, in the direction of the shipyards.

“Do you think they're finished yet?” Cate asked.

They both knew what she meant. Cubiak checked his watch. It was nearly four. “Close to it,” he said.

It was their only reference to the day's grim task at the Lakeside hangar.

The wind stayed with the
Parlando
a little while longer and then, as often happened that late in the afternoon, it died, leaving the boat adrift on the undulating water. Time had slipped by, and the giant orange ball of a sun was lower in the sky. The air felt cold.

“Should we take down the sail?” Cate asked.

There were strong currents in the bay and Cubiak kept a careful watch on the shore to see how far they were drifting. “Not yet,” he said.

Without warning, a sudden gust came up and tipped the boat. Cate lurched against the mast as Cubiak turned the boat into the wind.

“Let loose the sheet,” he said.

As she grabbed the line and released it from the cleat, the boom swung and they came around sharply. The canvas rippled and then sprang taut as Cubiak recaptured the wind.

“That'll keep you on your toes,” Cate said as she picked the lunch things off the floor.

By the time she headed below, the wind died again and the sail went limp.

The click of doors opening and closing—the sounds of tidying up—came from the cabin, and then Cate reappeared, cocooned in a bulky red sweater. Tucking her feet beneath her, she curled up on the windward bench. A moment later she opened the conversation that Cubiak had been expecting.

“You're still angry with me, aren't you?” she said.

He hedged. “Why should I be mad at you?”

“You know why.”

And of course he did.

“You're upset about Garth.”

Was it that obvious? Cubiak wondered. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“You thought I was getting back with him when you saw us together at the Rusty Scupper.”

“You looked pretty cozy.”

Cate looked up and then laughed. “Cozy? It was so damn loud in there I had to practically sit in his lap to make myself heard.” She grew serious again. “Okay, I admit I wasn't completely honest earlier. You asked if we'd talked about Ruby and I said we hadn't, but that's not true because we had and it was so hard trying to explain what had happened to her even while I was wondering if he had any right to know.”

“And that's it? That's all?”

An errant wave smacked the side of the boat and Cate started. “I never thought I'd see him again, and having him show up like that was, well, it was so unexpected I didn't really know how to react. He didn't come because of me. He came for the story . . . but still.”

Cate stared at the floorboards. Despairing of what she'd say next, Cubiak felt his chest tighten.

When Cate looked at him again, her eyes were soft. “The past has hooks that stay buried deep,” she said quietly.

Pained, Cubiak turned away. Her words echoed his own self-righteous pronouncement to Justin St. James about the past never being left behind. He'd meant it in terms of others but knew it was true for Cate and for himself as well.

Cate started talking again. “I have so many reasons to despise him, but sitting there together brought back memories of the good times between us, and in a weak moment, I was overwhelmed with longing for the dreams we'd had and everything we'd lost. He said he'd changed. That he'd been immature and foolish when we were married. He begged me to give him another chance, and for a moment, I almost said yes. But even as I was thinking that maybe we could go back and make it work this time, I knew that it wouldn't. I'd already given him so many chances and he'd messed up each time. He wasn't going to change. It was just an illusion.” She paused. “I think we all have them.”

Cubiak forced himself to look at her. That last comment was for him.

“In the end, we have to learn to recognize the difference between what is possible and what is not,” she said.

Cubiak had spent four years clinging to the memories of a life that was gone forever. He understood that this comment also was for him.

Cate squeezed his hand. “Nothing happened between Garth and me. It's you I want to be with.”

It was what Cubiak had longed to hear, yet he found himself unable to respond. The possibility of losing Cate had reminded him of how harsh life could be. There were no guarantees. To trust meant being vulnerable to the pain that lurked in the shadows.

“I know,” he said finally.

It was quiet on the water, the kind of quiet Cubiak remembered from childhood when he sat in the confessional and stared into the darkness, waiting for his turn. There were no secrets before God, the nuns had always said. If he loved Cate there should be no secrets between them. They weren't in the clear yet. This was the moment he had dreaded ever since she had moved back to the peninsula and into his life again.

Cubiak gripped the wheel. “There's something I need to tell you. It's about Ruby.”

“My aunt Ruby.” Cate hugged her knees close. “My mother's sister.”

“Yes . . .” Cubiak was about to go on when Cate continued.

“They looked like twins, remember. You said as much that day at The Wood when you saw the picture of them in my grandfather's study.”

Cubiak remembered the photo. He would never forget the image of the two women. Ruby and Rosalinde, tall and slim, aristocratic in bearing, posed like bookends alongside their oligarch of a father.

“I never thought anything of it, how much they resembled each other. When I was a little girl, people said I looked like my grandmother, but when I reached my teens, I became the very likeness of my mother. Even I could see that. But if I looked like my mother that meant I looked like Ruby, too.”

Cubiak said nothing.

“In retrospect, it all makes sense. My mother was always frail and sickly and unable to care for me or to put up with the flurry of having a rambunctious child in the house. Every year, I was shipped up here to spend the summer with Ruby and Dutch. And I loved it. No tiptoeing around or being shushed and told to sit still. Truth is, I hardly missed my parents; I liked living with Dutch and Ruby, liked the freedom they gave me and all the things they taught me. It was the best, like being at my own private camp all summer long.”

Cate smiled uncertainly. “I probably should have put things together sooner, but I didn't start to think about it until I lost the second baby and my doctor said that my inability to carry a fetus to term could be genetic. After my third miscarriage, she said it was unlikely I could ever have a child and that I needed to stop trying to get pregnant because I was endangering my health. All pretty much what my mother had gone through, it turns out.”

Cate looked at the water and then back at Cubiak. “Which leads to two possibilities. Either I was my mother's miracle baby, or I was Ruby's daughter by birth. You want to hazard a guess? Or maybe you don't have to guess. Maybe you know.”

Cubiak remained silent.

“If Rosalinde was my birth mother, then things are pretty straightforward and I know who my father is. But if Ruby was my biological mother, then I assume the father is unknown. Certainly it wasn't Uncle Dutch. Doesn't line up does it, my age and his long hospitalization after the war. Maybe Dutch didn't even know anything about it. Which means I was Ruby's secret, wasn't I?”

Cate locked Cubiak in her gaze. “Only, please, tell me that bastard Beck isn't my father.”

J. Dugan Beck was a man whom Cubiak had come to know and despise during his first year on the peninsula. He looked down at his hand, the knuckles white from gripping the wheel, and then back at Cate. “No, it isn't Beck,” he said.

“Unknown?”

“Unknown.”

“And Ruby?”

“Yes.”

Cate pressed her forehead into her knees. “Who else knows?” she said finally, looking up again.

“Bathard. He figured it out on his own.”

A smile flitted across Cate's face. “He would, wouldn't he? And you, how'd you find out?”

“Ruby told me that last day on the dock, but she begged me not to say anything. She asked me to promise her that I wouldn't tell you.”

“Did you?”

Cubiak shook his head. “I never got the chance. Before I could respond, you showed up.”

Abruptly Cate stood, and Cubiak feared she would go below, leaving him alone with the miserable truth. Instead she moved toward the stern and sat next to him.

“I'm glad you kept Ruby's secret as long as you did, but I'm also glad you decided to finally tell me,” she said and kissed his cheek.

“No secrets,” Cubiak said.

He pulled her close and they clung to each other. They could stay like this forever, he thought. But dusk had fallen and he knew that finally it was time to head in.

He caressed her shoulder. “Let's go back,” he said.

They busied themselves lowering and securing the sail and preparing the boat for the return trip. When they were finished, they nestled together behind the wheel.

Under the flickering glimmer of the first stars, they motored across the bay. The
Parlando
rode high in the water. The running lights marked the bow and stern of the boat, and a bright white beacon blazed from the top of the mast, showing them the way home.

It really takes a village to write a book. There are numerous people who encourage, listen, read, critique, and gently nudge the process along.

Thanks are owed to many, and special thanks to those who took on one or more of the supportive roles that kept me going.

To my wonderful and talented daughters: Julia, for her map-making, technical support, and insightful editorial comments; and Carla, for providing needed food for thought with her discerning observations and suggestions.

To B. E. Pinkham, Esther Spodek, and Jeanne Mellett, the members of my writers group, for shepherding the project from beginning to end.

To Barbara Bolsen and Norm Rowland, for their excellent and very important reading of the first draft.

To Max Edinburgh, who again performed the herculean task of reading the completed manuscript out loud as I took notes and worried my way through.

Thanks also to the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for answering my questions and explaining the finer points of how the agency functions. Any errors made and liberties taken are solely my responsibility.

Once again, I have enjoyed the privilege of working with the University of Wisconsin Press. My deepest appreciation to Director Dennis Lloyd and his exemplary staff, including Raphael Kadushin, Sheila Leary, Sheila McMahon, Adam Mehring, Andrea Christofferson, Terry Emmrich, Scott Lenz, and Carla Marolt, as well as to interns Megan Mendonca and Amber Rose. And thanks as well to copyeditor Diana Cook for another thorough vetting of my work and to graphic designer Sara DeHaan for another riveting book cover.

Finally, I extend my gratitude to the many dedicated booksellers across the country who have welcomed the Dave Cubiak Door County Mysteries into their stores. And to the many readers who have reached out to say how much they enjoyed the first two books and have asked eagerly for the third, this one's for you.