Death Stalks Door County: A Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery

17. Thursday Evening

184 17 Thurs­ day Eve­ ning When Cu­ biak ­ coasted into ­ Beck’s drive­ way, the only light on in the man­ sion was in ­ Beck’s down­ stairs cor­ ner of­ fice. ­ Through an un­ cur­ tained win­ dow, the ­ ranger saw Beck. He was on the phone, strid­ ing back and forth. He was ebul­ li­ ent, smil­ ing and ges­ tur­ ing ­ grandly. Why not? So far every­ thing had gone the way he had pre­ dicted. Ear­ lier, after he’d fin­ ished with Bath­ ard, Cu­ biak had ­ stopped at the Kozy Kafe for the Thurs­ day eve­ ning hot beef and ­ cherry pie spe­ cial. Over sev­ eral cups of cof­ fee at the res­ tau­ rant and then a beer at the cor­ ner bar, he ­ worked ­ through what he’d ­ learned about ­ Beck’s se­ cret har­ bor plan. ­ Bathard’s as­ sess­ ment of the pro­ ject ­ seemed too low key and ­ Jocko’s ver­ sion ­ overly gran­ di­ ose. Cu­ biak ­ needed more in­ for­ ma­ tion and de­ cided to try and get it di­ rectly from the ­ source with­ out tip­ ping his hand. When Beck hung up, he ­ knocked. The door ­ opened ­ abruptly. “You? What the hell are you doing here to­ night?” Beck said, the stink of al­ co­ hol on his ­ breath. “There’s some­ thing I ­ wanted to dis­ cuss.” “Now?” 185 “I was in the area.” Beck hes­ i­ tated. “All right, come in, long as ­ you’re here. Go, fix your­ self some­ thing to drink.” He moved aside and mo­ tioned to­ ward the bar. “Just don’t tell me ­ you’re here to whine about the re­ gatta again.”­ Beck’s of­ fice was pa­ la­ tial com­ pared to ­ Bathard’s, and as lux­ u­ ri­ ous as the ­ coroner’s was ­ sparse. A large ma­ hog­ any desk ­ matched the ­ floor-toceiling book­ shelves that lined two walls. The fire­ place was sur­ rounded by black mar­ ble and above it a pol­ ished birch man­ tel dis­ played a taste­ ful sam­ pling of ­ awards ­ sculpted in crys­ tal and brass. Light jazz ­ purred from un­ seen speak­ ers. Only the best at ­ Beck’s bar, too. Ply­ mouth gin, ­ Blanton’s bour­ bon, and a bot­ tle of ­ twenty-five-year-old Cal­ va­ dos. Cu­ biak ­ loaded a glass with ice and then ­ reached for the buf­ falo grass vodka. “It is about the race,” he said, meas­ ur­ ing out a few drops. “Christ al­ mighty al­ ready,” Beck said as he ­ snagged the ­ half-empty Cal­ va­ dos. “We’ve been over that busi­ ness a dozen times. I’m tell­ ing you­ there’s noth­ ing to worry about.” “The way it’s or­ ga­ nized, all the boats are vul­ ner­ able to at­ tack. It’s im­ pos­ sible to po­ lice the miles of shore­ line, and ­ there’s no way we can mon­ i­ tor the small ­ skiffs and boats that will line the route ­ loaded with peo­ ple an­ gling for a bet­ ter view. It’s too dan­ ger­ ous.” Beck ­ scoffed. “You’ve been cry­ ing wolf ever since the fes­ ti­ val ­ started. But look ­ what’s hap­ pened. Ex­ actly noth­ ing. We got ­ through the first two days with no in­ ci­ dents. We’ll be fine.” “There’s going to be an­ other at­ tack. And it’s going to be well­ planned and or­ ga­ nized.” “You got any proof ?” Beck ­ tossed back his drink. “No? No proof. Then stop all this dooms­ day talk.” “We could at least alter the route. Scram­ ble ­ things up.” Beck ­ laughed. “You fuck­ ing nuts? The re­ gatta route is tra­ di­ tion, and in Door ­ County we don’t mess with tra­ di­ tion. Up here we do ­ things the way we al­ ways did them.” “You mean, the way you want them done.” 186 Beck ­ laughed again. “That’s ex­ actly right,” he said, re­ fill­ ing his glass. He held out the bot­ tle. “I’m done,” Cu­ biak said and re­ treated to an easy chair near the fire­ place. For a mo­ ment, the two men re­ garded each other. Then Cu­ biak began again. “I’m com­ ing to ap­ pre­ ciate that you ­ pretty...