Death in Cold Water Read Free Page A

“Plenty of nosy neighbors, even way up there. Creeping around in the middle of the night. People who notice everything and then start talking. Making things up when they don’t know what’s going on.”
    After several minutes of silence, Cubiak turned around.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYour father ever have trouble with any of his neighbors?”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œCan’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.
    â€œWhere are we? How much farther?” he said.
    â€œCouple 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.
    â€œLeft past the restaurant,” Andrew said as they came up to a building with a faded sign advertising a weekly fish boil.
    â€œHow much farther?” Rowe said.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHold 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