Death in Cold Water by Patricia Skalka Page A

he wanted to be surrounded by people who knew little or nothing of this part of his past, the question was why ?

TROUBLE AT THE ESTATE

    C ubiak was hungry. At the bar and grill in Ellison Bay, he was contemplating the specials scrawled on the blackboard when Rowe texted him saying that Andrew’s story about the stamp collector checked out. Just as Cubiak was about to place his lunch order, another message came through.
    Com hurri . The muddled text was from Andrew. The sheriff called. No answer.
    Heading out the door, he called the duty deputy. “What’s going on?”
    â€œNothing. Why?”
    â€œWhere the hell are you?” Cubiak said.
    â€œGills Rock. Andrew wanted smoked fish.”
    â€œJesus. Get down here now. He just texted me. Something’s happened.”
    A few minutes after two, Cubiak pulled up to the estate gate. He nodded to the half-dozen reporters who swarmed the jeep but ignored the recorders they thrust at the closed window and the notepads in their outstretched hands. A newly hired security guard let the sheriff pass. He was taking the first curve when Andrew emerged from the trees.
    Cubiak braked, and Andrew grabbed the door.
    â€œI can’t stay here,” he said, hauling himself into the passenger seat. His face was ashen and slick with sweat.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Andrew pointed down the drive. “There. You’ll see,” he said.
    W hen they reached the mansion, Andrew jumped out and hurried toward the lawn. He wore the same baggy clothes he’d had on the day before, and the loose clothes flapped as he moved. When he reached the grass, he shifted his gait into something that was half between a hop and a skip. One foot planted on the lawn, then the other up and over to the side in a crazy zigzag pattern. Back and forth he went, head down as if he were trying to avoid stepping on something.
    Bathed in full sunlight, the grounds took on a majestic air. In the distance, a lone sailboat tacked back and forth on the glistening bay. Was it Bathard out enjoying a last hurrah? the sheriff wondered.
    By the time Cubiak caught up with him, Andrew had reached the deck along the edge of the cliff. Built-in benches framed three sides of the wooden platform; the fourth opened to a flight of stairs that ran down the face of the palisade. Andrew dropped to a bench and waved Cubiak toward the steps.
    â€œDown there,” he said, motioning with his head.
    The steps led to a short dock. Three large letters had been painted on the pier in black: SOS . The international distress signal.
    What the fuck? Cubiak thought. Gerald Sneider was the one in distress who needed to be rescued. He couldn’t have left the message, could he? If the kidnappers had done it on his behalf, why take the chance of being seen so near the estate? Unless they were trying to force Andrew’s hand. Or, maybe this was a prank, the workings of a sick mind or some lame-brained teenagers.
    Cubiak started down the stairs. He was nearly to the bottom when he realized the reason for Andrew’s panic.
    The SOS hadn’t been printed with paint. The letters were formed from snakes. Brown reptiles, the kind he knew as pine snakes. In all, there were six of the long, slender reptiles. Two for each letter. They’d been laid end to end and pinned to the wood with U-clamps.
    Cubiak grabbed one of the oars that was leaning against the cliff and walked out on the deck. He tapped the pier but the snakes didn’t react. He prodded one. Then another. The reptiles remained inert. They were dead.
    Someone’s gone to an awful lot of trouble but to what end? Cubiak wondered.
    By the time the sheriff climbed back up, Andrew had retreated to the front steps of the mansion.
    Cubiak sat beside him. “When did you see it?”
    Andrew had his elbows on his knees. He stared at the ground. “Right before I texted you. I wanted some sun, so I went over to the deck to sit