Death Casts a Shadow, page 6
The sheriff waited at the door long enough to get cold. Then he came down the stairs, tucked his head against the wind, and plodded through deep snow around the corner of the house. He didn’t realize the extent of Overly’s bird-feeding operation until he reached the back and looked up. The yard opened up into a large field ringed by more than a dozen feeding stations. They ranged from simple wood trays suspended from steel poles to bright yellow and orange tubes and structures shaped like miniature barns and houses. Against the backdrop of snow, they sparkled like a jeweled necklace.
On the far side of the loop, a man in dark-blue coveralls pushed a wheelbarrow loaded with several large, green buckets. Assuming it was Overly, Cubiak called out the man’s name, but the wind carried away the greeting. He tried again but the birdman kept moving farther away. The sheriff had no choice but to start down the trail after him. On the shoveled path, he passed a wooden feeder in the form of a miniature cottage with a bright-green roof. The next two were slender orange resin tubes. Each one was filled with seeds.
Cubiak marched at a fast pace and was nearly out of breath when he caught up with the bird tender.
“John Overly? I’m Dave Cubiak.”
The man set the wheelbarrow down and turned around. “The sheriff?” He peered out from behind his mirrored sunglasses. “How can I help you?”
“Regina Malcaster told you what happened to her niece. I’m talking to people who knew Lydia. Routine, that’s all.”
“Of course.” Overly shoved a metal scoop into a sack and filled it with a mixture of grains and pips. “Do you mind?” he said as he poured the seeds into a short, wide feeder. “This is thistle seed for the goldfinches. There are three more like it here, as well as all the others. Do you know anything about birds, Sheriff?”
“No.” Cubiak jammed his gloved hands into his pockets and flexed his toes inside his boots.
“That’s too bad. We have a marvelous variety on the peninsula. If you’re interested in learning more about them, you could join one of the birding groups. In fact, we have a meeting tomorrow evening.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
Overly chortled and then looked out across the field. “To continue with bird feeding one-oh-one. The first feeder contains shelled peanuts. That’s for the blue jays, woodpeckers, chickadees, and nuthatches. The next couple carry mixed songbird seed, which all the visitors are partial to, except for the woodpeckers.” The accountant swung his arm around the loop like a dial around the face of a clock. “There’s a couple with sunflower seeds, as well. That’s a real favorite for all the birds. The rest of the loop is pretty much a repeat. Oh, and I also scatter mixed seeds on the ground for the birds that don’t like to perch and would rather graze on the ground or, in this case, the snow. That would be the juncos, grouse, turkeys, and mourning doves.”
Overly finished filling the tube and screwed the top back on. “Damn cold out here, isn’t it?”
Cubiak grunted.
“We’re not all that different from the birds, you know. They need feathers to trap heat close to the body just like we need our coats and hats. But most of us don’t go singing through the winter, do we?”
The birdman pushed the wheelbarrow forward. “Almost done. Just need to fill the last few and then check on the suet blocks and the water. The suet is for the woodpeckers, chickadees, and nuthatches. And the water’s for all the birds. During winter, fresh water is a rare commodity, and for the birds it’s as important as food.”
The sheriff stopped. “You’ve got water out here?”
“Right there, in the birdbath. You can’t see it from here for all the snow. It’s there, in the middle of the yard.”
“How the hell do you keep the water from freezing?”
“I heat it. With a generator and a long extension cord, it’s simple.”
By the time the feeders were full, the men were covered with fresh powder. “I’ll have hot tea ready in a minute,” Overly said as they stood on the back porch and brushed the snow from their shoulders.
Inside, the accountant led Cubiak through an arched doorway and down a short hall where a flock of small stuffed birds perched on a hodgepodge of wood and stone ledges. The passage led to a small living room that was more bird museum than a space meant for human habitat. A plaid love seat and barrel chair faced the fireplace, where a ribbon of flame nipped at a small stack of logs, but the furnishings seemed like an afterthought amid the stacks of bird books and magazines and the colorful avian mounts, wood carvings, and porcelain statues that roosted on every available surface. Dominating the room were three magnificent paintings of birds.
“My obsession,” Overly said, tossing his hands open at the collection. He bent over the fireplace and adjusted a gas jet that sent the low flames dancing higher.
“Have a seat. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and disappeared back down the hall.
Cubiak moved a pile of Nature magazines off the chair and nudged it as close to the fire as he dared. While they were outside, the sheriff had wanted to come in and warm up. Now all he wanted to do was leave. Classical music began playing, and he focused on the melody and tried to ignore the claustrophobic clutter around him.
Several minutes later, Overly reappeared with two steaming mugs.
“It’s already loaded with sugar,” he said as he set a mug on a rough-hewn side table for the sheriff.
“You saw the Audubons?” Overly asked. “There, behind you.”
Cubiak turned back to the three wild fowl images on the wall. The birds were large and startlingly crisp and vivid. One was bright white, another shocking pink. The third had a flaming orange body.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like them,” he said.
“Credit goes to John James Audubon, who invented the technique. Over the course of his life, he produced four hundred thirty-five renderings of native fowl. Each one is an incredible piece of art.” The birdman gestured toward the sketch of the oyster white bird. “That’s an American ptarmigan. Next, the American flamingo and last but not least, the tri-colored Baltimore oriole.
“These are just prints, but they’re more than anything my parents could afford when I was growing up. They were dedicated birdwatchers. As a kid, I couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than wandering around with a pair of binoculars and searching for birds in the trees and marshes. But I grew up listening to them wax poetic about birds, and by osmosis I guess I absorbed their enthusiasm. I don’t birdwatch per se, but I do enjoy looking out back at the ones that come here to feed. It’s a nice hobby to have.”
The accountant sat and set his warm brown eyes on the sheriff. “Sorry, I tend to get carried away. You’re here about Lydia Malcaster.” He picked up the cup of tea and then set it down without taking a drink. “I don’t know what to say. It’s such a shame, her dying like that. She was a wonderful woman, a good friend.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Malcaster?”
“Yesterday. She called around seven in the evening and asked if I’d come over. A storm was heading this way and I wasn’t too keen about going out, but she insisted. I thought maybe she was ill or the kitchen sink wasn’t draining—she’d sometimes phone and ask me to help with small repairs—but it was about the Remingtons again.” He looked at Cubiak. “You know about the bronzes?”
“I’ve seen Zack’s collection. You said she wanted to talk about the statues again. Was it a recurring issue?”
“She’d mentioned them twice before. The first time was around Thanksgiving. I was at the house going over her accounts, something I do . . .” Overly stopped and looked at his hands. “Something I did monthly for her when, out of the blue, Lydia said that she was thinking of selling the Remingtons. I was surprised, knowing how much they meant to Zack. Why? I asked. And she went on about decluttering. Some new trend, I guess. She said that Regina—that’s her aunt, Regina Malcaster—”
“We’ve met.”
“Ah, of course, well, she said that Regina suggested that she get the statues appraised first and said that I could help. That was a surprise to me. I don’t know anything about Remingtons. I told Lydia that I’d look into it and left it at that.”
“And did you?”
Overly colored. “Not really. It was almost Christmas, and everyone was busy. Me included. One morning about a week ago, she brought it up again and I advised her not to rush into anything. We ended up talking about a movie we’d both seen, and by the time I left, I thought she’d forgotten all about the idea. Then yesterday I got the third call. Lydia insisted that I come over immediately. She wasn’t interested in listening to any advice. She said she’d made up her mind and was adamant that I help her,” he said, getting up to stir the fire.
“She had this idea that she would give one of the statues to a museum here or in Green Bay and then sell the rest of the collection. Lydia wasn’t a woman to rush into things. She was always very deliberate. None of this made sense. Why now? I asked her.”
“What did she say?”
“That her life was moving in a different direction and she needed to downsize. Then start with the big pieces, I said. But she didn’t pay any attention.”
“You didn’t ask her about this new direction she was taking?”
“I should have, maybe, but I didn’t,” he said as he straightened a stack of magazines that didn’t need to be straightened.
“Was she in any financial difficulty?”
The accountant chuckled. “If Lydia had lived for another hundred years, she wouldn’t have had any worries about money.”
Then he looked at Cubiak. “Why are you asking all these questions? According to Regina, the poor woman fell down the stairs. It was a tragic accident.” Overly hesitated. “Wasn’t it? Are you implying that there was something sinister about her death?”
“I’m trying to understand her frame of mind, that’s all.”
Overly squinted at the flames. Then he sighed. “Lydia was always good natured and calm. At least until recently. The last couple of months she was often distracted and agitated. I asked her if anything was wrong, and she implied that some of her friends were being difficult. That didn’t surprise me—some of the women do have their odd ways about them. Oh, please, don’t let on that I ever said anything like that. I need the business.”
The fire had faded, and again Overly got up and rearranged the logs. Once the blaze was going, he stood with this back to the flames, the poker still in his hand.
“There was one odd thing, come to think of it. Lydia was always confident about her appearance, not in a silly or obnoxious way but just, well, self-assured. But last night she said she was worried that she might be losing her looks. She even asked me if I thought a man would still find her attractive.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her any man would be a fool not to.”
“You knew both of them a long time, didn’t you? Lydia and Zack?”
The birdman replaced the poker and slouched back in his chair. “Zack and I grew up together. We were next-door neighbors when we were kids, and back then there weren’t many year-round families up here. So by default we were friends and as such practically inseparable through elementary and high school. After that we went to different colleges, and things changed—but we always kept in touch, and once he was back and married to Lydia, we saw each other often.”
“According to Regina Malcaster, there was a time you were sweet on Lydia.”
Overly shook his head. “The queen speaketh, huh? Lydia spent several summers up here when she was a teenager, and it’s true that I had a crush on her back then. Hell, half the guys in the area did. Nothing ever came of it, though. Nothing ever does, nor should it.”
“And now?”
“What do you mean now?”
“I mean over the past six years, the time that Lydia’s been a widow.”
The answer came like a whiplash. “I’m sixty-five and I’ve been a bachelor my entire adult life. No, Sheriff, you can put that notion aside. I had no romantic interest in Lydia. I was her accountant and her friend—a good friend—and that’s all I wanted to be.”
“When you saw her last night, how’d you leave things?”
Overly cracked his knuckles. “We ended up talking for a couple of hours. I got her to settle down a bit and cautioned her that it would probably take me some time to track down a reputable appraiser for the collection. The art world is very specialized. I know something about bird prints, but that’s as far as my knowledge goes. Remington bronzes are in a class by themselves.
“The truth is, I was hoping to stall for a while longer and give her enough time to change her mind. Lydia’s got a house full of art pieces that she could sell or donate and get rid of, if that was her goal. Downsizing or decluttering or whatever it’s called doesn’t mean you jettison a valuable asset like the statues. I was hoping she’d come to her senses.”
“You told her this?”
“Not in so many words, but I think my feelings came across because she wasn’t happy with me. We talked a little more about collectibles and that was it.”
“Did you have anything to drink?”
“Lydia’d opened a bottle of sherry. I had a small glass but that was all. Given the weather, I didn’t want to overdo it and then drive home.”
“What time was it when you left?”
“A few minutes after midnight. I remember the clock chiming as we walked to the foyer. We hadn’t heard the wind the whole time we were talking, but once we got to the front hall, we realized it was howling. When I opened the door, a gust brought in a wave of snow that dusted us both. The last thing I remember is Lydia laughing and brushing the flakes from her cheek.”
“You didn’t argue with her?”
“No! Not at all. I may have gotten a bit stern, but argue? There was nothing to argue about. I gave her my advice, but ultimately it was up to Lydia to decide what she wanted to do with the bronzes. Whatever she settled on I would accept, and she knew that.”
The accountant rubbed his hands on his knees. “She told me to be careful driving in the snow and asked me to call or text when I got home. Normally I’d make it back in about twenty minutes, but last night it took more than twice as long because of the weather. It was nearly one when I walked in the door and I figured that by then she’d be asleep. I didn’t want to wake her, so I let it go, thinking I’d touch base in the morning.”
“And did you?”
“I called around nine, but she didn’t answer.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“No, I figured I’d try again later.” Overly slumped back and stared at his hands. “I can’t believe that I was the last person to see her alive.”
Cubiak gave him a minute before he asked his next question. “Does the name James Dura mean anything to you?”
The accountant shook his head. “Should it?”
“He was one of Zack’s college friends.”
“Zack had a lot of friends. He may have mentioned him in passing but that was a long time ago.”
“You never met him then?”
Overly shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. Zack often showed up at Thanksgiving with one or another of his pals in tow. We’d get together and have a few beers but that was about it. I don’t remember any of them.”
“Lydia never mentioned him?”
Overly frowned. “No. Why would she? What’s this Dura fellow have to do with anything?”
“Apparently he contacted her several months ago, and something of a friendship had developed. Regina Malcaster remembers asking you if you knew anything about it.”
Overly slapped his knee. “Hah! That’s right, I forgot. She did mention something about her niece’s new friendship.” The birdman put the word in quotes. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it? Good for Lydia,” he said.
There was a lively sense of bonhomie in the response. Too much, perhaps, Cubiak thought as he swallowed the dregs of the cold tea.
The sheriff was halfway out the door when he stopped. “Do you have any idea what the statues are worth?”
“The Remingtons?” The birdman whistled. “I wouldn’t even hazard a guess. You need an expert for that.”
Heading home, Cubiak called Cate and explained the situation. “Overly has had months to take care of this and he’s done nothing. Can you use your contacts to find an appraiser?”
“I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with,” she said. “But no guarantees.”
6
DETAILS OF DEATH
Cubiak was at his desk late Thursday morning when an email from the UW alumni office landed in his mailbox. The message listed two phone numbers for James Dura and a note explaining that both went back more than twenty years, probably were landlines, and might not be viable. With Lydia’s death, the sheriff wasn’t sure what would be gained by calling, but habit insisted that he follow through. The first number was disconnected; there was no answer at the second, so he left a message.
An hour later, he was at the end of a long line of vehicles crawling toward town behind a county snowplow. The jeep’s speedometer registered a painful fifteen miles per hour but there was nothing the sheriff could do to hurry things up. He was late for his noon meeting with Emma Pardy. This would make him even later.
When he reached the morgue, it was 12:18. Even hurrying, it took him four more minutes to get from the parking lot to the building and down the long hall to the double doors.
As he walked in, Pardy looked up from her laptop.
“You’re late,” she said.
He unzipped his parka. “I was stuck behind a snowplow and didn’t think it set a good example for the sheriff to go around it.”
She laughed. “Welcome to winter in Wisconsin, the season when everything takes longer.”
“You got that right.” The sheriff worked his shoulders.
“Stiff?”
“The usual.” Cubiak kept his head down to avoid having to look at the table where the body of Lydia Malcaster lay beneath a long, white sheet. Under the fluorescent lighting, everything in the room seemed to glow an eerie white. The sheet, the walls, Pardy’s doctor coat.
