Free Death at Gills Rock by Patricia Skalka

grinder.
    â€œI’ve used a sander.”
    â€œClose enough.”
    They began on the port side, Cubiak at the prow with the grinder and Bathard near the stern with a cold chisel.
    â€œDon’t spare the elbow grease,” the coroner said.
    It was a nasty task, harder than the sheriff had imagined. Earplugs couldn’t block the screech of metal on metal. Dust thickened the air, sparks popped, and his hand ached from the steady vibration of the grinder.
    â€œMakes you appreciate people who work with their hands,” he said when they stopped for a break.
    Bathard wiped his brow. “A lesson, I’m afraid, I learned rather late in life,” he said, surrounded by the tools of his father’s trade.
    The coroner was quiet for a moment. Then he grabbed a broom and began sweeping up. While he worked, Cubiak described his encounter with Roger Nils.
    The doctor leaned on the broom. “It’s true that Huntsman didn’t formally adopt Walter but that never affected how he treated the boy. Raised him like his own from what anyone could see.”
    â€œRoger said it was ‘another of the family myths.’ What do you think he meant?”
    â€œProbably nothing. He may have been agitated talking to you and simply misspoke. Then again, all families have secrets. Usually they’re private matters that don’t have any significance beyond the family circle.”
    â€œIn other words, keep my nose out of it.”
    â€œNot exactly, but try not to overthink everything. Three men died. An unfortunate incident that could have been and most likely was an accident. Emma will give you the official test results tomorrow, but I can tell you now that what we initially suspected as the cause of death was verified.”
    â€œCarbon monoxide poisoning.”
    â€œYes, sadly. Something both simple and preventable.” Bathard looked at the sheriff. “I realize this is your job, but you need a life beyond work, give yourself something else to think about.”
    Cubiak pulled the safety glasses on over his lenses. “I’ve got the dogs.”
    â€œThe dogs.”
    â€œBetter than nothing.”
    â€œWell, that’s true. Natalie helping you out?”
    â€œYou know she is.”
    â€œGood, given what you don’t know about animals.” Bathard chiseled at a lump of decay along the bottom edge of the keel. “Still thinking about that locked door?”
    Cubiak shrugged and ran the grinder for several minutes. “I am. Something else, too.” He laid the grinder down near the bandsaw and explained his concerns about the men’s extensive holdings. “I wonder if they didn’t have another source of income. Gambling, maybe.”
    Bathard looked amused. “You think they were running a north woods poker ring in Gills Rock?”
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œLots of things are possible but that sounds doubtful to me. Consider, for example, that the men who made up the usual crowd of players don’t enjoy a level of income that would allow for high stakes gambling.”
    â€œYou ever asked to play?”
    â€œOnce or twice, years ago. Anyone elected to office or considered prominent for whatever reason gets invited, more a courtesy than anything. As I understand, the weekly games—the ones that mattered—were limited to a close circle.”
    Bathard brushed bits of rust off the keel and then went on. “Nothing unusual about that, really. The regulars are men who have much in common. I may be a local and a native to the area but I’m not accepted as one of them. Whether it’s because of education, profession, or dayto-day routines, the difference is that some people are automatically part of the group and others are the odd men out. I’d attribute it to the classic town-versus-gown mentality rather than to anything sinister.”
    The doctor’s assessment made sense to Cubiak. He turned his attention