by Jeff Nania
“I meant Ms. or Mrs. Just forget it.”
“What are you doing here so soon, Mr. Cabrelli? No one told me you were coming.”
“John, call me John. First, I want to apologize. I had no idea that anyone would be here. In fact, the lawyer told me the place was deserted and kind of run down.”
That got her fired up again. “Deserted?! I have been living here for over three years. Run down! Does this place look run down!? I take care of this house and property like I would if it were mine. Maybe it just doesn’t meet your pavement and city slick standards, but we work hard at it. Derek Anderson absolutely knew I was living here. Otherwise, why would he give me notice to move out by next Friday? He said that you had sold the property to some big shot rich guy from the cities, and they were moving in heavy equipment to demolish the place. You were taking the money and running back to the city.”
It took me some time to digest this, and I stared out the front window at the lake for a minute or two before I said anything. “I see, but let me set the record straight. I have never heard of you or met this lawyer before today. First, I don’t even know what I have inherited, and second, I don’t think I have sold anything to anyone. I don’t know anything about a rich guy from the cities, heavy equipment demolition, or anything else.”
Her ire began rising. “I am just telling you what I was told, and by the looks of that fancy little car and those … ugh shoes, you probably are itching to sell the place and get out of here before you step in a puddle. I mean that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?” Steam was rolling again. “And for the record, I am living here until next Friday when I will gladly get off your land, but not until then. So, I would appreciate it if you would get out of my house, get back in your car, and go. I have grading and work to do.”
She was getting so worked up I couldn’t help but keep glancing over at the shotgun, ready to make a dive for it before she did.
“Please, Julie, just take a breath. There’s no need to get all wound up again. Here is what I’m going to do. I will get in my car and head back to town. I am going to check into the hotel and take a breather. Tomorrow I’m going to meet with the lawyer and get this thing figured out. Clearly there are some questions I need answered. After I meet with him, is there any chance you and I could get together to discuss what I find out?”
“No, well yes, no. What do I care? I have to get my work done and keep packing and get moved out of here before I get crushed along with this place by a gigantic bulldozer. Do whatever you want, just leave me alone. Your aunt and uncle would be ashamed of you if they knew you were tearing this place down. I hope they haunt you. They loved this place so much. They were such good people, and you show up with your fancy car and shoes and walk around like you’re something special, making yourself at home in his chair. Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”
I could be wrong, but I was pretty sure I now saw steam coming out of her ears.
“Look, I’m leaving. Give me a phone number, and I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on. If you want to talk, answer. If not, don’t.”
She just stared, too mad or upset to hear anything.
“Julie, before I go, could I ask you one thing?”
“Whatever.”
“Is that shotgun loaded?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Of course. What good is a shotgun that’s not loaded?”
I went out the door and off the porch and walked toward my car. About halfway there I stepped in a puddle that went over the top of my beautiful Italian loafer. Crap. What a day. For some reason, as I drove out the driveway, I couldn’t help but smile and wonder. John Cabrelli, what awaits you now?
With that, I drove back to Musky Falls, and I will admit that even though she had pointed a loaded shotgun at me, I was pretty intrigued by Julie Carlson.
I needed to find a place to stay and pulled into a motel that was in the shadow of a giant fiberglass musky and booked a room with no predicted checkout date. They offered continental breakfast, hot tub pool, exercise room, and a bar. The large lobby had comfy stuffed leather chairs set around a fireplace. I couldn’t wait to lay back and close my eyes for a minute. Days like this were a little much. I headed up to my room and stretched out on the bed. As I was taking my shoes off, I noticed the puddle planted loafer had water stains. It was probably ruined. Sleep came quickly, and I slept through the night. I hadn’t set an alarm or asked for a wake up call. I woke without either at 5:30 a.m.
I decided to go down to the pool and hot tub area, but then realized I didn’t have a swimming suit along.
“Put that on the list,” I muttered to myself.
I did, however, head down to take advantage of the breakfast bar. Even though it was early, the room was already half full. There were three older couples, and the rest of the occupants were rough and ready looking guys wearing boots, work shirts, jeans, and reflective vests that had Northern Mining Company emblazoned across the front and back.
The breakfast bar had regular, decaf, and gourmet coffee, scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, and everything else on the list of foods not to eat as part of a healthy diet. I hesitated for only a moment before diving in and bellying up with the miners and eating my fill.
I had a third cup of coffee while sitting in one of those big leather chairs and picked up a copy of the Namekagon County News, the local newspaper. The headline read: “Locals Speak Out at Mining Hearing,” and underneath it were the words: “Northern Wisconsin residents express concern about potential environmental impacts of a proposed mine. Do the risks outweigh the need for jobs?”
The article that followed briefly described the proposal. Northern Mining wanted to open an iron ore mine in Namekagon County. The mine was a huge operation and would impact thousands of acres of natural landscape. It would bring hundreds of good paying long-term jobs to an area that had about the highest unemployment rate in Northern Wisconsin. The mayor of Musky Falls called it a boon to the local economy. A local science teacher said it would be an environmental disaster. On and on. On the second page there was a map of the proposed mine area. I looked at it with little interest until I noted that it included the southwest corner of Spider Lake and all the property around it. If I was not mistaken, it included Uncle Nick and Aunt Rose’s place—all of it plus some. Interesting.
I tried Attorney Anderson’s cell, no answer. So I decided I would just stop by his office and see when we could meet. I drove up Main Street looking for an open parking spot. It is a one-way street, and all the stalls are angled to allow for maximum parking. The disadvantage of this arrangement is that when you are backing out, cars or trucks on either side of you tend to obstruct your view. Such was the case with a lifted crew cab, four-wheel drive truck that backed out into oncoming traffic, namely me. I stopped; he stopped, but not before we made minor contact. I got out of my car and walked up to the front to look at the damage. As I did, the truck driver met me. He was well over six feet tall and dressed in brown duck overalls and an old flannel shirt that did little to hide his massive upper body.
Not a man to tangle with unless all other forms of negotiation failed.
Instead of an attitude befitting his size, he blurted out, “Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t see that little car. I’ve got insurance so don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. I am really sorry, mister.”
The American-made full-size 4x4 off-road crew cab pickup truck was a marvel of toughness and durability. This was further clearly evidenced today by the fact that while no damage was visible on the truck, my entire Japanese right front fender was smashed, and pieces of plastic littered the ground.
Cars had already begun to get jammed up behind us, so we moved the cars around the corner and out of the way. The truck driver showed me his driver’s license, and I showed him mine. We agreed that a police report was not necessary and that I could call his insurance agent, who actually had an office in this block. As a matter of fact,
he suggested, “Why don’t we just walk down there and get this squared away right now?”
We did. The agent’s office was in a small storefront between a rock shop and a jewelry store. The walls of the office were adorned with two huge whitetail deer buck mounts, with a mounted musky in between. A plaque beneath the fish read, “49 ½ inches Tiger Cat Flowage.” There were also a number of plaques noting top sales years, donations supporting local causes, and a lifetime membership to Safari Club International, the Northern Wisconsin Chapter.
The receptionist greeted the truck driver, and he relayed the story to her. She got up, walked 10 feet to the inner office, and repeated the story to a hidden person inside. A minute later, she said, “Come on in. Dennis is ready for you.”
Agent Dennis Targett reached his hand out to the truck driver now known to be Arvid “Bud” Treetall, and said,“Bud, what brings you in here?”
“Well, Dennis, I was backing out of a stall by the hardware store, and I didn’t see his little car, and I backed into it. I am afraid I smashed in the fender pretty bad.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, everybody is just fine,” I replied.
“Any damage to your truck, Bud?’
“Nope, Dennis. Nothing I can see anyway.”
“Well, let’s go out and take a look.”
We followed the insurance man out to the street. He walked around and looked at the car and truck from every possible angle. He squatted down and pulled at the pieces of my fender, causing more to drop to the ground. Then he took a few pictures. He turned around and asked us to follow him back into the office, and we did.
We sat down in his office, and he looked at me and asked for my driver’s license. I gave it to him.
He looked down at the license, looked up at me, then repeated the same exercise.
“You’re John Cabrelli. You must be Nick and Rose’s son.’’
“More like their nephew,” I replied.
“Jeez, Bud, not a very nice way to welcome your new boss to town. You see, John, Bud here is the caretaker and maintenance man for Nick and Rose,” Dennis explained.
Bud gave me a big grin and reached out a huge paw to shake my hand. “I’m real glad to meet you, John. I knew you would be working your way this way one of these days. Nick and Rose were good people. I’m sorry about them passing on. It must make you feel pretty sad. My cousin Julie and I will miss them both,” Bud said.
Dennis chimed in, “I heard they named you as their heir. They have a life insurance policy with me that names you as the beneficiary. I had planned on getting together with you when you came up. So we’ll have to get to that, but you know, first things first. Let’s take care of the matter at hand. Mr. Cabrelli, do you want to get your car fixed around here or get it done when you get back to Madison?”
“I’m not sure. When we drove the car and truck around the corner I could hear something rubbing on the tire. I should get that checked out before I drive anywhere.”
“Okay then. I am going to give a call over to Musky Falls Autobody and see if they can take a look at it right now and give us a diagnosis. If it can’t be driven home, we will be glad to get you a rental car to use in the meantime.”
I took the car over to the shop, and the body man looked it over thoroughly before telling me that he didn’t think I should drive the car. The front suspension had been damaged, and it could cause a serious problem if it let go. He sent me two blocks down the street to another garage where they could help me out with a rental.
“Just down the street is Bill and Jack’s Garage and Guide Service. Talk to Doc O’Malley. He owns the place. He’ll fix you up. I’ll give him a call and tell him you’re coming.”
When I got there, I saw they had a ten- or so year-old Jeep Cherokee running in the lot. I walked up to a guy bent over the hood of a pickup truck.
“Hey there. The body shop guy sent me over.”
He turned to face me with a big smile. The name tag on his shirt said “Bill.”
“You must be the guy who just got his fancy sports car crunched,’’ he said.
I put my hand out, “Hi, Bill. I’m John Cabrelli.”
“Good to meet you, John, but my name is Steve. Most people just call me Doc. Guys down at the body shop said you needed a rental. This is the best we have. It’s a little older, but it’s clean and runs great.’’
The jeep did look all right, but I thought of the long drive back to Madison and all the running around I had to do and asked, “Is there a Hertz or Budget or something like that around where I could get something a little newer?”
“Sure there is,” he replied, “about seventy miles northwest of here in Superior.”
“I’ll take the jeep.”
“Keys are in it, and it’s full of gas. Dennis said he would take care of the bill and paperwork, so you are good to go.’’
I got in the jeep and started to drive out when a squad car pulled across the driveway, blocking my exit.
The officer driving the car got out and started to walk toward me, while the guy I had rented the car from was also walking toward me. Then I saw him look up at the cop. He did an about-face and headed back into the garage. The cop was one of those hard-ass looking guys: buzz cut hair, attitude busting out at the seams, a swaggering walk.
“Can I help you, Officer?’’ I asked.
He came to a stop right in front of me and just looked. “Are you John Cabrelli?”
“I am.”
“You the one that inherited your uncle’s place out on Spider Lake?”
Normally when I am faced with a line of inquiry similar to this I tend to shut up and go on my way. But pissing off the local cops the second day in town is probably not the best idea, so I went along, and answered.
“Yes.”
“I heard you were in town.” Small towns. Bless them.
“Yeah, I came up to meet with my uncle and aunt’s lawyer at his request. I’m still trying to understand the whole thing.”
“Are you planning on staying around long?”
“I can’t really tell you that. Like I said, this is my second day here, and I’m just trying to get my feet under me. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way to talk to my lawyer and set something up for tomorrow when I got in a fender bender.”
“Heard about the accident, you and Bud Treetall. Sounds like there wasn’t enough damage to be reportable, but I’m curious, based on your background and all, why didn’t you call it in and get an officer to take a report?”
“It didn’t seem necessary with Bud’s insurance man being so close and Bud’s ready admission of fault. I thought about it but decided against it. Just didn’t want to add complications.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t because you didn’t want the local cops to know you were in town?”
So now this guy has said “based on my background,” so he knew something about me, and was suggesting that I had reason to avoid local cops. He definitely had something going on.
“To be honest with you, local cops never crossed my mind.”
“Really? I heard you were looking for a copy of the report about the hit and run on your uncle. Sounds like you are interested in local law enforcement efforts to me.”
The guy definitely had something going on, and now was not the time or place to pursue it.
“I was just curious. This is the first I heard about the accident, and that it was a contributory cause of his death. Thought I would just do some reading. It is public record, right? Look, Officer,” I looked at his name badge, “Officer Lawler, if you got nothing more for me, I would like to get going.”
“You can go. Just stay out of trouble while you’re here, or you will be seeing me again.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I replied. He got back in his car and drove out, giving me a cute little wave as he passed.
I had, to that point, only one conversation with one person about the death of Uncle Nick and the police report. Kids and dogs are rarely wrong.
I drove back over to my lawyer’s office and caught Anderson just as he was walking out the door.
“Mr. Cabrelli, how did your time go at your uncle and aunt’s house?”
“It was very interesting. I was sitting in my uncle’s chair and was accosted by an attractive woman that took exception to me being in the house and made it clear that she wanted me to be gone. Her name is—”
“Oh my God, Julie Carlson, good Lord. I thought she had already moved out. She is nothing but trouble,” he continued. “She is just a temporary tenant. Julie Carlson is a local teacher of sorts, who teaches ne’er-do-wells and hoodlums in a special school just this side of the reservation. Your aunt and uncle used to volunteer at the school, and somewhere along the way, she convinced them to rent her the small cabin out back of the main house. I’m sure she didn’t pay them much, if anything. The next I knew it, she had moved into the main house and was doing chores and other menial tasks for the Cabrellis. Nick wanted her to stay on after he went to the nursing home and keep the place up. She’s really not much better than a squatter, and if she is not out of there by tomorrow, I will take legal action and have the sheriff throw her out. I am sorry you had to deal with her. I’m sure it was difficult.”
“Derek, forget the sheriff for now. I need to talk to her first.”
“You’ll get nowhere talking to that one. She is nothing but trouble and has a real temper to boot. Anyone dares take exception to the behavior of one of her little juvenile delinquents, and look out. My advice to you is to steer clear of her.”
Clearly Attorney Anderson was no fan of Julie Carlson. “Derek, how about we set a time to get together and go over all the paperwork you have, spend some time bringing me up to speed on what I inherited, what my obligations are, and so forth.”
“I am free all morning. How about now?”
“Works for me.”
“Well come on in and have a seat in my office. My receptionist is out today, but I would be glad to make an attempt at brewing up some coffee, if you would like.”
“No thanks, Counselor. I am coffeed out for the moment.”
