by Jeff Nania
“Sounds like at the very least, he likes to whip on those he can whip on. Do you have any idea what Lawler and Derek Anderson might have in common? They seem to be front and center in my life right now, and I’m not exactly sure why.”
“Derek Anderson is also a creep, but other than that connection I don’t honestly know what they could have going on together. I can’t imagine they hang out with one another.”
“Well, keep it in mind. If you think of anything, let me know.”
“I will, although I’m so busy with the school, I’m kinda out of the loop in town. But if I hear something or something comes to mind, I will let you know.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it. Can I get you another beer, Julie?”
“Nope. One is pretty much my limit, but don’t let that stop you.”
We visited for a while longer, and I could see that she was getting tired. I could also see she had something on her mind. Finally, it came out.
“I am really tired and want to get home, but there is something I need to know.”
“Spit it out,” I said.
“When do you think you’ll know what is going to happen with your aunt and uncle’s property? I was scheduled to be out of there today, but based on what you said, I haven’t finished the move yet. I’m just moving back into town with Bud, so it’s very flexible. I’m not trying to influence your decision. I just like to know.”
“Honestly, I don’t know. The property is not for sale, and I told Anderson that. He didn’t take it very well, by the way.”
Julie’s look was quizzical, a combination of a smile and eyebrow raised in suspicion.
“I am sure not. I’d bet there is a pretty hefty commission on that sale. One thing Derek would never want to miss is the chance to make a buck.”
“I’m planning on staying here indefinitely, at least until I get everything squared away. Right now the hotel is okay, but I’d like to find someplace better, a little more permanent. But I don’t have any plans yet.”
“Well, you could move out to the lake, and I could move to town like I planned. After all, you own it.”
“I thought about that, but right now you should just stay put. I have got to have some time to process all this.”
She looked at me with trepidation and said, “The house is plenty big. My rooms are upstairs, and you could move into the downstairs. I don’t think it would be a problem. I lived there with your aunt and uncle for quite a while.”
“Interesting idea,” I said. “That is just what Ron Carver suggested to me this very day as a perfect solution.”
Julie laughed. “So you met the one and only Ron Carver. That guy is a piece of work,” she said and laughed again. “Just to clear your mind, I am sure that my idea of us both living at the lake and his are going to be way, way different,” she said and shook her head, “That guy.”
I was enjoying her laugh when the light on the back of the beer trailer was blocked out by a looming hulk. We both jumped and were much relieved when Bud sat down with a beer.
“Hey, you guys. Whatchya been up to?”
“Not much, Bud,” I said. “Just taking in the sights and the sounds. How about you?”
“I’ve just been running around like I do every year. The generator they wanted to use at the outdoor pavilion wouldn’t start, so I got that going. The chamber sold ten more spaces for tents on Main than they thought they did, and when two tents try to occupy the same space, well it gets a little tense. I helped them move the tents to another spot even better than the one they were fighting over. Just lots of little stuff, you know. I did hear that there was some problem over at your booth, Julie. What’s the story with that?”
“Lawler stopped by. Need I say more?”
Bud’s usual smiling face turned into a scowl. “Was he bothering you again?” he asked.
“Bud, Lawler bothers everyone, not just me.”
“You know exactly what I mean!”
“Lawler is nothing to worry about. I never even gave him a second thought.”
“Well, he better not let me catch him bothering you anymore.”
This was no idle threat. Bud was dead serious. I couldn’t imagine the havoc a guy like him could cause if he had a mind to. If Lawler tried anything on Bud at an event, it would be significantly different than beating up a half-drunk college student. I did not wish any trouble on Bud, but I couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought.
Julie quickly changed the subject and defused the situation.
“Bud, I am beat. Let’s get going back to the lake.”
“You still staying out there, Bud?” I asked.
Julie answered for him. “He is convinced that I need protection from whoever broke in, and nothing I am going to say is going to change that.”
“I just think it’s better to be careful, Julie,” Bud responded.
“I know. Thanks, Bud.”
They got up to leave, but before they did, Julie asked, “What have you got planned for tomorrow?”
“I thought I might come out to the lake, do a little fishing maybe, or go for swim. I don’t know.”
“The weather is supposed to be great. Bud and I will be in town all day, so you’d have the place to yourself.”
Goodbyes said, they walked off in the direction of Bud’s truck. I walked back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.
15
Cabrelli
I was up early and went over to Crossroads for a cup of coffee and a scone. The free continental breakfast at the motel was still available, but after a day or two of whole-hearted indulgence, I began to feel a little less enthusiastic about the sausage patties, biscuits and gravy, and the waffles made in the flip-over cooker.
My timing was excellent, as Crossroads was not busy yet. I got a cup of coffee and picked up a copy of the Namekagon County News. There was a little morning chill in the air, just like most mornings in the Northwoods, but I still opted for the outdoor seating. The paper was full of news about Musky Fest; at the time it went to press, the Lions Club fishing contest already had 75 entries, and the sizes of the fish were listed.
The one that caught my eye was a natural Musky, 52½ inches and 29 pounds. In the picture, the lucky angler was holding the fish out in front of him as far as his arm would go, making the fish look a lot bigger in relation to him. He needn’t have bothered, as it was a big, beautiful fish without his help.
There was also a schedule of the remaining Musky Fest events. Today, Saturday, was packed full with more live bands performing in the street, a magician, clowns, a skit on the history of Cal Johnson’s world record musky, and another skit on the history of Louie Spray’s world record musky. I could remember even when I was a kid that there was strong disagreement on who actually held the world record; apparently it had not yet been resolved. There was also a talent contest from 1:00–3:00 featuring dancing, singing, and baton twirling. Carnival rides opened at 10:00 today.
The festival also had events set for Sunday, concluding with a parade. Uncle Nick and Aunt Rose always took me to the parade. They would set folding chairs up early to reserve their space. They usually tried to get a spot right in front of the bakery, making me a happy boy. To this day, I love a good donut.
Sunday started out with a 5K run and an around-the-block Minnow Run for the little kids. Next came a casting contest for kids and adults. I was excited for all of it.
With coffee in hand and the newspaper left for the next reader, I went over to the Chamber office. There was a very bouncy and exuberant young lady who was glad to register me for the run. She took my t-shirt size and informed me that check-in was at 8:00 a.m. in front of the bank on Main Street.
I fired up the jeep and drove east to the lake and had only driven a couple of miles out of town when Bud and Julie passed me on their way in. Climbing a hill in front of me were a group of serious bicyclists, spandex clad on ultra-light bikes, moving fast, seeing the country with pedal power.
As I passed them,
the leader gave me a thumbs-up sign. I guessed, unlike bike riders in the big city, they actually appreciate it when someone gives them the right of way.
The rest of my trip was blissfully uneventful, allowing me to enjoy the beauty of the north. I turned onto the road leading to the cabin. There on the edge of the pavement was a living, breathing dinosaur. The creature was intent on finishing a hole it had begun in the gravel. With no traffic to worry about I just stopped in the middle of the road and watched. The very large, mature snapping turtle paid me no mind and continued unperturbed with her business. As a youngster, I had watched this very scenario play out before. The snapper would dig the hole, then lay her eggs in it. Once done with the egg laying, she would cover the hole back up and go back to her wetland home, the eggs left to hatch on their own and the baby turtles left to dig their way out. My uncle and I had surveyed many turtle nests that we’d found on our walks.
After the eggs hatched there would be a hole with eggshells. We would examine the eggs and, from the way they were spread about and from the evidence of the remaining yolk, we could tell whether they’d hatched or whether some skunk or raccoon had dug them up and made a breakfast out of them. Most of the nests we’d found had eggs that had been eaten, but every once in a while, we’d find one that had successfully hatched, helping ensure the survival of the species. The snapping turtle itself is a formidable beast. I smiled at the memory of a goofy guy that lived down the lake and sold my uncle bait. He was missing the tip of his pointer finger. The story goes that he was poking a big snapper one day, kind of teasing it, trying to get it to snap. He got his wish but was a little slow, and the turtle bit the fingertip clean off.
I let the turtle be and drove on in, parking next to the cabin.
There was a note stuck to the door.
John,
The walleyes are really hitting up at the boys camp. I put a couple dozen minnows in a bucket sitting in the water tied to the dock. On the dock, next to the bucket is a small box of jigs. Tie one of those on, hook up a minnow and drop it in the water right at the end of Boys Camp Point. A fresh walleye dinner tonight would sure be great. Julie can cook fish better than anyone I know. We should be back about six or so.
Good luck,
Bud
I walked down to the dock, and sure enough, there was a small plastic box with half a dozen jigs in it, each with a different colored tail. Hanging from the pier post was my uncle’s old minnow bucket, a galvanized thing with all sorts of small holes in it and a snap-lock lid. I knew it would keep the minnows alive and well for a long time.
My uncle was always building something or working on a project. As a result, about 100 feet from the house he had built a wonderful shop building, plenty big for good-sized projects but small enough to heat with wood. I had loved working with Uncle Nick on projects in the shop. It was his place, a place where he had his stuff, a place where he could express himself with his hands. It also served as a good place for him to go when Aunt Rose wanted him out from under her feet. I unlocked the shop and went in to get the rest of the gear needed for my fishing expedition. While I felt a little self-conscious snooping around the house, checking out the shop didn’t bother me anymore. I just loved the place.
A big wood stove occupied one corner. It had a strange octopus-looking ductwork thing on top of it, running up to the ceiling and then into different pipes that ran to each section of the shop. Next to it was a woodpile with perfectly split, perfectly stacked firewood, probably at least two years old. When I was ten, and Uncle Nick and I were splitting firewood, he told me that the wood we were spitting would keep us warm when I was twelve. Cutting wood was an adventure. We always cut either standing dead trees or ones that were already on the ground that were still solid. Uncle Nick could put a notch on one side of a tree, cut through from the other side, and the tree would fall exactly where he wanted it to fall. I loved to hear the rifle shot crack as the tree began its descent.
He used to ask me the same strange question every time we went wood cutting: “Johnny, if a tree fell in the woods and nobody was around to hear it, do you think it would still make a noise?” I always answered yes, and he always agreed with me, but went on to say that some folks would disagree. I never figured that one out.
I walked over to the fishing rod and gun rack. The rods were out in the open, but the guns were behind a locked welded steel gate. I tried my keys in the lock, but it wouldn’t open. I figured Bud probably had a key, and I would get that from him later.
The tools in the toolboxes were all in their place; they showed signs of being well used, but also well cared for. Good tools, the kind that come with real lifetime warranties. Nick had no use for crappy tools.
Over the workbench I saw a picture of him and me standing behind four wooden duck nest boxes we had built. I must have been about thirteen or fourteen. Each year we would build a couple and put them up in trees along the flowage, hoping the wood ducks would find them.
There were several file cabinets. They were super heavy duty and had a “fireproof ” label on the upper left-hand corner. I thumbed the latch and pulled the top one open. There, on top of a book lying in front of the files was a revolver and next to it a box of ammunition. I pulled the gun out and opened the cylinder. It was fully loaded. I recognized it. When my department switched from revolvers to auto-loading handguns, the old wheel guns, while still serviceable, didn’t have much value. Uncle Nick asked me to get him one. I did, a stainless-steel Model 66 Smith and Wesson .357 magnum. One of the best guns ever built. I even scored him four or five boxes of ammo from the range officer and a high-rise belt holster. While there are bigger calibers, .357 has a long history as a proven butt kicker. I knew Uncle Nick often carried it with him on hikes in the woods.
I looked through the file tabs on warranties and instruction and service manuals for every piece of equipment he ever owned. These alone filled the first and second drawers. The third drawer had folders filled with magazine articles, photographs, newspaper stories, and ads all pertaining to pieces of equipment or some task performed by equipment. He had made pages of notes for each folder. Glancing over the notes, I could see that the intention of the files became clear; they were ideas about helping improve a product design or inventing a product to perform a task.
The rest of the drawers, except for one, were filled with tech manuals, drawings and designs, and step-by-step processes on doing certain things. The remaining drawer was filled with firearm cartridge reloading books, data sheets, and binders with targets inserted. Each target had the load data, caliber, and firearm in the corner. I had forgotten that Uncle Nick was a handloader and loved creating his own ammunition. He always felt his handloads were superior to the factory stuff.
As I was looking through the bottom drawer, I noticed it did not come out as far as the one above it. I reached in the back to try and get it loose and hit an obstruction. I could not see what it was exactly, so I grabbed a flashlight off the bench and looked in. In the back of the drawer, I saw a small door fitted with a combination lock. I couldn’t quite figure it out until it dawned on me. This was the door to a small safe that went through the back of the file cabinet and into the wall. Ingenious. No one would ever find it here, and even if they did, it would take some serious effort to get at it and have any chance of getting it open.
After some inspection, I saw that the drawer could be released by two latches, one on either side in the back. I flipped them and the drawer came loose with a click. The heavy, fully-loaded drawer slid out easily, and when it reached the extent of its forward travel, it pivoted to the left, out of the way, giving clear access to the vault door behind. Now with the drawer clear, I noted two other things. First, there was a small switch that, when flipped, turned on a light that illuminated the space. Second, below the switch was a magnetic holster, and in it was another gun. I pulled the gun out and saw it was a loaded Walther PPK/S.380.
Two loaded guns, one file cabinet, and a secret vault definitely go
t my curiosity going.
Uncle Nick had something he wanted to hide and reason to believe that someone might try and take it from him.
When you are investigating something and in “hot pursuit,” investigative procedure and experience play into your decision-making process, but whatever is happening at the moment most often dictates the next move you make. A crime that occurred months—or for that matter even years—in the past requires a much different approach. A smart investigator thinks things through before they run off trying to figure out what happened. You should keep an open mind and consider all possibilities. In this case, a veteran law enforcement officer was pretty convinced that it was an accident. Uncle Nick’s best friend and my gut told me something else. That coupled with the fact that my reception upon arriving in Musky Falls was confusing at best and sinister at worst made me consider only one possibility: Nick Cabrelli was the victim of premeditated murder. I intended to turn over every rock in Namekagon County to find out who was responsible.
Today though I was going fishing. Fishing is one of those great productive activities that allows plenty of time for thinking, and I had a bunch of thinking to do.
I closed up the file cabinet, but before I did, I removed the little Walther and put it in the pocket of my cargo shorts. The revolver was a more formidable weapon, but the Walther’s compact size made it a better choice for concealment. Old habits die hard. It’s better to have a gun and not need one than to need a gun and not have one. I grabbed the tackle box, a PFD, and two fishing rods. One was for the jigs and minnows Bud had provided, and the other was set up with a No. 5 Mepps Spinner in case I decided to cast for one of the denizens of the deep.
