Spider Lake

  Praise for Jeff Nania

  Jeff Nania spins a story that captivates us as we journey with John Cabrelli, a battle-weary former police officer who seeks to reclaim his grip on life after a tragic event. Using the backdrop of Wisconsin’s Northwoods, we follow Cabrelli in this fast-paced story of, crises, intrigue, beauty and danger, as he seeks to avenge a murder.

  Buddy Huffaker | Executive Director, Aldo Leopold Foundation

  Nania has a winner with this series because he’s given us a multifaceted main character in John Cabrelli. He is likeable and relatable with imperfections that are understandable given what we know of his past. Writing both the continuing plot line of Cabrelli’s life within the action of each book’s story is a challenge for series writers, and Nania has mastered this balance.

  Valerie Biel | Author of the award-winning Circle of Nine series

  Spider Lake aptly offers the dichotomy between the quiet, simple beauty of life in Wisconsin’s Northwoods and the vicious wickedness of the organized crime world in this riveting thrill ride… Nania depicts the natural world of woods and waters to remind the reader that it is these special places that are worth preserving, and that outside forces bent on destroying what is good in life, must be eradicated. Cabrelli is the hero we need right now—a man who fights the good fight and risks his own life to rid the world of traffickers and murderers.

  Joy Ann Ribar | Author of the Deep Lakes cozy mystery series

  Never underestimate law enforcement in a sleepy little town—that’s not so sleepy after all. John Cabrelli is ready, willing, and able when shots are fired in Spider Lake, the exciting, intricately plotted sequel in the Northern Lakes Mystery series.

  Laurie Buchanan | Author of the Sean McPherson Novels

  Readers Love Spider Lake

  You had me at Arvid. This is my new series to love. The characters are so relatable and fresh.

  Reader Review

  A great sequel to Figure Eight. The main character, John Cabrelli continues with his dedication to law enforcement and the community… it appears he can’t help himself. His internal struggles of finding peace and tranquility are far outweighed by his need to finish the job and honor his uncle’s legacy. It is an action packed thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Of course I love the romance piece which all readers will relate to. The ending will take you by surprise!! Love it!

  Mary | Reader in Florida

  This is a mesmerizing read—nothing is what you think it’s going to be until the last page.

  Trish | Reader Review

  In his second John Cabrelli mystery novel, Spider Lake, Nania continues to impress me with his ability to weave a plot with plenty of intrigue and action. Mix in beautiful Northern Wisconsin and the romance angle and it makes for a very entertaining read that gains momentum and is hard to put down. As a matter of fact, I finished the second half of the book in one afternoon. Keep them coming!

  Jeff | Reader in Wisconsin

  The suspense in Spider Lake, the second Northern Lakes Mystery by Jeff Nania, made me want to finish it to get all the answers and also made me hope it would never end! The familiar landscape, Northwoods traditions and way of life, the love of the beautiful lakes and wildlife are all so much a part of my entire life and seeing it portrayed in these books brings up loads of great memories and dreams of more days spent in the north. Of course, now I might wonder what just might be going on right under our noses!

  Vicki | Reader in Wisconsin

  Jeff Nania does it again with another great story. A peaceful north Wisconsin lake town is showing some somewhat strange real estate transactions. Lots of cash, some bad customers and John Cabrelli finds himself in the middle of it. This book is a page turner. You will not want to put it down.

  Michael | Reader in Wisconsin

  Spider Lake

  A Northern Lakes Mystery

  Jeff Nania

  Little Creek Press®

  A Division of Kristin Mitchell Design, Inc.

  5341 Sunny Ridge Road

  Mineral Point, Wisconsin 53565

  Copyright © 2019 Jeff Nania and Feet Wet, LLC

  Cover Design: Chris Nania

  First Printing: January 2020

  Printed in Wisconsin, United States of America

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact office@feetwetwriting.com for permission requests.

  For more information or to contact the author, visit www.feetwetwriting.com.

  To order books from the publisher, visit www.littlecreekpress.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917210

  ISBN-13: 978-1-942586-67-8 (Paperback)

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, place, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or place or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For all the real heroes,

  here and gone.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank all the people who have contributed to the success of the first book in this series, Figure Eight. Bookstore and small business owners, readers and friends, old and new, are as much a part of this book as I am. Had it not been for all of you, Figure Eight would have been a dusty tome in the five-cent basket at a yard sale or the paper pages used to start a fire in the woodstove. I hope you like Spider Lake.

  My entire family and the traditions we share are very much part of this story. I want to especially thank my family members who were in the trenches with me: the lovely Nania women—Victoria, Rebecca and Christina—who relentlessly demanded a second book; my talented son, Chris, who designed another incredible cover; and sons, Jimmy and Jay John, for their steadfast unwavering support.

  There were many people who waded through the unedited text to help me make this a better book, including retired Sheriff’s Captain Tanya Molony and retired Sheriff’s Lieutenant J.J. Molony (she still outranks him), who helped work out the details of the most critical parts of the story; and my dedicated crew of early readers: the Huffaker Five, Marilyn Davis, Karin O’Malley, Reverend Mark Rydberg, Ron Schreiber, Julie Barnaby, and Aunt Silvia.

  Thanks go to S. Benton and Karen Ferrell who made sure the final draft was the final draft, and to Kristin Mitchell, Shannon Booth, and the entire professional team at Little Creek Press for helping me turn words into a book to put into the hands of readers.

  A special thank you to Tommye Heinemann for keeping the tradition of Spider Lake alive.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  More Northern Lakes Mysteries

  Looking for more?

  About the Author

  1

  Life is one of the most squandered of all our natural resources. Who hasn’t wished a day, week, or month away? “Tough week—can’t wait until it’s over” or “Only five more years to retirement.” There’s a cure for that. In my case, getting shot and alm
ost dying gave me a new appreciation for being alive.

  I hope that I am never dumb enough to waste another minute, much less a day. It was with this attitude that I embraced the extensive physical therapy that was designed to literally get me back on my feet. Two rounds from a nine millimeter fired by a crooked cop had come close to putting an end to John Cabrelli. But as they say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  One round destroyed a kidney, the other lodged in my back near enough to my spinal cord to make wheeling myself around for the rest of my life a distinct possibility. There were long weeks of surgeries and treatments that included enough pain medication to make an elephant smile. During my time in the hospital, there was one thing that kept me going. I knew that I was going to get better, even when the doctors seemed doubtful. I heard what they said as they talked in hushed voices when they thought I was sleeping. I listened when they talked about me like I wasn’t there. Most often I heard concern and doubt, but they had come to know me and had learned not to underestimate my stubbornness, and they worked hard to help me. For me and all those people who stood by me, I promised myself that if I ever got out of the hospital, nothing would stop me. I had a life to live. Wheeling or walking, no dust was going to settle on ol’ John.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of the city and return home to sit on my boat dock and look at Spider Lake, the most beautiful northern Wisconsin lake in existence. I longed to see and smell the Northwoods, swim in the cool, clear waters, and catch a keeper musky.

  The road back had been a long one. I had been taken by helicopter from Musky Falls to Madison for emergency treatment and several surgeries. Once my condition had improved, I was allowed to return to Musky Falls and continue physical therapy at the local hospital. The therapists had been kind but firm, always pushing me to do better. Maybe it was the mental trauma that made my mind regress, but during the most intense parts of physical therapy, when I questioned my ability to get to the next level, one thing entered my mind: the story of the little engine saying, “I think I can, I think I can. Toot! Toot! I think I can.” Because of the little train and diligent, caring professionals, I started to improve. It was slow going, almost unnoticeable progress, but progress all the same. My walking had gone from a four-legged contraption preceding me everywhere I went to a stout wooden cane that had once belonged to my uncle Nick.

  The cane was not your standard run-of-the-mill model. It was covered with relief images of a snake, eagle, fish, turtle, and bear. It was also sturdy enough to be an effective weapon if needed. Even though I was no longer a cop, the defender mindset never seemed to be far beneath the surface.

  It had been a long winter, mostly spent reading by the fire and twice-daily trips to PT. I relished every moment of it, even when the outside thermometer read thirty-five below zero one morning. This dramatic winter weather made books read better, and there was always a pile of dry firewood in an old copper boiler by the woodstove.

  One night a blizzard came in and left a foot or more of pristine white snow that covered everything—an ermine blanket undisturbed, except by the tracks of a couple of hungry deer that snuck up to eat out of the birdfeeder. Outside was a winter like only the north country knows; inside the fire kept me toasty warm. The view from the picture window was of a frozen Spider Lake, the wind unobstructed whipped the snow across the surface.

  Time passed quickly because there was little room for much free thinking. The physical therapy, coupled with the recovery and healing of my wounds, was all I could handle. At night I fell into bed exhausted. Some nights I was so tired I even lapsed into a dreamless sleep. But most nights I shared with those whose lives had intertwined with mine; I had survived, they hadn’t. I relived the events night after night in torturous dreams—bizarre renditions of tragic events trying to change the outcome—waking up to the same realization that the past never changes. No matter how much you worry, how hard you pray, you cannot change what happened one minute ago. A perfectly rational person would understand this absolute truth and move on, spending that energy on the future. Unfortunately, many spend their entire lives shackled to the past, dragging along the burden of things they wish had gone differently. I am one so shackled. Even if those thoughts are lost during my waking hours, they come rushing back when I close my eyes.

  The time also flew by because my life and the lives of those around me had changed. This change caused plenty of adjustments to be made—not only because of my injuries and recovery. It was more than that.

  I had inherited a cabin in northern Wisconsin from my aunt Rose and uncle Nick, a place they named “Nirvana.” It had become my permanent home. I also had acquired a roommate, Julie Carlson, a local teacher who had been living there and helping around the house before Aunt Rose passed on and before Uncle Nick was murdered. She lived upstairs and I lived down. Julie was the possessor of a truly indomitable spirit. The first time we met, her striking blonde hair and blue eyes were obscured by the LC Smith double-barreled shotgun she was pointing at me. After being convinced that I didn’t need to be shot, she lowered the gun. Out of curiosity, I asked her if it was loaded. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “What good is a gun that’s not loaded?” Our relationship had now improved to the point that most of the time, I didn’t feel like she might change her mind and decide to shoot me after all.

  When Julie picked me up in Madison after I was released from the hospital, I hadn’t considered the possibility that she intended to be my caretaker. I knew I would need help for the first few weeks but assumed I’d work that out once we got back to Spider Lake. Before I could even think about it, Julie announced her intentions. She said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that if I hadn’t been listening closely, I would have assumed I had already agreed to it.

  But I was listening and strongly objected. I pointed out lots of reasons that sounded pretty good to me, ending with my bold proclamation, “End of discussion. Thank you, but no. I will hire a nurse from town.” It was at that point I first learned a lesson: the end of the discussion occurred when Julie Carlson decided, period.

  “Are you done?” she quietly asked.

  “For the moment,” I responded, “but I reserve the right to revisit the subject at any time.”

  Then Julie delivered a succinct and pointed message, “John, you certainly have options. We could turn around, and I could drop you at an institutional aftercare facility in Madison where different nurses take rectal temperature readings to start each shift because the manual says they have to, and they wake you up to see if you’re sleeping. They’d probably take pretty good care of you while all the time thinking about where they would rather be. If you’re lucky, you may actually get a room that has a view of a parking lot. They may even take you outside once or twice a week. Then, of course, there is the food. Nothing like an institutional diet to bring you back to the picture of health. If that’s what you want, this car goes south as well as it goes north. I can turn around at the next exit.

  “Or you could be in a beautiful cabin on a peaceful northern lake. The view out your window would be nature’s finest panorama, changing every day. Once you’re able, you can go outside anytime you want and sit on the dock, maybe drown some worms. When winter sets in, you can sit by the fire and read or simply sit for that matter. Until you can drive, Bud will take you into therapy in the morning, and I will take you in the afternoon. I promise drive-thru dining interspersed with home-cooked meals. I also promise you peace and quiet and rest that are likely as important as physical therapy. I will never come near you with a rectal thermometer. In the course of changing your dressings, inspecting your wounds, and helping you in and out of the shower, however, there are going to be instances where you will be forced to leave little of your physical self to the imagination. I will be respectful and allow you as much privacy as I can, but facts are facts, and there are going to be those moments. So get over it; I already have. Be glad that you have a beautiful place to go to.”

&nbs
p; I didn’t say a word for the next fifty miles. While the unusual events we had been through together less than a year earlier caused us to forge a close bond, one that in the normal scheme of things would take years to develop, we barely knew each other. We certainly had not been on intimate terms. In truth, I have trouble accepting help from anyone, although support from friends was exactly what I needed.

  “Okay, Julie. We’ll try it.” I finally said.

  That was months ago. My initial embarrassment was short-lived. Julie was a staunch advocate for my getting better. She was sympathetic but had no tolerance for a simpering wimp. She was considerate and acted with respect while dressing my wounds and helping me get where I needed to go. Even dog tired after a day teaching middle schoolers, she still had a smile and a word of encouragement for me. I don’t know what I would have done without her.

  Eventually, the dressings were no longer needed, and I could shower and do most things without assistance. Legs that seemed like they could never carry me again got stronger. Walking became a passion. I focused on getting better, and anything that got me going in that direction was what I was going to do.