Whiskers of the Lion (7 page)

“Descriptions?” Branden asked.

“We have that sketch and description of Fannie. I told you about it out at the Helmuth farm yesterday. Plus there are driver's license photos of both Teresa Molina and Jodie Tapp.”

“We met Jodie Tapp in Florida, Bruce,” Branden said. “With Ricky Niell, last April. She can't be involved in any of this.”

“You've been saying that all summer, Mike. And you only met her that once.”

“She was just a Mennonite waitress who got caught up in all of this, Bruce. Just like Fannie. Just like Ruth Zook.”

“Right, Mike,” Robertson said. “And Ruth Zook is dead. Fannie's been hiding since April. So what if Jodie Tapp is looking for Fannie, just like Teresa Molina is?”

Branden considered that, shook his head, and said nothing.

“You're not seeing this, Mike,” Robertson complained. “If Jodie Tapp really was part of the Molina crew, then she's been looking for Fannie all this time, too.”

“She's Mennonite,” Branden said. “Maybe you're just being paranoid because you had your lion dream again.”

At his car door, Robertson shook his head and spoke sternly over the top of the Crown Vic. “You find Fannie, Mike. Then maybe I won't have any more nightmares.”

“OK,” Branden relented. “Anyone else I should know about?”

“Just Teresa Molina and Jodie Tapp,” Robertson said. “They're the ones you should worry about. And I'm telling you, Jodie Tapp is hunting for Fannie Helmuth. Every instinct I have is warning me that Jodie Tapp is part of the Molina crew.”

“Jodie Tapp cannot be part of this, Bruce.”

“I'm just saying.”

 • • • 

In far northeast Ohio, Fannie Helmuth's cell phone rang as she was riding in a black Amish buggy with her new fiancé, Reuben Gingerich. She fished her phone out of her apron pocket, checked the display, and said to Reuben, “It's Jodie again.”

Reuben held a stern expression as Fannie answered the call. “Hi, Jodie. You OK?”

“Sure,” Jodie Tapp said. “I guess. You?”

“We're fine.”

“You with Reuben?”

“Yes. We're out buying groceries.”

“Do you have a good town, Fannie? A good place for groceries?”

“I suppose so. You?”

“I'm in Columbus now, Fannie. I keep moving around.”

“Us, too.”

“Do you have good weather there?”

“It's hot. And we've had a lot of rain lately.”

Jodie paused as if thinking and then said, “We can never go back, Fannie. They'll never stop looking for us.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could see you, Fannie.”

“I know, but Howie doesn't think we should tell anyone where we are.”

“Probably not.”

“Are you finding work?” Fannie asked.

“Waitress,” Jodie said. “I'll always be a waitress. How about you?”

“Reuben has money. We want to start a family, settle down.”

“You can't, Fannie. Not until they find Teresa Molina.”

“I know.”

“I don't want you to tell me where you are, Fannie, but I need to know that you're safe. And in a good place. Maybe somewhere out in the country, with lots of Amish people.”

“We have a lot of farms here,” Fannie said.

“With Amish people?”

“Yes.”

“That's good. Are you still with Howie, too?”

“Yes, but he went home to get his car.”

The buggy rattled as its right wheels caught the gravel berm, and Jodie said, “Sounds like you're in a buggy. Once Howie gets his car, he can drive you anywhere.”

“We'll probably go back to Michigan.”

“Is that where Reuben is from?”

“Yes.”

“A lot of Amish there?”

“Oh yes. Plenty.”

“Wouldn't that be a long drive for you?”

“No, not really. Are you going to stay in Columbus?”

“No. I move around. You should, too.”

Reuben reined back and steered his buggy horse around a cluster of potholes in the blacktop. Fannie sighed. “I'm tired of moving, Jodie.”

“I know, but you can't trust anyone, Fannie.”

“I can trust Howie and Reuben.”

“Sure. You're lucky in that.”

“Do you have anyone? In Columbus?”

“No.”

“Then I wish I could see you, Jodie.”

“We can't risk it. You stay with Reuben. Get a ride from Howie to some faraway place. Never tell any
English
where you are.”

“What about you?”

“I'll be fine.”

“Will you call again?”

“As often as you like. And you can always call me. You know that.”

“Thank you, Jodie. Thank you for being my friend.”

“Sure. Take care.”

“You, too.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, Jodie.”

Reuben turned onto a gravel drive, and the scratching chatter of his buggy wheels mixed with the hollow and rhythmic footfalls of the horse. A frown knitted Reuben's brow. “Are you sure you can trust her, Fannie?”

“Yes, Reuben. As much as I trust Howie.”

“Tell me again how she knows your number.”

“I called her. From Memphis. As soon as we got our new phones.”

“Why does she want to see you so badly?”

“She's lonely, Reuben. So am I.”

Reuben stopped the buggy behind a farmhouse and asked, “Doesn't Howie say that we can't really trust anyone?”

Fannie took up a bag of groceries and stepped down from the buggy. “Jodie says the same thing. And she's never asked me to tell her where I am.”

Reuben wrapped the reins around the brake lever and climbed down with a second bag of groceries. “Is that why you trust her? Because she never asks where we are?”

“Yes, but she's also my friend, Reuben. I don't have any reason not to trust her. Besides, she's hiding from Teresa Molina, too.”

“And you met Jodie in Florida?”

Fannie stepped around the nose of the horse and started for the back door of the farmhouse. “Yes. We were waitresses together in Sarasota. In the Pinecraft vacation colony.”

Reuben followed her toward the door. “Has Howie ever met her?”

“No.”

“Then why does he say you can't trust her?”

Fannie started up the steps, and Reuben followed. “It's not Jodie, Reuben. Howie doesn't want me to trust anyone, really.”

Reuben waited while Fannie pulled the back door open. “That's probably the best policy.”

Inside, Fannie placed her groceries on the kitchen counter and turned to take Reuben's bag, saying, “OK, Reuben. But when this is all over, I'm going to find her. I'm going to find Jodie and give her a long hug.”

Thursday, August 18

9:20
A.M.

INSIDE THE main entrance to the jail, while she listened to a radio call, Del Markely greeted the Brandens with a cordial wave from behind the sheriff department's front counter. She stood before a battery of communications equipment and computer monitors, and she wore a headset of padded earphones, with a microphone boom curling around her cheek. As the Brandens came across the small lobby, Del held up an index finger and focused her attention on her call. Once she had dispatched a unit, she held out a big hand. “You must be the professor.”

Branden stepped to the counter and shook her hand. Then he moved aside and said, “This is my wife, Caroline.”

With easy good humor, Markely stuck her hand out over the counter again, and Caroline came forward to take her hand, too.

Markely settled one of the headphone cups behind an ear and said, “I'm Del Markely, taking over for Ellie until her children are born. I have to listen while we talk. The headphones help me get it all.”

Del Markely was a solid older woman with coarse graying hair that was swept back tightly against her scalp to accommodate the headphones. At the back of her head, her hair was roped off into a long and frizzy ponytail. Her face was rugged and severe, as masculine as a WWE referee's. Her eyes carried an inclination toward natural and unassuming mirth, as if confidence and playfulness had long ago settled together in her personality, without any apparent contradiction. Wearing her headset, she could have been mistaken for the pit boss of an Indy Car race crew, or equally, for the director of a Broadway musical.

Smiling, the professor tipped his head down the old pine-paneled hallway toward Robertson's office and said, “Do you have the sheriff figured out yet?”

Markely returned his smile. “We get along.” She didn't say anything more.

Branden noted her restraint. “He wants us to look for a girl up in Middlefield.”

“Fannie Helmuth,” Del said. She pulled a manila envelope out of a drawer under the counter. When she handed it across to the professor, she added, “Captain Newell just finished putting that together for you.”

The professor had donned Amish attire—blue denim trousers with side-slit pockets; brown leather work boots, which were nicked and scuffed; a white button shirt with its long sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows; black cloth suspenders with no belt. His wife was dressed as a demure Mennonite woman in an ankle-length, plain cotton dress of surf-turquoise. Her long auburn hair was pinned in a bun that was covered on top by the requisite disk of white prayer lace.

While the professor opened the envelope and spread photos and sketches on the countertop, Caroline leaned onto the counter and quietly asked Markely, “Is Ellie doing OK today?”

Del arched an eyebrow. “Tricky,” she said discreetly. “I mean her pregnancy is tricky right now, Mrs. Branden. But there aren't any new complications, according to Ricky.”

“Please, it's just Caroline.”

“OK, Caroline then.”

Rather than saying anything more to Caroline, Markely said to the professor, “I was supposed to inform Captain Newell when you arrived, Professor. I buzzed him. He'll come down right away.”

Branden thanked her, and Markely turned back to her consoles. On the countertop, the professor spread out the contents of the manila envelope. First, there were two different artists' sketches of Fannie Helmuth. Beside them he laid the driver's license photos for Teresa Molina and Jodie Tapp. Caroline picked up the Jodie Tapp license and said, “Michael, this must be an old photo.”

“Maybe,” the professor said. He examined the license more closely. “It still has ten months until it expires, so it can't be too old.”

“OK,” Caroline said, “but this is not really what she looks like.”

From the hallway to the Brandens' left, Captain Newell came in behind Del's counter. He pushed out through the hinged counter door and asked, “Tapp's license photo is not accurate?”

The professor gathered the pages while Caroline explained. “We remember her hair was different in Florida, Bobby. And she had quite a tan.”

“That's all we have,” Newell said. “It's the most current photo we have of her.”

“Jodie looks rougher than this,” Caroline said. “Salted and windblown, like she's been out in the surf all her life.”

“Truth is,” Newell said, “we don't know for certain about either of them. Tapp or Molina. They each could have changed their appearance. Their hair especially.”

“I'll recognize Jodie, regardless,” Caroline said. “We talked with her for a long time in Sarasota last April.”

The professor had finished sorting the pages back into the manila envelope, and he said, “Really, Bobby, the sketch of Fannie Helmuth makes her look a lot like Pat Lance.”

“She does look like Lance,” Newell agreed. “And Pat's German, too.”

Caroline agreed. “Pat could pass for Amish, if she dressed the part.”

Newell smiled a bit, but said nothing further. He pushed his thick black glasses up on the bridge of his nose and rubbed at the patches of black hair over his ears. He looked to the professor as if he wanted to explain something, but he held his peace. So the professor took Fannie's sketch back out of the envelope, turned it over, and took out a pen. “Bobby, we need an address for the Middlefield scribe who wrote to the
Budget
.”

“I'm still trying to get that,” Newell said. “The editors at the
Budget
didn't want to give it to us.”

“Why not?” Branden asked.

“They publish the scribe's name and the church district with each letter. But they have never published any addresses.”

“How long before you know for certain?” Branden asked.

“I'll call you,” Newell shrugged. “By the time you get to Middlefield, I'll either have it or I won't.”

“Can you get a warrant for it?” Branden asked.

“We're trying.”

The professor tucked the sketch back into his envelope and changed the subject. “Bobby, what's your read on Bruce these days?”

“You mean that he's worried about Fannie?”

“More,” Caroline said, stepping closer. “He's hesitant.”

Newell pursed his lips. “I wasn't sure anybody else had noticed.”

Del Markely turned around from her consoles and leaned out over the counter. With her hand cupping the padded microphone of her headset, she said, “Deputies are talking a little about this, Captain.” Then she turned back to attend to her calls.

Newell pulled the Brandens away from the counter and led them toward the front entrance. Whispering as if he were organizing a conspiracy, he said, “We've been pushing everybody too hard this summer. Bruce isn't the only one whose nerves are shot.”

Before either of the Brandens could respond, Newell pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the professor. “It's for Fannie,” he said. “From Bruce.”

The professor read the inscription on the envelope: “For Fannie Helmuth. Confidential. From Sheriff Robertson.” He showed it to his wife. It was written in Robertson's erratic and hasty scrawl.

“Like I said,” Newell added, “we've all been pushed a little too hard this summer.”

“You have any idea what this says?” Branden asked the captain.

“All I know is that you're not to read it unless Fannie wants you to,” Newell said. “The sheriff was fairly specific about that.”

 • • • 

Standing stiffly beside one of the west-facing windows in his pine-paneled office, the sheriff watched Stan Armbruster wrestle with an unspoken complaint. When Armbruster had snapped to, Robertson had instantly regretted his tone.

“I'm sorry, Stan,” the sheriff said, “but I don't need you to snap to attention like some soldier.” They had been talking about Armbruster's finding the body of Howie Dent the day before.

Armbruster turned to say something to the sheriff, but Robertson cut him off with a demand. “When did you call it in, Detective?”

“After I found his body.”

“And when should you have called it in?”

“As soon as I noticed that his car had been searched.”

Robertson returned slowly to stand behind his desk. “That's all I'm saying, Detective. That's the only mistake you made.”

Armbruster's eyes searched the shelves behind the sheriff's desk. He drew a deep breath and said, “I need to do something, Sheriff. Something useful.”

Robertson sat heavily behind his desk. “You look as exhausted as I feel, Stan. I can't use you like this.”

“Sheriff?”

“Can you sleep?” Robertson inquired.

“No, Sheriff.”

“Then can you rest?”

“What?” Armbruster stammered.

“I want you to go home and rest. Lie down. Sleep if you can.”

“What?”

“You want to fix this, Detective?”

“You know I do!”

“Then go home, lie down, and try to sleep for four hours. Four hours, Stan, not five.”

“And then what?” Armbruster demanded.

Robertson framed an impatient scowl, but he restrained himself. “That's when Rachel is coming back in. That's when I'll need you back here, too.”

“OK, why?” Armbruster pressed.

Again, but with increasing difficulty, Robertson held himself in restraint. “Because, Stan, Rachel hasn't been able to sleep, either,” he said, careful with his tone. “She's bringing me something I want everyone to look at.”

More confused and unsettled than ever, Armbruster asked, “What is it?”

“Building plans, Armbruster. Building plans for the Hotel St. James.”

“So you do have a plan?” Armbruster challenged.

“Of course!” Robertson barked.

“You going to tell anyone what it is?”

Robertson rose out of his chair. “That's enough, Detective. You be back here at three o'clock.”

As he hesitated at the door, Armbruster asked, “Should I get Pat Lance?”

“No,” Robertson said, returning to stand alone at his window. “I've got something different for Lance.”