English Shade Page 2

  Missy, who had already turned the corner onto the front porch, leaned back around the corner to her husband. She lifted the wide and drooping brim of her hat to gaze back at him, saying, “Why are you staring at that menu, there, Sheriff? Really? You know very well what you’re going to order.”

  Bruce stepped around the corner to join Missy at the ordering window, and he nudged her elbow playfully. “Order wine, Missy,” he whispered, smiling, and Missy shoved gently back on his arm to say, “You order it, Bruce, if you’re so interested.”

  The sheriff grumbled briefly and waited for Missy to clear the window. Then he stepped forward and placed his usual order. “Double cheeseburger, deluxe, and a Coke.”

  While punching prices into her cash register, the window girl handed him a plastic cup for his Coke.

  Robertson said, “Thanks. And wine, too.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Don’t know,” he said with a teasing smile. “What goes better with your Deluxe?”

  Without looking up, she said, “Red. Anything else?”

  Robertson nodded sideways toward Missy, who was dispensing her iced tea, and he told the window girl, “I’m paying for her, too.” He was still smiling about the wine, but when he noticed that the girl wasn’t paying it any attention, he let the smile slump, unappreciated.

  At the railing overlooking the water, the Robertsons ate under the shade of a wide, yellow sun umbrella, and neither of them spoke. It was a companionable silence during a lunch-time routine that they had established whenever driving down to Sarasota. Stop at New Pass bait shop. Get hamburgers at the Grill. Watch the sleek sport fishing boats that were pulling up to the docks after their private morning charters.

  It was the very kind of soft and warm leisure that the Robertsons had hoped to find when they had retired and moved down from Holmes County, Ohio. And here at New Pass Grill and Bait Shop they had discovered the weathered type of “Old Florida” charm that was now becoming so hard to find among the gleaming high rise condos and resort enclaves that in Sarasota were crowding out the rustic charm of the original waters-edge shacks like this bait shop and docks at New Pass, with its older, more devoted clientele.

  But the sheriff had lately been thinking. And he was thinking again, as he worked through his deluxe burger. Perhaps this is more leisure than you need, Sheriff. Perhaps there is a part-time spot in one of the police departments. Or maybe in the county sheriff’s outfit?

  Thankfully, Cal Troyer has called. Something for us to do. It’s apparently a small kind of something, but it is indeed something. Furniture? OK, Ivan Coblentz furniture, so that’s special in its own right. But what? Stroll through the showroom and take note of the work? Cal hadn’t explained, but we should be looking for something in particular. Will I recognize what that something is? If not me, then will Missy recognize it?

  Setting his burger on the railing in front of him, Robertson turned on his stool to Missy and asked, “You have any idea what we should be looking for, Missy?”

  Missy pulled her sight away from the glimmering water. “What?”

  “Do you know what Cal wants us to look for?”

  “No. Didn’t he say anything?” She sipped the wine that had been served to them in a clear plastic cup, and she wrinkled her nose. “Have you tasted our wine?”

  “Not very good?”

  Feigning a Continental accent, she grinned and proclaimed, “I would say, my dear, that it came from one of their better boxes.”

  After a snicker, Robertson pressed forward. “I suppose we’ll know it, if we see something.”

  “The furniture?”

  “Right. I don’t know what to look for.”

  “Maybe there will be nothing to see, Bruce. Just tell that to Cal, if it proves to be the case. Like, OK Cal, it’s all Coblentz desks and tables and dressers. Nothing unusual down here.”

  “And if it’s not, Missy?”

  “Well, maybe that’s precisely what Cal wants to know.”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  The furniture store was easy to find, but it wasn’t in Sarasota proper. Rather, it was out in the countryside south of Sarasota, well along the Tamiami Trail to the north side of the quiet beachside community of Nokomis. The Robertsons spotted it easily from a distance, because of its unusually large and colorful sign. It was the size of a freeway billboard, and in bright orange letters over a pale green background, it read: HANDCRAFTED AMISH FURNITURE. Beneath the sign, parked between the sign’s steel poles, sat a flat black Amish buggy on display.

  The sheriff pulled onto the store’s gravel parking lot, and he took the single remaining spot that was available, off to the side and thirty yards to the rear.

  Missy climbed out of the white Escalade, grumbled a bit about the summer heat and adjusted her sun hat to hang lower over her eyes. Bruce, still sweating from lunch, shrugged his shoulders to unstick the back of his shirt, rounded the back of the Escalade, and fell in beside Missy, saying, “I hope this place is air conditioned.”

  “It should be climate controlled,” Missy said, “because of the furniture.”

  At the front doors, Bruce pulled the right one open, and Missy pulled the left one, and they entered shoulder-to-shoulder into cooler air. They were greeted immediately by a twenty-something woman in a gray business pantsuit. She handed them each a flyer – orange lettering on a pale green background – and in a conversational tone, she said, “Happy to see you, folks. Can I show you anything in particular?

  “Just browsing,” the sheriff said, not bothering to meet the woman’s gaze.

  Nevertheless, she pressed forward. “We have a few items on sale this week” – she pointed to the flyer – “but mostly we stick to the regular retail price, because all our pieces are handmade by Amish artisans. By Amish carpenters. Hardwoods, exclusively. From forests in Ohio. The finest woods. Can I show you anything in particular?”

  “We’ll just look around,” Missy offered, handing the flyer back toward the woman.

  “Oh, you should keep that,” she said, not taking the page back from Missy’s fingers.

  Missy folded it twice and smiled. “Are you one of the owners?” she asked.

  “My parents are,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m Veronica Barrow. Roni. Richard and Rita Barrow are my parents. The owners. I think you’re going to find some items you’ll like, here. We carry the best handmade wood furniture in the nation. I’d be happy to show you what I mean. Take this desk, for instance.”

  She was pointing out the first desk inside the front door. It was large, impressively sturdy, and it was polished with a lustrous sheen. “It’s by Ivan Coblentz,” Roni continued without hesitating.

  “We’d just like to look around,” the sheriff said.

  By now, an older gentleman in tan slacks and a blue golfer’s polo was moving forward from the rear of the store. He had his greeting hand stretched out well before he reached the Robertsons, and as he came up to shake the sheriff’s hand, he said, “You look familiar. Have you been in our store before?”

  Bruce shook the man’s hand lightly and pulled back. “You have plenty of customers, today, Mr. - ?”

  “Barrow. Richard Barrow,” the man said readily, and he took up Missy’s hand to pump it too.

  “The owner,” Missy commented, retrieving her hand.

  “Yes, with my wife Rita. She’s writing up a sale, now. Repeat customers. We get a lot of those.”

  Richard Barrow was a slight and unremarkable man, too short to be imposing, but his voice made up for his diminutive stature. It was a deep and resonant voice, as if he were born to pontificate on the radio. He continued. “Yes, a lot of repeat customers. Are you sure you’ve never bought anything from us? You do look familiar, Mr. - ?

  “Bruce,” Robertson said. “Just Bruce.”

  Richard Barrow cocked a brow. “You’re just here to look around? Good enough. Happy to have you. You do look familiar, but OK. We’ve got a lot of customers here, toda
y. It’s like this most days, actually. Let one of us know if you see something you like.”

  Barrow stepped back a pace and moved somewhat off to the left. He passed a nod to his daughter Roni, and she returned to her post at the entrance. Bruce and Missy turned right, into the store, to start browsing down the first row of desks.

  These were the shorter items in the showroom, lined up end-to-end, the first and second rows being flat-topped office desks of various sizes, and the third row being taller roll-top desks. Toward the back of the showroom were the tallest items, first bureaus and dressers, and then free-standing bookshelves and glass-fronted display cases for china and collectibles. Along the wall at the left of the showroom, there were end tables, magazine racks and a few pioneer-style rocking horses for children. Down the middle isle were dining room tables and chairs.

  Bruce pulled open the center drawer on a desk in the middle of the row, and he gave it a close inspection. The bottom of the drawer, and each of the sides, were built from white oak, as they should have been. The face of the drawer was also white oak, stained with an antique cherry color. The surface of the desk, quarter-sawn white oak, was hand varnished and hand rubbed to an impressively smooth shine. Bruce held the drawer open for Missy to inspect it, and when she straightened up, she nodded her satisfaction to her husband. Then, while Bruce waited in the aisle, she traversed the row and circled around to the back of the desk. There she saw the wood-burnt signature of the carpenter who had built the desk: Jeremiah Miller Coblentz Furniture Charm Ohio.

  Again satisfied, she nodded to her husband.

  As Missy came back around to the row, she noticed Richard Barrow, with his chin pushed onto his knuckles, staring pensively at her husband from the back of the store. As she came up to the sheriff, Missy whispered, “He’s been watching you pretty closely, Bruce. Try not to shoplift anything.”

  Robertson chuckled at her and said, “Slip one of these under my shirt?”

  “No, really, Bruce. He’s curious about you. You’re sure you don’t know him?”

  “I don’t,” the sheriff said, “but he thinks he knows me.”

  “Then he’ll make a point of coming up to us again, before we leave.”

  “OK, Missy, we’ll see about that. Now, choose another desk.”

  Missy led down the row and turned the corner into the third row of desks. At the second desk in the row, she pulled out a side drawer and inspected it, just as they had done the first one. When the sheriff caught up with her, she whispered, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  The sheriff took the drawer and turned it over and around several times, to inspect it carefully. Shaking his head, he whispered, “Plywood bottom. Joints just glued and stapled. Same cherry finish on the front, but that’s cheap white pine, Missy. Not oak.”

  As Bruce slid the drawer home, Missy took up the placard that was sitting on top of the desk. Quietly she read it to her husband. “Handmade Amish Desk. Genuine Cherry Stain. The Finest Wood, From the Finest Amish Shop. $3,550.00.”

  Now the owner Richard Barrow was walking back up to them. “That’s a very fine piece there, folks. We got that one just recently. It’ll be sold by the end of the week. And I’m sure that I do know you, Bruce. Bruce, you said, right?”

  “I don’t know how,” the sheriff answered. “We’ve just moved down here from Ohio.”

  A flicker appeared in Barrow’s eyes. “OK,” he said, “well, you folks look around as much as you like. I’ve got a couple of deliveries to schedule – it’s busy like this every day, the way our inventory moves – but if you have any questions, I’ll be back there at my desk. My wife can help you, too. Rita. We’re always busy like this, but do get one of us, if you have any questions.”

  Bruce nodded with a showy smile, and said, “Will do.”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  An hour later, as the Robertsons were leaving, Missy said, “Mrs. Barrow has been on the phone for the last half hour. She’s been watching us while talking on her desk phone. Does that seem right, Bruce? You know, she has a store full of customers, but she’s got herself parked on the phone?”

  Bruce paused outside the door to consider that, and then he turned back into the showroom. He walked casually back to Rita Barrow’s desk. She covered her phone with a palm and said, “Yes?”

  “One of your business cards?” the big sheriff asked, and she handed one up to him. He held it for a moment, reading it, and then he said, “Thanks,” and started back toward the front of the store.

  But Rita Barrow called after him. She was still covering the end of her desk phone as she said, “My husband thinks he knows you from somewhere. Are you sure we’ve never met?”

  “Can’t think of when,” the sheriff said, and he joined Missy outside.

  As they walked around the corner of the building to their Escalade, he said, “I think I know, now, Missy.”

  “Know what?”

  “I think I know, now, why he claims that he knows me.”

  Chapter 5

  Friday, June 5

  1:30 PM

  It was warm that afternoon in Millersburg, Ohio, too, and the sun was bright and pleasant throughout all of Holmes County. With her husband riding in the passenger’s seat, Caroline Branden made the drive to Charm in her Miata with the top down. The professor had his right elbow out, parked on the window ledge, and while they were still speeding east on 62/39, with wind tussling his gray/brown hair, the professor said, “I’m not sure what to look for, Caroline. I’m not sure what Cal wants us to find.”

  “We’ll see what we see,” Caroline said. “If something doesn’t look quite right, you’ll know it. Besides, I’m curious to learn how Jeremiah is doing. And if we can’t find anything unusual, we’ll just report that to Cal. Coblentz Furniture – doing fine, Cal. Just as always.”

  The professor nodded. “How old was he?” he asked. “Jeremiah. That summer when we first met him. Ten years old?”

  “There abouts. That’s been over twenty years, now, Michael.”

  “Then later, there was the Great Amish Teenager’s Drug Caper,” the professor said, chuckling. “They were so young, even then. Sara Yoder and Jeremiah Miller. They’ve got kids, now. Settled.”

  “It wasn’t much of a laughing matter at the time, Michael.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  As Caroline turned south on SR 557 toward Charm, the professor sighed. “Sara’s stroke. What a mess.”

  “Did that drug dealer from Columbus actually die, Michael? I can’t remember.”

  “No, we cut him down in time. Doesn’t matter, and I have no sympathy for his type. It was kids who died because of him. Just kids.”

  “Let’s not mention any of that to Jeremiah.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s just ask about his family.”

  “Right.”

  “No, I’m serious, Michael. No point dragging up the past.”

  “OK. But Cal wants us to notice something. I just don’t know what that something is.”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  From 557 in Charm, Township Road 156 took the Brandens up and over the steep, tortuous hills that bounded the eastern-most corner of the vast Doughty Valley. After a number of turns onto more narrow lanes, they found the Coblentz furniture shop in the high country, on the south side of graveled Township Road 119. The shop buildings sat on the long grassy slope bordering the deep, wooded cut of Rupp’s Run, one of the many tributaries that coursed down through the hills to feed the Doughty Creek in the valley.

  With the top still down on their Miata, the Brandens immediately fell victim to the ear-piercing scream of power saws cutting through hardwoods at the back of the shop. As Caroline parked on the grassy slope beside the shop, the professor opened the glove compartment and took out two small plastic packs of compressible foam ear plugs. They each got them inserted into their ears, and protected somewhat from the noise, then, they entered through the side door of the shop.
/>
  The walls inside the shop were covered with thick black sound-proofing foam panels. The professor took out an earplug and said to Caroline, “It’s much better in here.”

  With their earplugs out, the noise inside the shop was tolerable, and the Brandens had their first look around. Where bright light streamed in from the front windows, sawdust danced and sparkled in the air. At their feet, a soft layer of the sawdust muffled their footfalls. Shelves and desks were coated with a thin dusting of sawdust, too, and sawdust was layered about on every surface in the room – books, invoices, chairs, windowsills and electric fans – even on the coffee pot and an empty coat rack. The Amish man who came out to greet them in the office was thoroughly covered with sawdust, too.

  “Help you?” the man asked.

  He was an older Amish man, with long gray chin whiskers. His gray hair splayed out from under a ball cap, to cover his ears like the rim of a flared bowl. He took dust-covered spectacles down from his face, and he brushed at the lenses with a bandana, saying, “I don’t believe I know you.”

  The professor stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Michael Branden, and this is my wife Caroline.”

  “Ivan Coblentz,” the man said, taking Branden’s hand briefly. He gave a polite nod to Caroline, and he placed his spectacles back over his eyes, hooking the thin temple wires carefully behind his ears. “Are you shopping for furniture?”

  “I suppose we are,” Branden said, smiling. “Really, we always are. But, no, not really today, actually. We do have one fine Amish piece in our kitchen. It’s a table made of curly maple, with matching maple chairs.”

  Ivan smiled. “We don’t get much call for curly maple, anymore. It has to be cut just right, and most people find that the pattern in the grain is a bit too busy to suit them.”

  “We’ve had it a long time,” Branden said. “Jonah Miller made it, and his father gave it to us, after Jonah died.”

  Coblentz let a pause drift along, and his gaze turned inward as he remembered. “Then, you’re The Professor,” he said eventually, smiling with satisfaction. “You probably didn’t expect I’d remember.”