Whiskers of the Lion Read online

  Robertson parked his blue Crown Vic on the gravel lot in front of the sign and proceeded down the narrow walkway beside the long white building, toward the pastor’s office at the back of the church. It was a wood-frame building that Cal himself had helped to build many years earlier. Petunias in a variety of colors were planted along the walkway, and the flower bed was mulched and well tended. To Robertson’s right, the lawn on the hillside had been recently mowed and trimmed. At the back corner, a ladder stood against the siding, and a bucket of white paint hung on a metal hook from an upper rung of the ladder. Robertson realized that he couldn’t remember a summer when Cal hadn’t been painting one part of the building or another.

  Robertson reached the end of the walkway and turned left. On the door, Cal’s name was printed in small yellow letters. Robertson paused before entering.

  Cal had always been his friend. At least that was how it seemed now to the sheriff. With Mike Branden, they had come up through the grades together, starting in kindergarten. The relationship between pastor and lawman had not always been smooth, especially on disagreements over how to handle the often inscrutable Amish. But before he pushed through Cal’s door, Robertson reminded himself that, regardless of their differences on issues, Cal Troyer was like Mike Branden in one important way. His friendship had never faltered. On cases where Robertson had needed him the most, Cal Troyer had always come through.

  Robertson knocked and entered. Cal was seated behind his desk, writing on a pad. Religious books, pamphlets, and tracts lined the shelves to Cal’s right. Framed photos from foreign mission trips lined the wall to his left. On the wall behind him hung a simple cross of rough-hewn timbers, almost as tall as Cal himself. Robertson took a seat in front of the pastor’s desk and settled in as best he could amid the religious trappings of the office.

  Troyer’s white beard and hair were once again trimmed close, almost as close as the sheriff’s sixties flattop. In April, when Cal had ministered to Emma Wengerd over her grief at the loss of her adoptive sister Ruth Zook, Cal’s hair had been considerably longer.

  Cal was short and muscular. His large eyes were set wide on a broad face that was inclined most usually toward a smile. His profession lay behind a pulpit, but he earned his keep as a carpenter, and from years of physical labor, his large hands were rough and his thick fingers were knotted at the knuckles. This time of year, Robertson remembered, it was just as likely to find Cal helping Amish relatives with a harvest as it was to find him in his office. Today, however, the pastor was in, and Robertson was relieved.

  Troyer smiled but didn’t speak. Robertson nodded a silent and reserved hello. Cal rose and stepped to a corner credenza, where he poured black coffee into two mugs that had been drying upside down on a folded paper towel. Robertson took his mug, smelled the brew, and decided it wasn’t too stale. He drank gratefully and set the mug on a coaster on the front corner of the pastor’s metal desk.

  “Your Bible School sign is a little faded,” the sheriff said.

  Troyer smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to inspect the condition of my sign.”

  Robertson shrugged and drank more coffee. “I see you cut your hair short. You ever gonna decide on one style?”

  A wide grin spread over Troyer’s face, but he said nothing.

  “Fannie Helmuth,” Robertson said, and he shook his head with doubts.

  “Something bad to report?” Cal asked. “Or have you found her?”

  “No,” Robertson said, “but we found Howie Dent yesterday morning.”

  “I heard. I’ve been worried about Fannie.”

  Robertson recounted the events since Armbruster’s finding the Dent body. He took his coffee mug from the desk and stared into it for a long twenty count. Without looking up at Cal, he concluded, “I don’t think I can protect her here, Cal.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think she’ll cooperate.”

  “Then what’s your plan? Or maybe you don’t really have one.”

  “I do. I’ve got a plan,” Robertson said. And he told Cal about the Hotel St. James.

  Cal listened, thought, shook his head, and considered what the sheriff had said. He sipped coffee and leaned back in his chair. When he was satisfied that he understood, he rocked forward slowly and set his mug gently on his desk.

  All the while, the sheriff watched him intently, waiting for the pastor’s assessment. He saw concern and also apprehension pass through Cal’s visage. Then he saw a degree of settlement in the pastor’s eyes.

  Cal’s smile acknowledged an appreciation for the sheriff’s reasoning. “I don’t think she’ll stay put for them, Bruce,” Cal said. “Even if she does, I don’t think it has any chance of working.”

  • • •

  Robertson drove north on the Wooster Road thinking Troyer had been entirely correct. He circled right into the lower parking lot of Joel Pomerene Memorial Hospital. It was perched like a watchtower on one of the hills piled densely beside the north road, where Millersburg was anchored on high ground, overlooking the flatlands of Killbuck Marsh to the west.

  Inside the cool and antiseptic basement hallway, Robertson stopped to catch his breath and to gather his resolve for studying the body of Howie Dent. He sat on a bench against the wall and ran a handkerchief over his face. After a moment he pushed heavily up from the bench and continued down the starkly lighted hallway to the single door to Missy Taggert’s office. He entered the small room and crossed to press the buzzer at Missy’s intercom. From inside her autopsy suite, Missy answered, “Who’s there?” and Robertson said, “It’s me, Missy. Is there anything in there that I really need to see?”

  “One minute,” Missy answered. When she came out, she was dressed in green scrubs with a clear plastic apron. A face mask hung loosely around her neck. Her hair was put up under a surgical cap. She had taken off her autopsy gloves, but she still carried them. She dropped them into a biohazard can next to her desk and pulled her husband away from the door, saying, “I have him opened up right now.”

  “Do I need to look?” Bruce asked stiffly.

  “Not really, but what’s wrong? This usually doesn’t bother you.”

  “It always bothers me, Missy. I just don’t have it today.”

  “Then you don’t need to go in there.”

  Grateful, the sheriff asked, “Do you have anything new for me?”

  “I think so,” Missy said as she pulled off her apron. She went back into autopsy to hang it up, and then she came back into her office and sat at her desk. “I don’t think they wanted him to die just then,” she said to her husband. “I think his death was sudden.”

  “From what I saw of him, Missy, he could not have died soon enough to suit him.”

  “This may be good news, Bruce. For Fannie. He died instantly of a heart attack. His heart stopped suddenly.”

  Robertson drew a labored breath and shook his head. “How do you know?”

  “It’s speculation, of course, but his wounds—from the needles—were not done by a professional. There’s evidence of that everywhere. An unsteady hand. Scant knowledge of anatomy. Irregular placement. Hesitations. They just jabbed a spot and shot him full of chemicals.”

  “So, maybe they were in a hurry.”

  “I’m sure they were. But on one of the injections, which I think was the final one, they did hit a vein. In his groin. They shot poison straight to his heart.”

  “And he died instantly?”

  “Yes. It was Bleib-Ruhig, Bruce. In order to load it into a syringe, they had to suspend and dissolve it in water. It all went to his heart, and I don’t think he had a chance to tell them anything after that.”

  The sheriff rubbed nervously at the top bristles of his hair. He exhaled vexation mixed with relief. “Missy,” he said, “that’s the only good news I’ve had in this case.”

  “Because you think T
eresa Molina still doesn’t know where Fannie is?”

  “Yes,” the sheriff said. “I’m counting on it.”

  “These are brutal people, Bruce. I mean, burns are the worst cases I see in the morgue. These were chemical burns, under his skin.”

  A shudder rinsed through the sheriff, and he groaned with tension. “At least he’s not in any pain now.”

  “I hope so,” Missy said tentatively.

  “He’s dead,” Robertson sputtered. “He can’t feel anything.”

  “I hope so, Bruce,” Missy said again.

  “I saw his body in that basement, Missy. You’re telling me he suffered chemical burns over what, forty percent of his body?”

  “Something close to that.”

  “And you don’t think death has put an end to his pain?”

  “I don’t know what happens after death, Bruce. At least not beyond what I believe by faith. Certainly not in any scientific way.”

  “Missy,” the sheriff said, shaking his head, “if death is not the end of pain, then life is unutterably cruel.”

  • • •

  “Hi, Jodie. Are you working now?”

  “Yes, but I’m due for a break.”

  Fannie heard the din of a busy kitchen in the background of Jodie’s phone. “Then can you talk? Or should I call you back?”

  “No, I can talk. I’m stepping outside.”

  Fannie heard road noises, as if Jodie were now standing outside at the edge of a busy street. “Are you still in Columbus, Jodie?”

  “Yes. I’m working in Worthington. It’s a north-end suburb.”

  “I can hear the traffic.”

  “I imagine you have a lot of farms there?” Jodie asked.

  “It’s all farms, mostly. There’s one little town.”

  “Then you can enjoy the quiet.”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be good,” Jodie said. “You can wear Amish clothes and not get stares from English tourists.”

  Fannie laughed. “We still get a few of those. Is that a game I hear in the background?”

  “The Cleveland Indians. They’re pretty good this year, Fannie. We’ve got the game on the radio in the kitchen. You listen to any games? Because I remember that you said you like the Indians.”

  “No,” Fannie sighed. “It’s on the radio all the time, but I haven’t been listening. Are you going to stay in Columbus?”

  “Probably not. You know how I hate cold winters.”

  “I don’t mind them,” Fannie said. “We may get an early one, though. The hummingbirds are thinning out sooner than normal. Going south ahead of schedule, so we may have a hard winter.”

  “Then I’m out of here,” Jodie chimed. “I’ll do something like your brother and move south to Kentucky. Maybe even farther south.”

  “Did I tell you about Jonas?” Fannie asked. “I guess I did.”

  “Oh yes, Fannie. You said that Jonas moved his entire family to Kentucky, after Ruth Zook was killed.”

  “I guess I did,” Fannie said. “I’ve always had it in mind to go see him.”

  “Would that be a long trip?”

  “Not in Howie’s car. Maybe a long day, down and back.”

  “You’re lucky, Fannie. Anywhere you go, you have Amish. They’re all family for you, really.”

  “Can’t you go home, Jodie?”

  “No, Fannie. We’ve talked about this. You know I can’t go home until they find Teresa Molina.”

  “Maybe Howie could drive me to see you, Jodie. When he gets back with his car.”

  “I’d like that. In the meantime, you stay where you are. Stay hidden, and stay safe.”

  “I will.”

  “I have to get back to my tables, Fannie. I’ll call you after my shift.”

  14

  Thursday, August 18

  12:20 P.M.

  WHILE CAROLINE sat with her laptop on her knees in the passenger’s seat beside him, the professor drove northeast out of Holmes County on US 62, and then continued north on US 21. Beyond Massillon, they joined traffic on US 77, and after Akron, they circled east on 271 to skirt the southeast rim of metropolitan Cleveland. As they drove, Caroline had her mobile hot spot open on the dash of their sedan, and she used it to search Internet databases and Web sites for the Middlefield community. By the time they had started across the countryside of northeast Ohio on two-lane Ohio 44, she was getting useful information about the Amish businesses in the Middlefield tourist region. On one of the Web sites, she found that the shops and restaurants of Middlefield were indicated on a map, with golden buggy symbols marking the Amish-owned establishments in town.

  Near the center of Middlefield, the professor pulled into the parking lot of a historic tavern. Caroline unbuckled her seat belt and turned her laptop so that her husband could better see the monitor. On the screen, she had displayed a map of the town with its buggy symbols marking the numerous Amish establishments. She pointed out one marker near the center of town and said, “That’s the biggest one, Michael. It’s Miller’s Restaurant. On Google Earth, it displays as a very large building. The parking lot holds a hundred cars. Most of the other shops are quite a bit smaller.”

  Branden backed out of the parking spot, and Caroline rebuckled her seat belt. At the main intersection in Middlefield, Branden turned right and soon found Miller’s Restaurant on the left side of the road. He circled into the parking lot, drove down several lanes of parked cars, and finally nosed into a vacant spot in the far back corner of the lot.

  The white-sided restaurant building was framed by a wraparound porch with country-scrolled railings as a border. Hickory rocking chairs with tall, elaborate backs were set out on the porch for customers. It was lunchtime, and the rockers were occupied by people waiting for tables inside. A line comprised of English tourists for the most part, with some Amish people, too, had formed at the double front doors. At the side, a single door led into a salesroom set apart from the dining room, and that’s where the Brandens entered the building.

  The long sales counter with half a dozen cash registers was situated to their left as they entered. Along the wall to their right, there were tall shelves holding dozens of loaves of fresh Amish breads and a variety of pastries. On a display rack just inside the door, there were jars of Mrs. Miller’s jams and jellies. Country crafts and trinkets were displayed on stands in the middle of the room. One rack offered personalized ceramic coffee mugs with all the common surnames. Wooden plaques, carved with common prayer phrases and Scripture verses, covered all of the walls. Filling all the remaining corners of the display floor were hard candies in tins, jingle bells on leather straps, bookmarks with Amish scenes, and kitchen gadgets of the type that would prompt an impulsive purchase based on the down-home feeling of centeredness and belonging that few English tourists actually experienced in their daily lives. The offerings were artfully designed and displayed so as to loosen the wallets, purses, and billfolds of visitors who found themselves reasoning that here, more than most places, they enjoyed a profound and metaphysical linkage to a cherished heritage of simpler lives and happier times.

  Caroline shook her head and braved a sardonic smile for her husband. “We’re here for information, Michael,” she said. “That’s all.”

  Branden returned her smile and whispered, “We may have to order a meal.”

  “Coffee, Michael. And maybe we can share a piece of pie. To be polite.”

  “But try the sales counter first?” the professor suggested.

  Caroline turned back to the bench of cash registers along the far wall. Once she had secured a place in the checkout line, she pulled a postcard from a standing rack and waited beside the professor. They moved forward with the line slowly. When they were next in line to check out, the Brandens were signaled forward by a young girl in an Amish dress and apron. Caroline laid her postcard on the coun
ter, and the girl rang it up without looking at either of the Brandens.

  As she was taking money out of her purse, Caroline said, “We were hoping to speak with Abel Mast.”

  The salesgirl took Caroline’s money, but didn’t speak.

  “He’s the scribe for one of the districts here,” Caroline added. “We’d like to find him.”

  The salesgirl handed back change for Caroline’s postcard and said, “You’re not really Amish, are you?”

  The professor eased forward to the counter and said, “No, but we’re from Millersburg, and we’ve come to see Mr. Mast. The scribe.”

  The girl gave an impatient sigh. “He’s from a farm north of here. His niece waits tables here.” She shifted nervously in place and eyed the next customer in line. “We’re supposed to keep the line moving,” she said. “Please.”

  “You’re not really Amish, either,” Caroline said.

  “No, but the owners like us to dress properly. But please. Get a table and ask for Becky Prayter. She’s his niece. She married English, so she won’t be in a bonnet. Otherwise, she’s dressed like the rest of us.”

  The Brandens stepped away from the busy sales counter and found the hostess stand near the dining room entrance. A tight cluster of customers was pressing close to the stand, and the hostess was marking and remarking her plastic seating chart to try to advance as many diners to tables as she could manage. Caroline started working her way through the crowd and eventually spoke to the hostess. The professor watched from beside a rack of bread near the back of the line. When Caroline returned to him, she held a brown disk flasher. “Forty minutes,” she said. “We can wait outside.”

  Once outside on the porch, Caroline pulled her cell phone and called Ellie Troyer-Niell. It was Ricky Niell who answered Ellie’s phone. He explained that Ellie was resting in bed, and Caroline asked, “How is she today, Ricky? Any more cramping or spotting?”

  “No. Nothing new, really. She grumbles about being off her feet, but you know Ellie.”