Whiskers of the Lion (9 page)

Thursday, August 18

1:45
P.M.

SHERIFF ROBERTSON stood pensively behind his battered cherry desk and surveyed the large office that had been his post for decades. He let his gaze drift around the room, and he remembered.

His display of law enforcement arm patches, collected over so many years, was framed on the wall to his right. Dan Wilsher had helped him hang the frame.

Against the same wall, just past the office door, Ellie Troyer had long ago set up his coffee credenza, with Ricky Niell's help. Now they were married, expecting twins. Robertson shook his head and wondered if Ellie would agree to come back to work after the children were born.

At the far wall opposite his desk, the tall windows patiently kept their vigil over the Civil War monument on the courthouse lawn. The windows to his left had for decades given a close view of traffic on busy Clay Street, just a half block south of the intersection with Jackson. How many times had he stood at those windows? How many cups of coffee had he shared in his office with friends, colleagues, and citizens?

In front of Robertson's desk were the chairs for visitors. One was a low leather chair that the professor favored. The other two were straight-backed wooden chairs that Robertson had found in the hallway after his election as sheriff. He had moved them into the office even before his cherry desk had been delivered. He would never have predicted that they would serve him so well, considering they were just dusty castoffs when he had pressed them into service on his first day as sheriff.

Overhead was a patchwork of ornate, hand-hammered tin ceiling tiles, the gray squares making an intricate pattern across the span above his head. Robertson knew they had been installed by artisans when the building was first constructed beside the historic sandstone courthouse.

And on all the walls of his office, faded light-pine paneling from the sixties decorated the room. The sheriff before him had put it up. Working loose at some of the corners, the paneling was hopelessly out of date. Ellie had often tried to convince him to remodel. The paneling would be the first thing to go, she had always insisted. But Robertson had never seen the need to change it. He wondered now why he had never considered it. Probably, he thought, for the same reason that he'd never trade this battered desk away. Because there wasn't anything modern that was better. The new age wasn't an answer to anything, he had always thought. But perhaps he had been wrong.

Robertson recognized his melancholy mood for what it was, and he allowed himself to ride the weary sentiments that were distracting him from what he was proposing to do for Fannie Helmuth. He let these sentiments distract him from the consequences of the decisions he had made. Melancholia, it seemed, had its benefits.

Saving his focus for the meeting that would soon take place, Robertson wandered casually out into the hallway and moved slowly down to Del Markely's station behind the front counter. She was making entries on a computer at her desk, still wearing her headset. Robertson cleared his throat, and Del turned to face him. She said, “Just finishing,” and tapped several more keys before she stood up.

The sheriff didn't say anything to her. Del let the silence hang. She watched him push out through the swinging counter door into the department's small entrance lobby, and she watched him turn around and push back through the swinging door to stand with her behind the counter.

“They should be here soon,” she said. “How long should I ask them to wait?”

Robertson smiled but did not answer.

Del said, “I'll use my judgment,” and Robertson nodded his appreciation to her.

“Is my paperwork ready?” he asked, and Markely held up a folder, saying, “Right here, Sheriff.”

Robertson arched a brow and returned to his office to wait. When Markely came back later with his visitors, the sheriff was standing at the north windows with his arms folded. Back to the door. Gazing out over the courthouse lawn. Seized with nostalgia. Coasting on his memories as a strategy to be calm. Because it would be better to be placid, for the meetings he had scheduled this afternoon, than to be confrontational.

Del Markely ushered two men in black suits forward to stand at Robertson's desk. “Sheriff,” she said, “these are Agents LaMonte Washington and William Parker. From the FBI office in Cleveland.”

Robertson waited for Markely to leave and close the door before he turned around from the windows. He tipped his chin to acknowledge Washington and Parker, and then he took a position standing behind his desk. He waved the two agents into seats in front of his desk. Neither of the agents sat down, so Robertson remained standing, too.

As if they had practiced a precision drill, both agents displayed their badges briefly and then slipped them back into their suit coat pockets. One agent, the taller one, stepped forward and said, “Special Agent Parker. The Cleveland SAC sent us down to take Fannie Helmuth into protective custody.”

“And who is Cleveland's Special Agent in Charge these days?” Robertson asked.

“Brenda P. Adams,” Parker said. “Of course you already know that, because you've spoken on the phone with her several times.”

“Indeed.” Robertson smiled. “Have a seat, Agents.”

“We'll just be going,” Parker said.

“It's not that simple,” Robertson said. “Please sit down.”

“Really, Sheriff,” Parker started.

Robertson interrupted. “Agent Parker. Please sit down. I need to explain some things to you.”

Parker sat, and his partner did likewise. Robertson pulled his desk chair forward, sat down, and rolled in behind his desk. He drummed his thumbs on his desktop, and he frowned as if he had been pondering a difficult decision. With an apologetic smile, he said, “I don't actually have Fannie Helmuth in custody, Agent Parker.”

Parker said nothing. His partner took out his cell phone, rose, and stepped into the hallway, tapping a speed dial number as he left.

Parker eased forward on his chair and said, “Sheriff, you said you had her.”

“I said I could
deliver
her,” Robertson countered. “And I can. I estimate she'll be in your custody by the end of the day. You'll just have to drive a little farther to get to her.”

“Just tell us where she is, Sheriff. We're wasting time.”

“That's something I want to talk about,” Robertson said. “I'll require a transfer-of-custody agreement.”

“SAC Adams would never agree to that.”

Robertson ignored the objection. “And Agent Parker, I have drafted an agreement for Fannie to sign, stating the terms for her going into your custody. You'll need to sign that, too.”

“Look, Robertson, our safe house in Cleveland is expecting her today. We're all set up.”

“That's not where you're going to hold her,” Robertson said evenly. “It's a stinking, rattletrap hotel room on the wrong side of Cleveland, and it's in a neighborhood I wouldn't visit myself in daylight. You'll have her eating cold pizza and drinking stale pop for a month, and you'll never let her out of her room. She could be there longer than a month, if you can't track down Teresa Molina. So, Agent Parker, I promise you that is one safe house that is never going to happen. Not to Fannie Helmuth.”

Agent Washington came back into the office holding his cell phone out for Parker. “The SAC wants your update,” he said to his partner.

Parker spoke briefly into the cell phone. “One moment, SAC Adams.”

Robertson planted his elbows on his desk and tented his fingers. “Just put that on speaker phone,” he said to Parker.

Parker glowered at Robertson, but he placed the phone on the front corner of the sheriff's desk, nonetheless. When he switched it to speaker, Parker said, “You're on my speaker phone, Brenda.”

Robertson asked, “Is this SAC Adams?” and Adams replied, “You can't just make this easy, can you, Robertson.”

“Adams,” Robertson said, “easy is exactly what I'm trying for, here. Easy, that is, for Ms. Helmuth.”

“I'm listening,” Adams said from the phone.

Robertson said, “It's a hotel near Middlefield, Adams. It's one of the hotels run by Amish people, and the top-floor rooms would be easy to defend. They're all suites. That's where I want you to set up your safe house.”

Adams was slow to respond. “An Amish hotel?” she asked eventually. “That's what you want?”

“That's most of it. What I especially do not want is for Ms. Helmuth to be kept in an urban environment. She'll never get any rest. She'd never relax. Not for a minute. But most important, the hotel that I am proposing is close to Middlefield, and I like the cleaning crews that work the rooms.”

“Sheriff,” Adams huffed over the phone, “we're not going to let any cleaning crews into our safe house.”

“They're Amish and Mennonite women from Middlefield,” Robertson said. “You're gonna let them come in to clean for Fannie. They're gonna bring her meals from time to time. Maybe they can sit with her for some company. But what you're not going to do is drop Fannie Helmuth into some festering urban stink hole where she'll never see a friendly face again.”

“They'll all be searched, Robertson. Everyone who shows up at our doors.”

“They'll all be Amish, Adams. Maybe some Mennonite, not that you'll know the difference. You can search them all you want.”

“Put Parker on,” Adams said curtly.

Washington picked up the phone, switched off the speaker option, and handed the phone to Parker. Agent Parker stepped out into the hallway and closed Robertson's door. When he came back into the office, Parker handed the phone back to Washington and said to Robertson, “You have the transfer-of-custody agreement already drawn up?”

Robertson buzzed his intercom and said, “Del, bring those papers, please.”

When he had them from Markely, Robertson spread the two documents out on his desk. “One,” he said, “is our transfer agreement. Hotel, meals, visitations—they're all specified. Sign here and here, at the flags.”

After taking time to read it carefully, Parker signed the transfer agreement. Then he said, “The second document?”

“That's Fannie's agreement to go into protective custody with the FBI. It also specifies the location and the conditions of her protection.”

“Is it a duplicate of the first one?” Parker asked.

“Partly. But it also specifies that Fannie is not going to stay in your custody indefinitely. Once you have arrested Teresa Molina, Fannie is to be allowed to decide for herself when and how she will testify for you. She's to be allowed to go home, if she wants to.”

“Why wouldn't she testify?” Parker asked. “That's always been the whole point of this.”

“I want her free to decide, Parker. After she has understood all the consequences. And I want to know that you can't force her to testify, if she decides she doesn't want to. Before I tell you where she is, I want the FBI to agree to all of that.”

Parker read through the agreement and signed it where indicated. Fannie would also have to sign the document to put it into force. Parker slid the signed documents over to Robertson and said, “OK, Sheriff. Where is she?”

Robertson took up his signed documents, stacked them together in their folder, and said, “I'm not sure just yet, Agent Parker. We're still working on that.”

Thursday, August 18

2:20
P.M.

ABEL MAST arrived at Miller's Restaurant after the lunch crowd had dwindled. He drove his black buggy to the back of the lot and climbed down from his high seat. As his wife got out on the other side, he pulled the reins forward over the head of his dappled mare and tied the horse to the hitching post at the corner of the building.

Together, the Masts walked slowly forward. The Brandens stepped off the porch to greet them. Abel shook hands with the professor, and the women smiled their greetings to each other.

“You're Mr. Branden?” Abel asked. “Michael Branden?”

“Yes,” the professor said, “and this is my wife, Caroline.”

“You're not really Amish,” Mast said. “Why the costume?”

“We thought we'd get a better welcome,” Branden said. “We hoped that maybe we wouldn't startle Fannie quite so much.”

“She's plenty startled as it is,” Mast said. “She's nervous, and she can't seem to relax.”

“We want to help her,” Caroline said. “The sheriff wants to help her.”

“You said you have a letter for her?” Mast asked the professor.

“I do,” Branden said. “Could we talk inside?”

“This going to take a while?” Mast asked.

“Maybe, why?”

“I'll just set out some water for my horse.”

Mast walked back to his rig and pulled a pail out of the rear cargo bay of the buggy. He filled it from a plastic jug of water and set it down under the nose of his horse.

When he had returned, Branden said, “That's an unusual buggy horse, Mr. Mast.”

Mast smiled. “I breed them. Never cared for a plain standardbred.”

Inside the restaurant, the four were given a table near the long buffet, where waitresses were cleaning out the chafing dishes that had been used for lunch. Branden offered to buy a late lunch for the Masts, but they declined. So Branden laid Sheriff Robertson's letter to Fannie on the table and said, “I'm supposed to give that to Fannie. I haven't read it.”

Mast stared at the letter as if it were an omen. “Nobody was supposed to know where Fannie is,” he said. “How did you find us?”

“Your letter to the
Budget
said you have houseguests.”

“They asked me to write that,” Mast said with a fatalistic tone. “Now it seems to me that maybe that wasn't such a good idea.”

“The sheriff was able to trace their travels,” Branden said, “only because other scribes wrote similar things.”

“Fannie and Howie wanted their families to know that they were well.”

“I don't think it will be a problem,” Branden offered. “The people who want to hurt Fannie probably don't even know that the
Budget
exists.”

“Still,” Mast complained, “you found her easily enough.”

“We just want to help her,” Caroline said. “The sheriff wants to put her into protective custody.”

Mast hesitated. “I don't know. Maybe she should just move on.”

“But how long can she hide?” Caroline asked. “Isn't she tired of running?”

Mrs. Mast spoke for the first time. “She's exhausted, Mrs. Branden. I think she needs someone to help her. We've been waiting to learn something, when Howie Dent gets back.”

Caroline looked to her husband and then turned sympathetic eyes back to Mrs. Mast.

Mrs. Mast noticed Caroline's anxiety and asked, “What? What is it?”

The professor said, “We have bad news, Mrs. Mast. We need to tell Fannie. Howie Dent is dead.”

 • • • 

Mrs. Mast sat at the restaurant table and cried into her hankie. Abel Mast paced in the aisle making calls on his cell phone. The Brandens waited in their seats, Michael across the table from Mrs. Mast, and Caroline seated beside her, holding her hand.

When Abel sat back down, he shook his head and seemed to have deflated. “I don't think Fannie can handle this right now.”

Branden faced him and said, “We can help, Abel.”

Mast spoke with a heavy weariness. “I wasn't supposed to tell anyone where she was, Mr. Branden. Now it seems that everybody knows.”

“Not everyone,” Branden said. “We haven't told anyone, and you probably haven't either.”

“But haven't you already called your sheriff? To say that you've found her?”

“No, Mr. Mast. We won't call, either. Unless Fannie agrees to it. We came here just to talk to her and to give her the sheriff's letter. If she doesn't want our help, then we can't really do anything.”

“You might tell the sheriff where she is.”

“Mr. Mast, she'd be gone by the time he was able to get someone up here.”

“You're the only ones who came?”

“Yes.”

“What if she doesn't want to talk to you?”

“I hope she will,” Branden said. “She needs to know about Howie Dent.”

Mast turned pensive. “How did he die?”

“He was murdered, Abel. Probably by the same people Fannie has been so afraid of.”

With sorrow cast in his eyes and weariness wrinkling his brow, Mast sat thinking for a long time. He seemed to be wrestling with Fannie's dilemma. When he appeared to have reached a resolution of sorts, he asked, “What do you do, Mr. Branden? What is your profession?”

“I work for the sheriff as a reserve deputy,” Branden said. “But I am also a college professor.”

“Really,” Mast said, surprised. “What do you teach?”

“Civil War history.”

“War?”

“Yes, Mr. Mast. The American Civil War.”

“Shouldn't you be in class?”

“We don't start for another week or so.”

“Then shouldn't you be preparing your subject?”

“I've been a professor for over thirty years, Abel. I ought to be able to make a few cogent remarks without too much preparation.”

“I suppose so.”

“Abel, are you going to let us talk with Fannie?”

Mast shrugged. “I can't find a reason not to.”

“That's good,” Branden said. “That's very good.”

Mast examined the professor's Amish costume. “You've had these clothes for a while,” he said, smiling wanly. “They're a little out of date.”

“I didn't think Amish people cared about that sort of thing.”

“We don't care,” Mast said. “But we notice.”

“Do you think Fannie will care?”

Mast shook his head sadly. “Once she knows that her friend has been murdered, I don't expect Fannie will care about much of anything.”

 • • • 

“Hi, Fannie. My shift just finished. Have you heard from Howie?”

“No, Jodie. Nothing yet. He'll call.”

“I hope so, Fannie. Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you're still sewing your own clothes? Or if you have a good fabric store in town?”

“There's one. It's decent, I suppose. But I don't have a machine, usually. And I don't have time to stitch by hand. Why?”

“I was just wondering. I'm moving myself up to Hartville. And tips would be better there if I had Amish clothes. Instead of Mennonite.”

“I'm sure I could get to a machine,” Fannie said.

“You're not staying with friends?”

“Oh, people put us up, but they're not usually friends.”

“Hey, Fannie. If I waited tables in Hartville, maybe you could visit me. I'd serve your table.”

“I suppose,” Fannie said. “That would be easy enough. But why are you moving to Hartville?”

“I need to tell you something, Fannie.”

“What?”

“It's Teresa Molina. She found my mother. She went there and threatened her. Mom told her I was in Columbus, so I have to move on. I can't even tell my own mother where I'm going. She can't know.”

“That's terrible, Jodie. I mean, that's really awful.”

“Fannie, what if Teresa Molina learns where your brother lives? She's really dangerous.”

“I don't know. What are we going to do?”

“I'm moving up to Hartville. To work in the restaurant.”

“That's such a well-known place, Jodie. What if she knows to look for you there?”

“She won't.”

“But what if she does?”

“I can't think about that, Fannie. But I'm tired. I can't stand much more of this.”

“Maybe you should get farther away. Maybe go out west somewhere.”

“I've already started driving, Fannie. To Hartville. I'm on 62, headed north for Massillon.”

“That runs right through Millersburg, Jodie.”

“I'll be careful.”

“I'm worried.”

“Don't be. I can handle myself. Anyway, I was thinking. We might be safer together. At least I would be, hiding with you in Amish homes.”

“I don't know.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“OK, but I'd need to think about that.”

“I'll be fine in Hartville, I guess. For a while.”

“Do you still want me to make you some clothes? I could mail them to you. Size what? Eight petite?”

“Maybe six, but not unless I came to see you.”

“I'll think about it, Jodie. I'll ask Howie what he thinks.”