Whiskers of the Lion (11 page)

Armbruster headed out the door without further comment. Lance followed with her valise.

Deputy Ryan Baker asked, “Sheriff, are you really going to give Fannie to the FBI?”

“Ryan,” Robertson said, “I'd rather frolic in a minefield. But for the time being, yes I am.”

“What about Teresa Molina?” Missy asked her husband.

“That's going to have to be the FBI's problem, Missy. Our focus has to be local.”

“That could take a while,” Missy said, standing to leave.

“We're gonna give it three or four days,” the sheriff said. “We won't be able to keep up the charade much longer than that.”

Thursday, August 18

3:30
P.M.

AT THE somber pace of a dirge, the Brandens drove north out of Middlefield, following Abel and Irma Mast's black buggy. In the lead, the Masts' dappled mare was not encouraged to hurry. Rather, the pace was torturously slow. So at first, Branden rode the brakes. After a mile, he devised the method of bringing his car to a complete stop to let the buggy advance a hundred yards before he shifted into gear to close the distance without leapfrogging the buggy.

The road ran straight north. The berm was only modestly wide, and Mast kept his rig on the blacktop. Cars and trucks came up behind the Brandens and passed as soon as possible, some punching their horns impatiently. Still Mast held to an unhurried pace, and clouds began to gather on the horizon.

Everywhere north of Middlefield, the Brandens saw sprawling and prosperous farms, the evidence of a capable and industrious people. At one farm, a matched trio of brothers was offloading slab wood from an old wagon hitched to draft horses. At the next farm, a grandfather was scooping manure out of a barn using a gasoline-powered front loader with large tractor wheels. There were men chopping firewood for winter, mothers or daughters mowing expansive front lawns, and older children trimming the weeds in the ditches beside the road. At many of the farms, laundry hung in the breeze under second-story porches, or from clotheslines strung beside the houses. At each of the farms, there was something for the kids. Teeter-totters, swing sets, tetherball poles, sandboxes, or trampolines were set on the lawns.

Eventually, the Brandens turned right onto a lesser road, following the Mast buggy past the one-room Pleasant Valley School. Just east of the school, on the other side of the road, they pulled into a long gravel drive. The professor followed Mast around to the back of a two-and-a-half-story white frame house, and he parked his sedan on the gravel patch between the back of the house and a tall white barn. At the corner of the barn, a pair of concrete silos rose nearly fifty feet high. In front of the silos, an old green tractor was parked on blocks, with its wheels taken off, and the power drive at the back of the tractor was engaged with a belted conveyor that Mast apparently used to loft grain and hay into either the silos or the barn.

As he climbed out, Professor Branden noted the immovable tractor and said, “They're using engines, Caroline. So they're not conservative Old Order. But they're not New Order, either.”

Standing on the stoop, Abel Mast waved the Brandens forward toward the back porch. They followed him inside, crossed a screened porch to a spacious kitchen, and took seats on a bench at a long kitchen table made of polished pine planks. Mast then spoke in Dietsch dialect to his wife, and she went back out through the porch and down the steps to cross the gravel to a Daadihaus that was situated to the back of the yard. Through the kitchen windows, the Brandens watched her knock on the Daadihaus door and enter directly. When Abel Mast spoke, they turned back to face him in the kitchen.

“My wife will tell her,” Mast said as he stepped to the sink. He took two glasses out of an overhead cupboard, pumped water at the sink, and handed full glasses of cloudy brown water to the Brandens.

“You'll be thirsty,” he said. He sat across from them at the pine table. “A buggy ride makes for thirsty work.”

“So does delivering bad news, Abel,” the professor said. “You didn't seem hurried. We took our time getting here.”

“We were talking,” Mast replied. “We were trying to find a gentle way to tell Fannie about Howie.”

“I don't think there is a gentle way,” Branden said. He drank the silted water that Mast had offered him. “Thanks for the water.”

Mast lingered with his thoughts. Eventually he noticed that Caroline had sipped her water to be polite, but had not finished it. Mast attempted a smile, and he pushed up wearily from the table, saying, “Well water is disagreeable to some folk.”

Caroline replied softly, “It's OK, Mr. Mast.”

“Would you prefer bottled?” Mast asked as he returned to the sink. He opened the cupboard under the sink and produced a plastic bottle of Dasani. “We get it at Walmart,” he said, and he sat back down at the table. He handed the bottle across to Caroline. “That's the only thing my wife will drink.”

Caroline opened the Dasani and drank gratefully. Mast took up her glass of well water and finished it himself. When he was carrying the empty glass back to the sink, Mrs. Mast came in from the back porch with Fannie Helmuth.

Caroline and the professor rose and stepped out over the low bench to greet Fannie. Mrs. Mast cast them a glance of caution. Fannie took one step into the large kitchen and stood wringing her fingers into a white handkerchief.

In her mid-twenties, Fannie Helmuth was a round and stocky woman. Her large brown eyes, set wide over a thin nose, carried a tearful sheen of distress. Her small mouth curved down at the corners, and her lips were quivering. Her gold wire spectacles seemed to have been dislodged by the news Irma Mast had brought her, and they sat low on her nose. She peered at the Brandens over the tops of the lenses, and she seemed disinclined to bother with the triviality of adjusting them. The spectacles hung from her ears like frames for a crestfallen soul.

As she tried to gather herself to speak, Fannie searched back and forth between the Masts standing at the sink and the Brandens standing at the table. She seemed to be looking for some gentle assurance that their cruel joke about Howie Dent had played out long enough to suit them. That they would surely now relieve her sorrow with a laugh or a smile. When she realized that they could not relieve her, Fannie began to cry.

Fixed wordlessly to her place inside the kitchen door, without raising her handkerchief to her eyes, Fannie let her tears stream down her cheeks. She dropped her handkerchief to the floorboards and stood motionless, blinking at tears that she was unable to dry. Lost in her grief, Fannie appeared also to have lost her place in the world. She seemed unaware of where she was. She began to waver on her feet. She closed her eyes and held out a hand as if she were reaching for a railing on which to lean. As if she were searching for a support that would stop her fall.

Caroline reached out for Fannie's hand and took it. With her other hand, she steadied Fannie's elbow and guided her forward to the bench at the kitchen table. Carefully, Caroline turned Fannie around to sit on the bench with her back to the table. With her eyes still closed, Fannie accepted Caroline's help to sit on the bench. Once seated, she clung to Caroline's hand and wept.

When Fannie at last opened her eyes, she whispered. “He promised he would be careful. He promised he would just get his car. Then come back.”

“He did get his car, Fannie,” the professor said. He sat on the end of the bench and took Fannie's other hand. “Someone must have been watching for him,” he said. “We don't think he had much of a chance.”

Fannie seemed to notice the professor for the first time. “I don't know you,” she said, and she pulled her hands free.

“I have a letter for you, Fannie,” Branden said. “From Sheriff Robertson. He has been trying to find you.”

“You're not a deputy.”

“A reserve deputy,” Branden said, and he displayed his wallet badge.

Fannie glanced at the badge and asked, “Why are you dressed like that? You're not Amish.” She indicated Caroline. “And she's not Mennonite.”

“No,” Branden said. “We thought it might take a long time to find you. We were worried that people here wouldn't trust us.”

“But how did you find me?”

Branden explained about searching the letters in the
Budget,
and Fannie began to cry again. Stammering, she said, “Howie wanted our families to know we were safe. It probably didn't work.”

“It worked, Fannie,” Caroline said. “Howie's mother saw the letters.”

Fannie seemed puzzled by Caroline's presence, so the professor explained. “Fannie, this is my wife, Caroline. We want to help you move to a safer place.”

Fannie shook her head. “Tell me how he died.”

“He was murdered,” the professor said. “At your brother's house.”

Crying again, Fannie said, “He wasn't supposed to go there. He promised me he wouldn't go there.”

Suddenly, Fannie stood. “She can't have been waiting there for him! Not all this time. Nobody could be that angry.”

Caroline stood to embrace her, but Fannie jerked away. Turning to the Masts at the kitchen sink, she demanded, “Why did you bring them here, Abel? We would have been safe!”

Mast took a step toward Fannie. “They found you, Fannie. They found you easily enough, and it's a good thing it was the sheriff. Someone else could do the same thing.”

“We don't even know them, Abel!” Fannie cried angrily.

Mast shook his head. “They have a letter for you from the sheriff. And this man has a badge. You need their help, now, Fannie. You are too easy to find.”

“I'm not!” Fannie shouted back at him. “And I have Reuben.”

Gently, Mast asked, “How is he going to be able to keep you any safer than Howie did?”

Fannie wrenched her shoulders as if she were caught in a net. As if she wanted to flee, but something unseen was preventing her escape. She stumbled backward and braced herself at the table's bench. She pulled her organdy
Kapp
away from her hair and balled it up in her fist to hurl it across the room. She cocked her arm and swung. But she did not release the Kapp. Instead, she pressed her fists angrily to her temples and shook side to side, trembling with tension and grief. Her hair fell loose from its bun, and it spilled down her back. She dropped her Kapp and tangled her fingers into her hair, pulling fiercely at its roots. Keening a pitched wail, she began to shout, “No! No! No!”

Caroline reached out to try to calm her, but Fannie turned and bolted through the kitchen door. She crossed the back porch, ran down the back steps, and stumbled toward the Daadihaus. Irma Mast hurried after her.

Fannie stumbled in the gravel before she got to the Daadihaus. Down on her knees, she screamed, “Howie!”

Irma tried to pull Fannie to her feet, but Fannie pushed her off, stood, and paced a tight circle of frustration and rage, pulling wildly at her hair. From a barn far to the back of the property, Fannie's fiancé Reuben ran to her and wrapped his arms over hers, to pin them at her sides. Thrashing in his arms, Fannie struggled to free herself. Gradually, she tired. Then Reuben embraced her and stroked her long brown hair. But Fannie's legs folded under her, and she fell slowly to the gravel, pulling Reuben down with her. Time and again, Fannie cried out, “Howie!” first and then, “Reuben!” as Irma and Reuben struggled to lift her back to her feet.

 • • • 

Abel and Caroline went out to help with Fannie, but the professor remained in the kitchen to call Stan Armbruster's cell phone. Armbruster answered on the second ring. “We're on our way, Professor. We're on the 271 outer belt, coming up to Solon.”

“OK,” Branden said. “You should be here in about forty minutes. The mailbox out front says number 15901 on the Burton-Windsor Road, north of Middlefield. We're near a school, but across the street.”

“So, did you find her?” Armbruster asked.

“Yes, but she's losing it, Stan. You need to hurry. This is the Mast farm. It's Abel and Irma Mast. But there's another Amish man here, too. She's calling him Reuben.”

“Pat's driving,” Armbruster said. “We'll run with flashers. Is that address going to register on our GPS?”

“It should.”

“Forty minutes?”

“Less, if you hurry. You have to come into town on 87 and then turn north on 608. A right turn puts you on Burton-Windsor, headed east.”

“Should I call the sheriff?” Armbruster asked. “To tell him where Fannie is?”

“Not yet, Stan. Wait until you've talked with her.”

“OK, but he's supposed to call the FBI after we've found her.”

“Right now, Stan, I couldn't tell you what Fannie is going to decide. She's crying out for Howie, and she's completely lost in grief. She's not taking it well that we found her. She's in shock, and she's angry. So if she's going to trust anyone English like us, it'll have to be Robertson's letter that convinces her to do it.”

Thursday, August 18

4:10
P.M.

REUBEN HELPED Fannie to a seat in the Masts' parlor. He spoke briefly to her in dialect and turned to the professor to offer his hand. “I am Reuben Gingerich,” he said. “I am Fannie's fiancé. We were posted with the church in Michigan. Just a few weeks after we met.”

Branden took Reuben's hand. “Professor Mike Branden. And this is my wife, Caroline.”

Reuben seemed surprised. “I thought you were a deputy.”

“I am, Mr. Gingerich. A reserve deputy. I am also a college professor.”

“That seems an odd mix.”

“I suppose it is,” Branden said. He sat across from Fannie on a diminutive Shaker sofa made of cherrywood. The seat was upholstered with plain, powder-blue fabric. Caroline sat next to her husband.

The parlor was plain and simple, with straight lines in an unadorned style. The furniture was all of the Shaker variety—polished red cherry with blue fabrics matching the sofa. The heavy purple curtains on the windows had long pleats and fell straight to the red oak flooring. The baseboard trim and crown molding were made of polished cherry, matching the furniture, as if it all had been made by the same custom craftsman. The walls were stark white and unadorned. On two end tables and on one corner stand, there were lamps with white-ash silk mantles. These were piped for natural gas.

Outside, dark clouds were piling in from the west on a strong summer breeze. Thunder was cannonading in the northern distance. Cooler temperatures were riding through, ahead of a summer storm.

From the kitchen doorway, Abel Mast asked if a lamp should be lit, and Reuben replied briefly, “We'll be fine, Abel,” focusing most of his attention on Fannie. He pulled a Shaker chair out of a corner and set it next to Fannie. Sitting beside her, he asked, “Are you going to be OK, Fannie?”

Fannie still appeared shaken. She reached a trembling hand out to Reuben. When he took her hand, she clasped her fingers over his.

From the kitchen, Irma Mast came forward with a tray of drinks. “I have bottled water and lemonade,” she said. She served the drinks from the tray and returned to the kitchen. When she came back into the parlor, her husband, Abel, was with her. They pulled an old deacon's bench away from the wall and sat down to join the conversation.

Fannie looked at her fiancé and then at the Brandens. Angrily, she said, “It's not fair about Howie. He didn't do anything wrong.”

Reuben spoke a few soft words in Dietsch to Fannie, and she smiled tragically and explained for the Brandens, “Howie loved that stupid yellow VW.” Then she began to cry again. Reuben pulled her hand into his lap and cradled her fingers.

Fannie took her hand away from Reuben, pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and said, “I'm not doing anybody any good, here.”

“It's OK,” Irma said. “Take your time.”

As she dried her eyes, Fannie said to the professor, “I don't know why you are here. I don't know why the sheriff didn't come himself. Or Deputy Lance could have come. I know her.”

“Pat will be here in about half an hour,” Branden said. “She's coming with Deputy Armbruster.”

“Why?” Fannie asked. “Why so many people, just for me?”

“You're important, Fannie,” Branden answered. “The government is going to want you to testify against Teresa Molina.”

“But I only met her once,” Fannie complained. “What does anybody think I could say?”

“Well, she did take the suitcase from you,” Branden said. “And there's the Florida end of things, too. You can testify that Jodie Tapp gave you the suitcase to carry home on the bus.”

“But I did that just once,” Fannie asserted. “And I didn't know it was drugs. Jodie didn't know it was drugs, either. It's just not possible. She's my friend.”

“Perhaps she didn't know, Fannie,” Branden said. “But Ruth Zook did the same thing, and it got her murdered.”

“The sheriff told me that,” Fannie said. “It's why we ran.”

“OK, but now,” Branden said, “the sheriff wants you to let the FBI put you into protective custody. To keep you safe, while they look for Teresa Molina and Jodie Tapp.”

Inside the pocket of her dress, Fannie's cell phone rang like a bell. She stood up startled and checked the display. She seemed at first embarrassed, and then she seemed apologetic. “This is my friend,” she said with an awkward smile. “I have to take this outside.”

 • • • 

When Fannie returned to the parlor, the professor asked her, “Fannie, is someone other than Teresa Molina trying to find you?”

Fannie sat down beside Reuben again and said, “Just a friend.”

“Will you tell us who that was?” Branden asked.

“I don't want to. It was just a friend.”

“There may be a lot of bad people looking for you,” Branden said. “More than just Teresa Molina.”

“This was a good friend,” Fannie said. She passed an annoyed glance to Reuben. “She just calls to chat, so I don't think it's anything you should take an interest in.”

Branden looked to Caroline, arched a brow, and turned back to Fannie. Careful not to upset her further with his tone, Branden said gently, “OK, Fannie, but now perhaps you could think about the FBI. The sheriff wants you to go into their protective custody, and they will probably be getting here in the next couple of hours.”

Broadcasting nervous anxiety, Fannie popped off her Shaker chair and paced in the center of the room. The professor stood, too, and held out Sheriff Robertson's letter. “Please, Fannie,” he said. “At least read what the sheriff wrote to you. Then if you don't like any of this, we can talk about it.”

“And what?” Fannie demanded in place. “Do it my way? Do what I want? Well, I want Howie back! Tell that to the sheriff!”

Caroline and Irma rose together. Reuben Gingerich stood and tried to embrace Fannie. With her hands raised, palms out, Fannie held them off. “Just tell me what's in the letter!” she shouted into the room. “What in the world does he want from me, now that Howie is dead?”

Softly, Irma said, “Fannie, at least you could read what he has written to you. Maybe that's not asking too much.”

“Why can't anybody just tell me what's in the stupid letter?” Fannie argued, clenching her fists. “What's so hard about that?”

Caroline answered, “None of us has read it, Fannie.”

Irma reached out for Fannie's elbow. “Please sit down. You're angry.”

Reuben sat back on his chair and said, “‘Be ye not angry,' Fannie. You know this as well as anyone.”

Startled, Fannie spun around to Reuben. She formed a reply with the leanings of a snarl, but she did not speak it. She looked to Irma, and Irma nodded her agreement with Reuben as she sat back down next to her husband. Abel had held to his seat on the deacon's bench, staring sadly at the floorboards while Fannie fumed.

Caroline reclaimed her seat, and the professor sat again, too. In the middle of the room, Fannie stood alone with soft tears spilling from her eyes. She looked long at her fiancé, wrestling with a tangle of anxieties that showed plainly in the mix of her expressions. She struggled for a moment and then seemed to acquire some degree of resolution. When she sat next to Reuben, she said simply and serenely, “I am sorry, Reuben.”

He took her hand into his lap without replying.

Fannie sat with her head bowed and said, “May I have the letter, Professor?”

Branden rose and handed the sealed envelope across to her. He sat back beside his wife. Fannie tore the edge of the envelope open and took out several folded pages of white paper covered with bold writing.

Fannie began reading. She progressed slowly through the first page and turned to the second. Before she had finished the second page, she turned back to read the first again. She finished the second page and turned to the third. Then she turned to read the fourth page. When she had finished reading the entire letter, she read it all again slowly, carefully, pausing often to think.

As Fannie was folding the letter to put it back into its envelope, Branden asked, “Fannie, do you want one of us to read it, too?”

“No.”

“Do you understand what the sheriff has told you?” Branden asked further.

“Yes.”

“Then have you decided what you wish to do?”

“I wish to be protected by the FBI,” Fannie said. “I want to go to the hotel that Sheriff Robertson has decided is best for me.”

Reuben asked, “Are you certain, Fannie?”

“Yes, Reuben, I am. Can you wait for me here?”

Reuben looked to Abel Mast for an answer. Abel nodded his consent.

To Fannie, Reuben said earnestly, “As long as it takes, Fannie. I'll wait for you as long as it takes.”