Whiskers of the Lion (15 page)

Thursday, August 18

7:15
P.M.

STANDING OUT at the curb in front of Ellie's house, Sheriff Robertson called the professor on his cell. When Branden answered, Robertson asked, “Where are you with things, Mike?”

“Caroline is going to go with Fannie to the hotel,” Branden said. “They've decided on that much. Now Gingerich is haranguing them about books, knitting, and Fannie's liberties while in custody.”

Robertson pulled the door open on his Crown Vic. “Would I like this Gingerich?”

“Quite a lot, Bruce,” Branden answered. “You'd like this Gingerich quite a lot. Anyway, I estimate it'll be another half hour. Then Caroline and Fannie will be headed to the hotel, and I'll be riding home with Lance and Armbruster.”

“You won't drive your car?” Robertson asked.

“No. Caroline is going to follow Fannie in our car. She wants to be able to drive home to check on Ellie during the day.”

“Good. Ellie can use the help.”

“You've seen her?”

“Just now. She's struggling, Mike. But how is Caroline going to handle all of this? It's too much.”

“It's Caroline, Bruce. If she doesn't think she can take care of Ellie, she'll hire a nursing service or something.”

“Mike, she's worried about a miscarriage.”

“Can you blame her? Given our history?”

“No. I suppose not. Look, Mike, are you still dressed Amish?”

“Yes, but they tell me here that it's more like conservative Mennonite attire. It'll do, they assure me, since Gingerich is from a Michigan congregation, and dress is not always similar. So nobody would expect Gingerich to dress exactly like a man from Holmes County, anyway. They assure me that the outfit will do the job.”

“OK, then is Lance dressed like Fannie? That'd be more critical.”

“Yes, only they had to make her an outfit. And I gather they gave her some lessons on how an Amish woman should behave.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Mostly it's aspects of proper public behavior. Being demure and submissive. Reserved. That sort of thing.”

“How did that go over with Lance?”

“You can guess. But look, Bruce, I've been thinking. Whatever Dent's killers got out of his VW, it didn't help them find Fannie.”

“Or she'd already be dead,” Robertson said in agreement.

“Precisely,” Branden said. “And whatever they left behind at the Helmuth farm, we have to understand that those are things that they thought they didn't need.”

“Yeah, Mike, but I've been trying to guess what they might have taken away with them.”

“Items from his backpack,” Branden said. “Among other things.”

“I suppose. If so, when we catch them, they'll have something of Dent's in their possession.”

“They wouldn't be that stupid.”

“But maybe they are stupid, Mike. I mean, think about it. It was a mistake to leave anything at all in the VW.”

“Or even to leave the VW sitting right there in the open,” Branden said.

“OK, Dent must have wanted his car for some reason. Otherwise, why would he risk coming home for it?”

“I think Fannie expected that he'd come back here to Middlefield,” Branden said. “He could have driven Fannie and Reuben anywhere they wanted to go.”

“Do you know where they were going next?”

“Not yet. I'll ask. But Fannie said that Howie loved that VW. Maybe he just wanted it, and they really hadn't figured out where they'd go next.”

Robertson climbed in behind the wheel. “Call me if you get more, Mike. And call when you are actually leaving Middlefield.”

“OK. It might take more time than I thought. The FBI doesn't understand a single thing about Amish ways.”

“I'm counting on it, Mike. And with Caroline there to help her, it'll be even better for Fannie.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has either you or Caroline read the letter I wrote to Fannie?”

“No, should we?”

“Caroline should.”

“Right now?”

“Once she settles in at that hotel.”

“What's in the letter, Bruce?”

Robertson started his engine. “Mike, I just told her where I thought she'd be the safest.”

 • • • 

When the professor punched out of the call, Fannie had already climbed into the side door of the panel van with her suitcase. Reuben Gingerich was standing in the rain at the open door, speaking to her. A line of rainwater was spilling off the back rim of his straw fedora. He seemed focused on Fannie, oblivious to the rain, and he stood immobile there beside the open door of the van, talking softly. Branden could see Fannie nodding, as if she were reassured by Reuben's words.

Branden crossed the gravel to his wife, who was opening the driver's door of their sedan. “Are you ready for this?” he asked as he came up to her. “You didn't bring anything for an overnight stay.”

Caroline covered him with her umbrella, embraced him with her free arm, and said, “As soon as I have her settled, I'll go out shopping somewhere, Michael. To buy clothes, groceries, and toiletries.”

“OK,” the professor said. “I'm riding back with Stan and Pat.”

“Right.”

“There might be some trouble.”

“I know, Michael,” Caroline said. “I trust you.”

“And how about the FBI, Caroline? Do you trust them? You going to give them a break?”

“Not likely.”

“Good. I don't think they get it.”

“Get what?”

“Anything, really, and Bruce says you should read the letter he wrote to Fannie. Once you get to the hotel.”

“Fannie has it?”

“I presume so.”

Twenty yards away, Reuben turned from the panel van's sliding door to address Agent Parker again. His voice was only a whisper, but his posture was stern. Caroline watched Reuben and said to her husband, “That's fun to see. A plain Amish man confronting the exalted FBI.”

“Right now, I don't think Agent Parker could tell you who he's dealing with.”

“Right now,” Caroline smirked, “I don't think Agent Parker could tell you Peter Pan's first name.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Are you going to carry a gun, Michael?”

“Always. Under my vest.”

“The three-eighty?” Caroline asked. “Or the nine?”

“The little three-eighty.”

“It's not big enough, Michael.”

“It's easy to conceal.”

“Take the nine-millimeter,” Caroline insisted.

“I'll be with plenty of people who have guns.”

“Take the nine-millimeter in an ankle holster.”

“OK, but I'll have to get it from home.”

“So get it, Michael. Before you turn in tonight. Before you do anything else.”

The professor agreed, and then a wide grin stretched across his face. “Peter Pan's first name?”

Caroline returned his smile and kissed him under her umbrella. “I'm just saying, Michael. They really don't know who they're dealing with.”

Thursday, August 18

9:25
P.M.

WHEN STAN Armbruster pulled to the curb in front of the Hotel St. James in Millersburg, Sheriff Robertson was waiting at the front entrance with an umbrella. Dressed in the clothes that Irma and Fannie had made for her, Pat Lance got out of the backseat of Armbruster's cruiser, carrying her suitcase. The professor, still dressed Amish, slid over on the backseat and got out behind Lance. Robertson held the umbrella for them as they hurried into the hotel lobby, and then the sheriff stood guard while Lance and Branden registered at the black marble counter for their rooms. In uniform, Deputy Ryan Baker was posted at the back alley door, at the far end of the hotel's narrow lobby. When Stan Armbruster knocked on the outside of the alley door, Baker opened it for him. Armbruster had parked his car in the lot behind the hotel. Another deputy was already at his post outside the elevator on the third floor, and he was also in uniform.

Once Professor Branden and Detective Lance had the keys to their rooms, Robertson and Armbruster rode with them in the elevator to the third floor. As Armbruster watched from the end of the hall near the elevator, Branden, Lance, and Robertson headed for their rooms at the other end of the hall. Branden entered room 5 briefly, dropped the satchel he had brought from home on the bed, and came out directly to the door to room 6. There, Pat Lance had already opened her door and entered, and Branden found her at the back of the room with Robertson, inspecting the lock on the suite door to Robertson's room, number 7. Branden came forward to say to Robertson and Lance, “There's not a door between five and six. Is that how you want it? Because, five can make a suite with four, but not with six.”

“I know,” Robertson said. “I doubt you'll spend much time in five.”

“I'll need to sleep,” Branden said. “Some, anyway.”

“There'll be at least one of us in room seven, Mike. Probably more than that at any given time. If you need to get some rest, that's going to be enough, I think.”

“I suppose.” Branden shrugged. “I just dropped my bag. Left a light on.”

At a corner table, Robertson switched on a light for Lance and said, “We need to get some dinner across the street. They're going to close at ten.”

Armbruster appeared at the door to room 6 and asked, “Am I going to dinner, Sheriff?”

“Negative, Stan,” Robertson said. “Get some sleep. Be back here at six thirty in the morning.”

Armbruster acknowledged his orders and left.

Once Lance had set out some toiletries in her bathroom and laid some clothes in a dresser drawer, she locked up and allowed Robertson and the professor to escort her to the elevator. Then she allowed them to escort her through the first-floor lobby. She was wearing the white organdy prayer Kapp over a bun she had made of her brown wig. Her own short blond hair was hidden under the wig.

Taking Fannie's instructions, Lance wore no makeup and no jewelry other than a copper wristband she had borrowed from Irma, which everyone in Holmes County would recognize as the bracelet favored by the Amish for its benefits in alleviating joint pain and arthritis. Otherwise, Lance was dressed as plainly and as demurely as any proper Amish maiden, in a long Amish dress in the approved color of dusty rose. The dress was pleated seven times in front and four times over the rump. It was gathered correctly over the shoulders, and its sleeves reached beyond Lance's elbows. The hem of her dress reached past her ankles to brush the tops of her soft black walking shoes. Lance's white day apron was entirely plain. It covered her bodice and front, falling to within precisely two inches of her dress's hem. The apron draped broadly back over her shoulders and across her shoulder blades, to tie in back at her waist. Properly, the ties were hidden in back, under a roll of the apron's back hem. Finally, though no one would see it unless she was seated, Lance also wore a suitable pair of modest black hose under her dress.

Altogether, very little of Lance's skin was exposed. Only her hands, her wrists, and her face. She was plain and unadorned. Apart from those who already knew her, she would be indistinguishable from any other Amish woman of Fannie's sect.

Lance understood that this was just as it should be. That was the whole point, wasn't it? She reminded herself of the oddity of plainness as she crossed the lobby, and she reminded herself again as she crossed Jackson Street under the professor's umbrella. She needed to appear plain, simple, and unremarkable. She needed this strange and unremarkable quality of similitude, Fannie had assured her, and she needed demure behavior to match.

As she crossed the street in her Amish attire, Lance could hear the rain pelting the fabric of the umbrella over her head, but she thought her hearing seemed strangely muffled. She could see the streetlights shimmering in the dark rain water at her feet, but she thought her sight seemed strangely tunneled, as if anyone seeing her would recognize her not as an individual, but only as an indistinguishable representative of her sect. She wondered as she walked in the rain between the professor and the sheriff whether, if people could not see her as a person, would she similarly lose sight and recognition of others? She wondered how her attire would cause others to treat her differently. She wondered if she could treat others as she was now supposed to do. Clearly, Lance thought, the coaching that Fannie and Irma had given her would be wholly inadequate for so strange a charade as this.

Her behavior beside the professor—her fiancé—needed to be perfect. It needed to be restrained and respectful. Demure and submissive. Let him open the heavy wooden door at the Hotel Millersburg. Now let him take your elbow to guide you down the carpet to the hotel's restaurant. Stand beside him quietly as he chooses the table. Pull your own chair at the table? No. That was a mistake. He'll pull it out, but you can sit yourself down.

In this state of indeterminate confusion, Lance's meal at the Hotel Millersburg passed like an irretrievable dream, as she focused so intently, and worried so much, about doing everything properly. Fannie and Irma had told her what to do. They had coached her carefully on how to do it. But it seemed so foreign to Lance. So distant. So utterly impersonal.

“Fannie,” she heard someone say at the edge of her awareness.

Again, someone said, “Fannie.”

A light touch on her arm brought her some focus. “Fannie,” the professor was saying. “Aren't you going to eat something?”

Slowly she turned her head to face the professor to her right. “I'm sorry?”

“Aren't you going to eat something, Fannie? You look like you've been thinking about something.”

“I guess I have been,” Lance said. “It's a strange way to live.”

To her left, Robertson said, “Fannie, I really think you should eat something.”

Lance looked down at her plate. She had ordered a chicken Alfredo, with some sautéed vegetables. Someone had brought the meal to her. She took up her fork and began to eat. “Sorry, Reuben,” she said. “I think I was dreaming.”

As a waiter filled water glasses at their table, Robertson made a point of speaking out. “Fannie, eat something while you can. Then we'll get you back over to the St. James.”

Lance looked with curiosity at each of her dinner partners, and she wondered what they were thinking. The sheriff, in his gray suit and red power tie, probably thinking about tomorrow's schedule. The professor, in his suit of Amish clothes, probably thinking about his wife. Ryan Baker across the table from her, in his deputy's uniform, probably wondering about Lance's costume.

There were waiters circling among the other tables in the dim, carpeted room. All around her, the hotel's patrons were
English
. She and the professor were the only Amish people there.

She gave the room a quick study and realized it was easy to spot the tourists. They were the ones staring at her and at her Amish-dressed fiancé. The locals were paying her scant attention. But the tourists in the corner booth were staring at her. They were staring at the professor, too.

These were prying, intrusive stares that objectified her more than Lance had realized was possible. It was worse than the stares the boys had given her at college. Worse than the stares of strange men in malls. These stares came with whispers of curiosity. As if she were on display for their entertainment, rather than a person who wanted decent privacy during a meal.

Lance groaned, shook her head, and began again to eat her pasta.

Robertson asked, “What, Fannie? Your meal's not good?”

“My meal is fine, Sheriff,” Lance whispered as she ate. “Can't say that I appreciate the tourists.”

 • • • 

Lance entered her room at the St. James and waited for Robertson to enter behind her and close the door. The professor had already retired to the adjacent room. Once Robertson had some lights on, Lance pulled her Kapp off and then her brown wig. Standing in her Amish dress and apron, with her blond English hair exposed like a punctuating anachronism, Lance sputtered, “I don't think I can do this.”

Robertson sat in a corner chair. “What, Lance? The outfit or the attitude?”

“Either one!” Lance answered. She sat heavily on the bed and began to untie the back laces of her apron. Abruptly she stopped and took up her Kapp
and brown wig. “It's too much to remember, Sheriff. Like my hair. I'm allowed to take my hair down only for my husband. And this Kapp? I can never take it off in public. Or even most of the time at home. So really, Bruce, I can't do any of it. Not convincingly. Nobody's going to believe that I'm an Amish woman.”

“You did fine, Lance.”

“I don't know how they do it,” Lance complained. “They're all bottled up, worried every minute that they'll do something wrong.”

“That's not how it is, Lance. They grow up like this. It's second nature to them.”

“Well, it's not second nature to me!”

“You'll get the hang of it.”

“I don't think so.”

“Look, Lance,” Robertson argued. “You don't have to say much. And you don't have to talk to everyone. It's showing you around that's the important thing here.”

“Who will I need to talk to?”

“A banker and a pharmacist. A real estate agent, and maybe a clerk at a convenience store. Maybe someone in a restaurant.”

“Oh, is that all!”

“It'll be OK, Lance. You halfway looked Amish to start with.”

“Oh, I look Amish, that's for certain. I had tourists staring at me during dinner.”

“Tourists always stare at the Amish, Lance. You've known that for years.”

“Yeah, well, it's the first time they've stared like this at me.”