by P. L. Gaus
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.”
17
Thursday, August 18
2:55 P.M.
PAT LANCE was the first to arrive for the sheriff’s meeting. She came into his office wearing all black—jeans, a button-down blouse, and soft walking shoes. She set a plaid valise against the wall inside the office door, and she crossed to the Clay Street windows.
Robertson was seated. He rose from his desk chair and picked up the valise to gauge its weight. “Not too heavy,” he remarked and set the valise back down.
Lance shook her head. “It doesn’t take much, Sheriff. Dress, apron, bonnet, and a brown wig.”
“How are you going to carry, wearing a dress?” Robertson asked as he sat back behind his desk.
“Thigh holster under the dress.”
“Any backup?”
“An ankle holster.”
“That should be adequate. Is the dress going to cover it all?”
Lance laughed. “Amish dresses cover everything, Sheriff.”
Rachel Ramsayer arrived. She chose the low leather chair at the front corner of Robertson’s desk. She pushed herself back to lounge with her feet off the floor, and she said, “Nothing on any of the reports, Sheriff.”
“How many are you following?” Robertson asked.
“Pretty much everything. Arrest records and bookings, nationwide. If anyone finds Molina, we’ll know about it as soon as the documentation is posted.”
“Long shot,” Robertson commented.
“Better than nothing, Sheriff.”
Scowling a bit, Stan Armbruster entered and said, “I couldn’t sleep, Sheriff.” He was dressed in a new change of clothes, slacks and a knit shirt.
“Did you rest any?” Robertson asked.
“A little, I suppose,” Armbruster said. He turned for the coffeepot.
When Bobby Newell arrived, he said, “I haven’t been able to find any taxi or limo service that brought Howie Dent into town.”
“He may have gotten a ride down from Middlefield,” Robertson said. “Maybe on one of the private Amish-hauler vans.”
“I’ve also been back to the county garage,” Newell said. “To search the VW again. There’s nothing there. Just what we already processed. An empty backpack, and the contents of the glove compartment and trunk. None of it is remarkable. There’s nothing from the VW that can help us.”
In uniform, Deputy Ryan Baker stepped in from the squad room adjacent to Robertson’s office, and two more deputies came in behind him. Chief Deputy Wilsher followed them. He entered the office and leaned back against the wall beside Robertson’s display of arm patches. “Is there coffee?” he asked, and beside the coffee credenza, Stan Armbruster said, “It’s stale, Chief.”
Wilsher came forward, switched off the brewer, and carried the carafe back to the squad room. When he returned with fresh water, Missy Taggert had arrived. She was seated in one of the wooden chairs in front of the sheriff’s desk. “Make it strong, Dan,” she said to Wilsher. Wearily, she pulled off her surgical cap and let her hair out of its bun. “Bruce,” she said, “have you found her?”
Seated at his desk, the sheriff said, “Mike Branden called. They’re following a slow buggy to a farm north of Middlefield. The scribe intends to introduce them to Fannie, if she agrees to talk to them.”
“Does she have a choice?” Cal Troyer asked as he entered.
Del Markely stepped in behind Troyer and said, “The professor called again. They’ve started for the scribe’s house.”
“Thanks,” Robertson said, and Del returned to her station at the front counter.
As she left, the sheriff answered Cal Troyer’s question. “She has a choice, Cal. It’s her decision.”
Robertson stood. “Some of you know parts of my plan, but none of you knows it all. We’re going to go over most of it, but Pat and Stan need to leave for Middlefield soon, so I want Cal to talk to us first.”
When the sheriff stepped out from behind his desk, he motioned for Cal to take his place. Cal stood behind the desk to speak. “You probably all know more about Amish people than you realize. We’re surrounded by their culture. You know that Amish people are more conservative than Mennonites. What Bruce wants me to explain in some detail, I think, is Fannie’s particular sect. That requires a little history. So, Sheriff, how much detail do you want?”
Standing at the side of his desk, the sheriff spoke first to the others. “Dan has made fresh coffee. Take what you want. But Cal, we need to know specifics about Fannie and her immediate family. Also about relatives who may still live in the county. We know her brother moved his family to Kentucky, but maybe there are others.”
“I don’t think there are that many living here anymore,” Cal said. “Most have moved away, to find cheaper farmland.”
“Then whatever you think is relevant,” Robertson said. “She’s been traveling between settlements in Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio. Will that have caused her to cross lines between different Amish sects? Or would she always have stayed only with her own kind?”
“She’s not extreme conservative Old Order,” Cal said. “Not Schwartzentruber, anyway. So she would have been willing to cross between sects. Her ride to someplace new would have been more important to her than the destination, as long as that was Amish or Mennonite of some sort. Almost any Amish or Mennonite group would have taken her in.”
“OK,” Robertson said. “Start with her family history.”
Cal pulled Robertson’s desk chair out and sat down. “First time in the big chair,” he chuckled.
Robertson laughed, and some tension eased in the room. The sheriff took the last chair in front of his desk, and the others drew nearer to listen. The coffeepot stopped chattering, and Dan Wilsher poured a mug for Cal and set it on the sheriff’s desk. Others got coffee for themselves as Cal began to speak.
“First,” Cal said, “you should understand the origins of the Beachy Fellowship. Most people don’t consider them to be Amish anymore, because around 1958 they agreed to own and drive cars. They call traditional Amish people the ‘Horse and Buggy People.’
“Anyway, after they realized they held similar opinions on car transportation, seven families broke away from their Old Order district. They organized a new congregation and asked Uria Shetler to move to Ohio from Virginia, to lead their fellowship. Well, rather they asked him to give ministerial leadership. It was David Miller from Oklahoma who served as their first bishop.
“They held their first worship service at an old schoolhouse north a
nd west of Berlin. They weren’t popular with former Amish friends and neighbors, and during the service, someone let the air out of all their tires.
“Soon after that, some more families from Sugarcreek joined the congregation. Then they drew lots to see who would serve as minister, and the lot fell to Roman Mullet.
“They built a church building, and Amish people didn’t like that, either. Amish people are supposed to worship at the farm of one of their congregants. Mostly they still worship in barns. Anyway, the church building is east of Berlin, out on SR 39. Roman Beachy was made a deacon in 1960. By then, there were other congregations like this one. Maybe not perfect replicas, but they were similar regarding modern machines like cars. These types of congregations are called the New Order Amish, generally.”
Robertson asked, “Is the Bethel Fellowship one of these? That’s the one on 39, right?”
“Yes,” Cal said. “But the New Order Amish are not always identical. The Bethel Fellowship is just one. The congregations vary in what they allow. They have it in common only that they permit certain types of modern machines.”
“Cars,” Robertson said, “but what else?”
“Bicycles early on,” Cal said.
“But,” Pat Lance said, “almost any kind of Amish person rides a bike these days.”
“Yes, now they do,” Cal said. “But they don’t always use power lawn mowers, for instance. Or garden tillers, or chain saws, or hay balers that pick up the bales.”
“Some use balers?” Robertson asked. “But not the kind that will pick up the bales?”
“Right,” Cal said. “Another example. Some New Order Amish have decided to use milking machines, but others don’t permit them.”
“It’s endless,” Armbruster said. “The differences, I mean.”
“Yes,” Cal said, “but they all know the differences. They know who is who, and they know who they should tolerate and who they should ‘hold off.’”
“Over garden tillers?” Captain Newell asked.
“Yes. And phones. And storm fronts on buggies.”
Wilsher asked, “The ones who drive cars, Cal. Are these the Black Bumper Amish?”