by P. L. Gaus
Lance pulled the suit out of the bags and peered into the bottom of each sack. In the second one, there was a sparkle of silver, and Lance lifted out a sterling tie chain. She put it in her pocket.
The clothes went back into the sacks, and Lance carried them out to the Dumpster to toss them onto the top of the pile. She shook her head and thought how much she wished Stan had done better for himself. In the Dumpster, there was worn and broken furniture, much of it little more than family hand-me-downs. There was rusty kitchenware and dented pots and pans. Chipped plastic glasses. Dated foodstuffs. And now old magazines and a ruined suit.
“Stan,” Lance said to the Dumpster, “you should have done better for yourself.”
From farther back on the lane, Lance heard the barking of dogs. She wandered back to the cages and watched the farmer ladle dog food into bowls.
Lance said, “Hi,” and the farmer returned her simple greeting. When he had set the bowls in the cages, he came out and said, “Armbruster was the best trainer my dogs ever had.”
Sadly, Lance replied, “I know,” and she turned for her car.
• • •
As she drove back to Millersburg, Lance thought of Armbruster’s phone. She thought of his pictures of her, and she wondered again, as she had done many times since she discovered them in the hospital, why he hadn’t ever shown them to her. Why he hadn’t ever spoken to her, to tell her how he felt. Why he had never asked her out.
East of Millersburg on SR 62, Lance turned south on 557 to head toward Charm. Halfway there, she turned onto the lane for Miller’s Bakery. She knew it had always been Armbruster’s favorite. Inside, under the dim lights of the gas ceiling mantles, she bought a maple cinnamon bun and had it boxed to carry it out.
Back on 557, Lance turned right behind a lumber truck, and she followed it around the many curves of the road into Charm. She parked at the Roadside Amish Restaurant, and she carried the little box with the cinnamon roll inside.
Stan Armbruster was seated in a booth beside the front windows. His left arm was cradled in a sling. On the table in front of him was the farmer’s special breakfast. Lance slid onto the bench seat beside him and pushed him gently sideways to make more room for herself. She gave him the box with the cinnamon roll and said, “Not that you need more food.”
As he opened the box, Armbruster said, “Thanks. I’ll save it for later.”
Lance smiled and laughed and shook her head. “We can split it, Detective.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, and when I finally get you out of that sling, you can start running laps. If you keep eating breakfast here, you’ll be as big as the sheriff.”
• • •
When Armbruster had finished his breakfast and a last cup of coffee, Pat slid off the booth’s seat and said to him, “Follow me back into town, Stan. I want to stop at the jail.”
Armbruster slid out and carried his bill and his box to the cash register. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” he said as he fished his wallet out of a back pocket. “I haven’t been back there yet.”
“I know, Stan,” Pat said. “We’re going to fix that today.”
In the restaurant’s lot beside Armbruster’s red Corolla, Lance said, “Robertson figures that it’s time for you to come off medical leave, Stan. And he’s grousing about Ricky, too.”
Armbruster unlocked his car and set the pastry box on the passenger’s seat. He straightened up beside the car and asked, “What’s with Ricky?”
“Half days. He goes up to Akron with Ellie every afternoon to see their babies. It’s going to be two more weeks before they can bring the children home. So Robertson has been squawking about how he has only one detective.”
Armbruster rolled his eyes and rapped the knuckles of his good hand against the window glass. “And has he needed more than one detective, lately? Has there been anything to detect?”
“Not really.” Lance laughed. “There hasn’t been a thing.”
“So what’s his problem?”
“He wants you back, Stan. At least for today. He wants me to bring you back to the jail today.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s lonely.”
“Right. I’m sure.”
“No, Stan. Just follow me into town. I’ll meet you on the front steps.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so, Detective. I do.”
• • •
Pat Lance opened the door into the jail’s front counter lobby, and she nudged Stan Armbruster through the door. They were all standing there to greet him.
Applause broke out, and pink heat blushed into the fair skin of Stan’s cheeks. As Pat steadied him with her arm looped into his, Stan stood inside the door and took it all in.
At the very front stood little Rachel Ramsayer, reaching up to shake Armbruster’s hand. Behind her were Professor Branden and his wife, Caroline. To the left, Ricky Niell stood beside his wife, Ellie. Beside Ellie was Pastor Cal Troyer. To the right, close to the counter, stood Chief Deputy Dan Wilsher and Captain Bobby Newell, both in their dress uniforms. Also in their dress uniforms were several deputies clustered behind the chief. Del Markely stood applauding behind her counter, and at the back corner of the counter, Melissa Taggert stood with her husband, the sheriff, who was sporting a new beard to mask the long pink scar on his face. Armbruster surveyed it all with a wide smile.
As the applause died away, Del’s voice boomed out, “OK, OK, now everybody just stand aside. I have something to present.”
She carried a paper sack out through the counter door, and she pulled the sheriff along with her. Robertson resisted at first, but Missy urged him forward with Del.
Once Del had Robertson and Armbruster positioned in the center of the lobby, and once the people had gathered around, she planted her feet wide and fluffed the bushy gray ponytail at the back of her head. She waved her arms for fanfare, and she bent over the sack. From it, she pulled a plaque, and she held it up to show it around. Framed behind glass were two service photographs, one of the old sheriff and one of young Armbruster.
“This is going on my wall,” Del announced with pride. She pushed her way back through the crowd to stand behind her counter. There she took out a nail and a hammer, and she pounded the nail into the knotty pine paneling over her radio consoles.
“Sheriff,” she declared loudly, “I hate this old pine paneling. You seriously need to remodel.”
Again there was applause. The sheriff waved a surrendering palm in the air. “OK, Del. Whatever you say.”
Del nodded and bowed with the flare of an accomplished magician. Then she hung the plaque on the nail and stood back to point to the inscription that was written underneath the photos of Robertson and Armbruster.
“STABBED IN THE LINE OF DUTY,” she read aloud. “STABBED, BUT TOO ORNERY TO DIE.”
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