Whiskers of the Lion by P. L. Gaus

Molina and Jodie Tapp. Caroline picked up the Jodie Tapp license and said, “Michael, this must be an old photo.”
    â€œMaybe,” the professor said. He examined the license more closely. “It still has ten months until it expires, so it can’t be too old.”
    â€œOK,” Caroline said, “but this is not really what she looks like.”
    From the hallway to the Brandens’ left, Captain Newell came in behind Del’s counter. He pushed out through the hinged counter door and asked, “Tapp’s license photo is not accurate?”
    The professor gathered the pages while Caroline explained. “We remember her hair was different in Florida, Bobby. And she had quite a tan.”
    â€œThat’s all we have,” Newell said. “It’s the most current photo we have of her.”
    â€œJodie looks rougher than this,” Caroline said. “Salted and windblown, like she’s been out in the surf all her life.”
    â€œTruth is,” Newell said, “we don’t know for certain about either of them. Tapp or Molina. They each could have changed their appearance. Their hair especially.”
    â€œI’ll recognize Jodie, regardless,” Caroline said. “We talked with her for a long time in Sarasota last April.”
    The professor had finished sorting the pages back into the manila envelope, and he said, “Really, Bobby, the sketch of Fannie Helmuth makes her look a lot like Pat Lance.”
    â€œShe does look like Lance,” Newell agreed. “And Pat’s German, too.”
    Caroline agreed. “Pat could pass for Amish, if she dressed the part.”
    Newell smiled a bit, but said nothing further. He pushed his thick black glasses up on the bridge of his nose and rubbed at the patches of black hair over his ears. He looked to the professor as if he wanted to explain something, but he held his peace. So the professor took Fannie’s sketch back out of the envelope, turned it over, and took out a pen. “Bobby, we need an address for the Middlefield scribe who wrote to the
Budget
.”
    â€œI’m still trying to get that,” Newell said. “The editors at the
Budget
didn’t want to give it to us.”
    â€œWhy not?” Branden asked.
    â€œThey publish the scribe’s name and the church district with each letter. But they have never published any addresses.”
    â€œHow long before you know for certain?” Branden asked.
    â€œI’ll call you,” Newell shrugged. “By the time you get to Middlefield, I’ll either have it or I won’t.”
    â€œCan you get a warrant for it?” Branden asked.
    â€œWe’re trying.”
    The professor tucked the sketch back into his envelope and changed the subject. “Bobby, what’s your read on Bruce these days?”
    â€œYou mean that he’s worried about Fannie?”
    â€œMore,” Caroline said, stepping closer. “He’s hesitant.”
    Newell pursed his lips. “I wasn’t sure anybody else had noticed.”
    Del Markely turned around from her consoles and leaned out over the counter. With her hand cupping the padded microphone of her headset, she said, “Deputies are talking a little about this, Captain.” Then she turned back to attend to her calls.
    Newell pulled the Brandens away from the counter and led them toward the front entrance. Whispering as if he were organizing a conspiracy, he said, “We’ve been pushing everybody too hard this summer. Bruce isn’t the only one whose nerves are shot.”
    Before either of the Brandens could respond, Newell pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the professor. “It’s for Fannie,” he said. “From Bruce.”
    The professor read the inscription on the envelope: “For Fannie Helmuth. Confidential. From Sheriff Robertson.” He showed it to his wife. It was written in Robertson’s