Whiskers of the Lion by P. L. Gaus Page A

erratic and hasty scrawl.
    â€œLike I said,” Newell added, “we’ve all been pushed a little too hard this summer.”
    â€œYou have any idea what this says?” Branden asked the captain.
    â€œAll I know is that you’re not to read it unless Fannie wants you to,” Newell said. “The sheriff was fairly specific about that.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Standing stiffly beside one of the west-facing windows in his pine-paneled office, the sheriff watched Stan Armbruster wrestle with an unspoken complaint. When Armbruster had snapped to, Robertson had instantly regretted his tone.
    â€œI’m sorry, Stan,” the sheriff said, “but I don’t need you to snap to attention like some soldier.” They had been talking about Armbruster’s finding the body of Howie Dent the day before.
    Armbruster turned to say something to the sheriff, but Robertson cut him off with a demand. “When did you call it in, Detective?”
    â€œAfter I found his body.”
    â€œAnd when should you have called it in?”
    â€œAs soon as I noticed that his car had been searched.”
    Robertson returned slowly to stand behind his desk. “That’s all I’m saying, Detective. That’s the only mistake you made.”
    Armbruster’s eyes searched the shelves behind the sheriff’s desk. He drew a deep breath and said, “I need to do something, Sheriff. Something useful.”
    Robertson sat heavily behind his desk. “You look as exhausted as I feel, Stan. I can’t use you like this.”
    â€œSheriff?”
    â€œCan you sleep?” Robertson inquired.
    â€œNo, Sheriff.”
    â€œThen can you rest?”
    â€œWhat?” Armbruster stammered.
    â€œI want you to go home and rest. Lie down. Sleep if you can.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou want to fix this, Detective?”
    â€œYou know I do!”
    â€œThen go home, lie down, and try to sleep for four hours. Four hours, Stan, not five.”
    â€œAnd then what?” Armbruster demanded.
    Robertson framed an impatient scowl, but he restrained himself. “That’s when Rachel is coming back in. That’s when I’ll need you back here, too.”
    â€œOK, why?” Armbruster pressed.
    Again, but with increasing difficulty, Robertson held himself in restraint. “Because, Stan, Rachel hasn’t been able to sleep, either,” he said, careful with his tone. “She’s bringing me something I want everyone to look at.”
    More confused and unsettled than ever, Armbruster asked, “What is it?”
    â€œBuilding plans, Armbruster. Building plans for the Hotel St. James.”
    â€œSo you do have a plan?” Armbruster challenged.
    â€œOf course!” Robertson barked.
    â€œYou going to tell anyone what it is?”
    Robertson rose out of his chair. “That’s enough, Detective. You be back here at three o’clock.”
    As he hesitated at the door, Armbruster asked, “Should I get Pat Lance?”
    â€œNo,” Robertson said, returning to stand alone at his window. “I’ve got something different for Lance.”

13
    Thursday, August 18
    10:15 A.M.
    IN A neighborhood in the south end of Millersburg, shielded behind a hill overlooking traffic in front of the Walmart on Route 62, Cal Troyer’s Church of Christ–Christian
sat in the center of a wide, sloping lawn
.
At the front edge of a gravel parking lot, a faded poster was stapled to the bottom of the church’s wooden sign. It showed a smiling Jesus in a robe, with long brown hair flowing over his shoulders, as he beckoned for a group of eager children to draw nearer for Vacation Bible School. Summer sun had weeks ago bleached most of the color from the poster. Under the plastic that was supposed to have protected the poster from rain, there were streaks and watermarks where moisture had faded the poster regardless. The hand-lettered dates