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

for the Bible School sessions were from earlier in July.
    Robertson parked his blue Crown Vic on the gravel lot in front of the sign and proceeded down the narrow walkway beside the long white building, toward the pastor’s office at the back of the church. It was a wood-frame building that Cal himself had helped to build many years earlier. Petunias in a variety of colors were planted along the walkway, and the flower bed was mulched and well tended. To Robertson’s right, the lawn on the hillside had been recently mowed and trimmed. At the back corner, a ladder stood against the siding, and a bucket of white paint hung on a metal hook from an upper rung of the ladder. Robertson realized that he couldn’t remember a summer when Cal hadn’t been painting one part of the building or another.
    Robertson reached the end of the walkway and turned left. On the door, Cal’s name was printed in small yellow letters. Robertson paused before entering.
    Cal had
always
been his friend. At least that was how it seemed now to the sheriff. With Mike Branden, they had come up through the grades together, starting in kindergarten. The relationship between pastor and lawman had not always been smooth, especially on disagreements over how to handle the often inscrutable Amish. But before he pushed through Cal’s door, Robertson reminded himself that, regardless of their differences on issues, Cal Troyer was like Mike Branden in one important way. His friendship had never faltered. On cases where Robertson had needed him the most, Cal Troyer had always come through.
    Robertson knocked and entered. Cal was seated behind his desk, writing on a pad. Religious books, pamphlets, and tracts lined the shelves to Cal’s right. Framed photos from foreign mission trips lined the wall to his left. On the wall behind him hung a simple cross of rough-hewn timbers, almost as tall as Cal himself. Robertson took a seat in front of the pastor’s desk and settled in as best he could amid the religious trappings of the office.
    Troyer’s white beard and hair were once again trimmed close, almost as close as the sheriff’s sixties flattop. In April, when Cal had ministered to Emma Wengerd over her grief at the loss of her adoptive sister Ruth Zook, Cal’s hair had been considerably longer.
    Cal was short and muscular. His large eyes were set wide on a broad face that was inclined most usually toward a smile. His profession lay behind a pulpit, but he earned his keep as a carpenter, and from years of physical labor, his large hands were rough and his thick fingers were knotted at the knuckles. This time of year, Robertson remembered, it was just as likely to find Cal helping Amish relatives with a harvest as it was to find him in his office. Today, however, the pastor was in, and Robertson was relieved.
    Troyer smiled but didn’t speak. Robertson nodded a silent and reserved hello. Cal rose and stepped to a corner credenza, where he poured black coffee into two mugs that had been drying upside down on a folded paper towel. Robertson took his mug, smelled the brew, and decided it wasn’t too stale. He drank gratefully and set the mug on a coaster on the front corner of the pastor’s metal desk.
    â€œYour Bible School sign is a little faded,” the sheriff said.
    Troyer smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to inspect the condition of my sign.”
    Robertson shrugged and drank more coffee. “I see you cut your hair short. You ever gonna decide on one style?”
    A wide grin spread over Troyer’s face, but he said nothing.
    â€œFannie Helmuth,” Robertson said, and he shook his head with doubts.
    â€œSomething bad to report?” Cal asked. “Or have you found her?”
    â€œNo,” Robertson said, “but we found Howie Dent yesterday morning.”
    â€œI heard. I’ve been worried about Fannie.”
    Robertson recounted the events since