The Names of Our Tears (23 page)

Niell groaned. “That’s not a call I want to make.”

*   *   *

Robertson hung up with Niell and threw his phone against the back cushion of the sofa. It bounced off the seat cushion and landed on the carpet next to Missy’s feet. “Cute, Bruce,” she said. “You really want to buy a new phone?”

Robertson retrieved his phone, stuffed it into his front bathrobe pocket, and flopped his full weight onto the sofa next to Missy.

“Bruce! Do you really think we need a new sofa?”

“Cut it out, Missy,” Robertson shot. More coolly, he said, “It’s just a phone.”

“What’s happened?” Missy asked. “That was Niell?”

“We’ve lost track of another witness.”

“Jodie Tapp?”

Robertson nodded unhappily. “She ducked out of a window at the Brandens’ place in Bradenton Beach.”

“So she’s running, too.”

Robertson stood up and paced barefoot along the length of the parlor carpet. He came back to the sofa, more frustrated than before, and sat heavily back down. Missy gave him an eye, and asked, “Doesn’t Ricky have any leads?”

The sheriff didn’t answer. Missy turned a page in her novel and let her husband stew. She read a page in silence and then said, “It all tells you that you’re right about Florida.”

“How’s that?”

“Two different girls are afraid of the same people. So, the Molinas really are connected to the people Jodie knows in Florida.”

“We kinda knew that already, Missy.”

“It’s new information, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not very much. And the Molinas are all I’ve got, now. And I wouldn’t have that if it weren’t for Rachel.”

“And Stan.”

“Yes, and Stan.”

“You’ve got Stan and Pat going up to Barberton tomorrow morning.”

Robertson didn’t respond.

“And you’ve got Ricky down in Sarasota.”

Nothing from the sheriff.

“So, what more can you do, Bruce?”

“Nothing,” the sheriff grumped. “Either I find one of these girls, or I’m sunk.”

“Let the DEA chase people in Florida. Let the BOLO turn up the Molinas, wherever they are. And let your people do their jobs, in Barberton and in Florida.”

Robertson threw up his hands. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

Inside his bathrobe pocket, his cell phone rang again. He stood and answered it gruffly, “What?”

He hesitated and said, “No, I’m sorry. I need to speak with you.”

Missy stood and came to his side, and the sheriff listened and answered alternately.

“Fannie, I need you to come home.

“OK, but where?

“Why not?

“Fannie, listen. We’ve got people working on this in Florida.

“No, they’re traveling down south of Lancaster—moving to Kentucky, they told the highway patrol—and they won’t give us a sketch of her, either.

“Fannie, it’s not safe out on the road.

“OK, but…

“No, Fannie. No. We don’t know where she is.

“But you and Jodie are making the same mistake. If they catch up with either of you, they’ll kill you. Just like Ruth.

“No, please, Fannie.

“That’s not the smart play, here.

“What?

“OK, but where?

“Why not?

“Fannie, let me send someone to you.

“Pat Lance. You trust her, don’t you?

“Just tell me where you are. I’ll fly her out tomorrow.

“Fannie…

“Wait.

“No, I can help.” Then the call went dead.

Again, the sheriff pitched his phone into the sofa. Missy said nothing.

“Won’t tell me where she’s gone,” Robertson mumbled. “Just that she’s headed someplace safe. With relatives.”

“Are you going to try to track her down?” Missy asked.

“She could be anywhere,” Robertson said. He picked his phone up from the couch and stuffed it back into his bathrobe pocket. “She thinks she’ll be safe with relatives, and all her Holmes County family is out taking a wagon train through the countryside, as if nothing in the world could go wrong.”

RICKY NIELL left the beach house early the next morning to meet Ray Lee Orton at the federal building in Bradenton, and the Brandens drove south past the tall, Spanish-tiled resort condominiums on Longboat Key. At New Pass, they joined the line of vehicles waiting for the drawbridge, and once the drawbridge had lowered into place, they crossed over to Lido Key, negotiated St. Armand’s Circle, and went over the high arching span of the white bridge on the John Ringling Causeway into downtown Sarasota. Turning right at the busy intersection with Tamiami Trail, they skirted the long curve of the city harbor on the right. Once past the tall white-stone and mirrored-glass condominiums on the left, they turned east on Bahia Vista Boulevard, heading to Miller’s Amish Restaurant and Clock Shoppe on Beneva, a few blocks north of Pinecraft village. The restaurant would open at nine thirty, and they hoped to speak with Jodie before that, if she showed up for work that morning.

When they reached the parking lot, there were eight cars and trucks parked at the back of the lot and one car in the front lot, with two older people sitting in the front seat with the windows down, waiting to be first in the breakfast line. The Brandens parked at the rear of the front lot, and another tourist’s vehicle
pulled in and parked near the front, causing the first couple to pop out and scurry up to the front door.

Caroline and the professor locked up, went around the back corner to the service entrance, and pushed through a screened door into a busy kitchen with a mix of Amish-dressed waitresses working at the sinks and long tables, and English-dressed cooks in hairnets working in front of hot stoves and ovens. A woman wearing a manager’s badge walked up stirring a large bowl of bread pudding.

“We’re not open yet,” she said. “Can you go around to the front?”

She was probably in her fifties, Caroline thought, dressed matronly, as a Mennonite woman. She stirred the bread mix with a large wooden spoon and gave an air of disdainful authority, which Caroline decided to challenge.

“We’re not customers,” she said curtly.

The professor pulled out his wallet and stepped forward to hand the manager his badge card.

The lady read it and said, “Reserve deputy. You’re not official?”

“As official as he needs to be,” Caroline said, and took the card back. “We’re looking for Jodie Tapp, and this is part of a DEA investigation.” She glanced back at her husband, and he held to his place without challenging the assertion.

“Jodie didn’t come in this morning,” the lady said.

Caroline asked, “What is your name, please?”

The manager hesitated, and Caroline said, “Again, Jodie Tapp is missing. My husband is a reserve deputy attached to the investigation. So what’s your name, and what can you tell us about Jodie Tapp?”

A sardonic smile broke out on the lady’s face and she said, striking another disdainful pose, “Miriam Hostettler. And my guess is that Jodie Tapp isn’t missing from anywhere.”

“Is that your real name,” Caroline asked, “or is that your stage name, for the tourists?”

“It’s my real name,” Hostettler asserted, turning back into the
busy kitchen. She angled a path between cooks and waitresses, and the Brandens followed her. At a long stainless table against the far wall, Hostettler put her bowl down and led the Brandens out into the dining room. From a podium by the front door, she drew out a roster, read down the list, looked up, and said, “Well, Jodie’s shift should have started at six. She helps in the kitchen before we open.”

“Is she frequently late for work?” Caroline asked.

“No. No, she’s not. I don’t really like her, but at least she’s always on time.”

Mike Branden came forward and asked, “Why don’t you like her?”

Hostettler picked up a gray tub of wrapped silverware and started setting tables. The Brandens followed her between the tables, and Caroline asked, “Is she not a good waitress?”

“She’s fine,” Hostettler said. “Just a phony, is all.”

Hostettler was dressed in a long, aqua skirt and a high-necked white blouse. She wore an apron over her bodice and down the front of her skirt to her hemline, with modest black stockings and soft black walking shoes on her feet. Her Mennonite prayer cover consisted of a small round patch of lace tied over the bun of her hair. Her glasses were silver, wire-rimmed, and round. She wore no makeup.

Caroline studied her clothes and said, “Anybody can dress Mennonite, Mrs. Hostettler. Are you saying Jodie was just dressing the part, but really wasn’t Mennonite?”

Hostettler paused beside a round table to face Caroline. “She’s not much for church, is all I know. And I don’t like the company she keeps.”

“All we know about her is that she works here and that she likes to surf,” the professor said. “She’s a windsurfer.”

“That’s all I really know, too,” Hostettler said. “But I’ve never seen her in church, and sometimes men come around.”

“That’s all?” Caroline challenged.

“They aren’t nice men,” Hostettler said, holding firm. “Jodie doesn’t seem to have nice friends.”

“You mean they’re
surfers
?” Caroline asked. “You don’t like surfers?”

Hostettler frowned through a long, thoughtful pause and eventually said, “There were some men with a fishing boat. And Jodie came in bruised. Like she’d been beaten.”

“That’s hardly a good reason to harbor ill-will toward Jodie,” Caroline said.

Unapologetically, Hostettler said, “I just don’t like to see that kind in my restaurant.”

“What do the other waitresses think of her?” Branden asked.

“My regulars don’t pay much attention to her. She takes to the snowbirds, mostly. They seem to like her a lot.”

“Do you hire a lot of temps?” Branden asked. “Girls from up north?”

Hostettler nodded and resumed her work at the tables. Caroline reached into the tub to help lay out place settings.

As they worked, Hostettler said, “Plenty of girls come here for a vacation. If they have experience, we hire them part-time so they can earn a little down here, and maybe stay longer.”

Branden asked, “Do you remember Fannie Helmuth?”

“Yes. She stayed almost two months last fall.”

“How about Ruth Zook?” Branden pressed.

“Just left, maybe a week ago.”

The Brandens exchanged a glance, but neither of them mentioned Ruth’s murder.

“Did Jodie know them?” Caroline asked. “Both Fannie and Ruth?”

“She knows them all, Mrs. Branden. Takes them to the beaches.”

A crashing of glass in the kitchen sent Hostettler rushing to the back, and Caroline said to her husband, “We need to tell her about Ruth.”

Branden agreed, and they waited for Hostettler to return. When she did, they told her about Ruth’s murder and Fannie’s being missing. Hostettler dropped heavily onto a chair, saying, “This can’t be true. Do you mean
our
Ruth Zook, from Ohio?”

“From Charm.” Caroline nodded. She sat across the table from Hostettler. “Ruth took an extra suitcase home, and there were some drugs inside. It got her murdered.”

“Drugs?”

“Cocaine,” the professor said, still standing beside the table. Hostettler looked stricken, so he sat down, too.

“I don’t understand,” Hostettler said. “I don’t much care for Jodie, but she’s not the type to be mixed up with that sort of thing. Not in a million years.”

“We think Ruth was coerced,” Branden said. “We think she and Fannie were coerced.”

“Fannie? I thought you said it was Ruth?”

“Fannie that we know of,” Branden said, “but maybe Ruth, too. We’re not sure how it all worked, but maybe both of them were involved.”

Hostettler stared blankly at the backs of her hands. “Fannie and Jodie were good friends. I’m not sure about Ruth and Jodie.”

“Mrs. Hostettler,” Caroline said, “is it like Jodie that she wouldn’t come to work?”

“Not without calling first. I have a policy on that. She’s usually quite conscientious.”

“So she
is
a good worker,” Caroline said.

“Yes, I just don’t like some of the company she keeps.”

“You mean surfers?” Branden asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Like Sergeant Ray Lee Orton?”

“Who?”

“A surfer, Mrs. Hostettler. He’s also a sergeant with the Bradenton Beach Police Department. He likes kite surfing.”

Hostettler looked puzzled.

Branden said, “You can’t assume that all surfers are scoundrels.”

“I don’t,” Hostettler said. “Just the ones that beat Jodie up.”

Branden smiled. “Yes.”

“Do you remember anything about those men?” Caroline asked.

Hostettler closed her eyes to remember. “Two younger men. Had a boat on a big trailer.” She opened her eyes. “They were here only a couple of times, and I told them they couldn’t bring that big boat into my parking lot. It took up too many spots for the customers. After Jodie got bruised up, they didn’t come around anymore.”

“When was that?” Caroline asked.

“It was back when Fannie was here. September? We get so many snowbirds. I can’t remember them all.”

Hostettler stood and smoothed out the front of her apron. “I need to tell the other girls about Ruth.”

Caroline stood and held out her hand, saying, “Thank you for helping.”

“Sure.”

Branden stood, too, and asked, “If Jodie comes in, will you call us?”

Hostettler nodded, and Branden handed his card to her, saying, “My cell’s on the back.”

Hostettler took the card, slipped it into her apron pocket, started for the kitchen door, and then turned back. “Why are you asking about Jodie?”

Branden said, “We told her about Ruth last night. We thought she was resting at our cottage, but she ducked out a bedroom window.”

“And then what?” Hostettler asked.

Caroline said, “All we know is that she hasn’t gone home.”

*   *   *

While Caroline was driving back over the bay bridge, Bruce Robertson called the professor’s cell phone. Without preamble, he asked Branden, “Jodie Tapp?”

“Nothing yet,” Branden said. “She didn’t go in to work this morning.”

“I got a call from Fannie Helmuth last night. On Howie Dent’s phone.”