The Amish Clockmaker (46 page)

Fortunately, the young police officer remembered me and didn't seem bothered by my tracking him down to ask for some help. The event turned out to be some sort of fund-raiser, and as soon as there was a break in traffic, he was able to take a few moments to speak with me.

Once I had his attention, I explained the situation with the expansion, the property dispute, and my resulting need to find the man who had lived in my house before his mother sold it to our family.

“I'm not sure how I can help you, Matthew. The police don't keep tabs on people.”

“This one, they may have.” I proceeded to give Nick the basic story about Clayton Raber. “What I'm wondering is if the police report would have included Clayton's forwarding address. Would he have been required to give it in case they needed to reach him in the future?”

Nick thought for a moment, obviously intrigued by my dilemma. “It depends on how ‘closed' the case actually was. You'd have to get a look at the report yourself.”

“I filed a request for it, but they said it can take up to five days. I was hoping to talk to the detectives sooner than that.”

Nick let out a short laugh. “Forget five days. Yeah, you'll hear back in five days, but all that letter will say is that the records are old and it will take thirty days to process your request instead. You said fifty-five, right? I highly doubt anything that ancient has been computerized.”

I rubbed the back of my neck and sighed. “Thirty days? I can't wait that long, Nick. Is there any way you could find out for me who handled the case back then? If the person's still alive, maybe they would remember something about where Clayton might have gone.”

He studied me for a moment, concern in his eyes. “I know you need to find this guy for the sake of your business, but the fifties were a long time ago. Whoever investigated the case is probably long gone by now. Dead, I mean,” he clarified.

“Maybe so, maybe not. What I've been told is that Clayton Raber is more than likely still alive. We just don't know where.”

Nick was quiet for a moment, and then he nodded. “I can talk to some of the older guys on the force. One of them might know. How can I reach you if I find out something?”

I gave him the phone number to the tack shop but told him to feel free to stop by the store or the house if that were easier—or faster.

“Okay, I'll try to get back to you soon as I can, one way or the other.”

With that, we shook hands again and parted ways. I should feel hopeful, I told myself as I unhitched the horse, but I knew he was right. The fifties were a long time ago. Chances were, everyone connected with the case back then was long gone by now.

T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

A
ll Tuesday morning I worked in the store, making certain to always be within earshot of the phone if it rang. I hated waiting around for a call when I could be out searching for more clues about finding Clayton, but Nick Iverson was the best lead I had right now, and he'd said he would get in touch with me as soon as he could.

Amid all of the waiting, a part of me also kept hoping Becky might call. Surely she'd read the brochure by now. Would the new information it provided be enough to get her to open up to me? After watching her walk away from us yesterday, I didn't want to go back over there today. But maybe—just maybe—she would come to me this time.

A man could hope, anyway.

I found some busywork to occupy my scattered mind, but after rearranging the shelves and sweeping up some dust that had gathered on the floor, there was nothing left but more waiting. I stood at the window in the back room and looked out across the yard, at the resort next door that was growing bigger and louder by the day. I watched a workman in an orange vest hammer a stake into the ground. With each pound, I felt the knot in my stomach growing larger. I inhaled deeply and breathed out again, trying to remind myself that God was in charge. I simply needed to trust in Him.

In Thee I put my trust,
I prayed, but the words felt rote. Empty. Hollow.

I tried again, saying it aloud this time, though keeping my voice low enough that no one else would hear.

“In Thee I put my trust,” I whispered, trying to mean it.

But I felt as though I were talking to the air. Was I really trusting God in this matter at all?

I shifted uncomfortably. In the beginning, I'd put the entire expansion into His hands again and again. But somewhere along the way—as soon as the first big problem cropped up, really—a part of me had ceased to do so. Instead of surrendering my burdens to Him, I'd been gathering them up and clutching tightly onto them.

Trust. I needed to trust and let it go. I knew this in my head. My heart, however, was suddenly filled with terrible questions.

What if He has something else in mind?

What if He doesn't come through for us on this?

What if He
can't
always be trusted?

Shaking such faithlessness from my mind, I reached up and slammed the shutters on the window, blocking out the view of next door. These were thoughts better explored later when I was alone and could think more clearly.

“Mail's here.” I turned to see Noah coming into the room with a small stack of letters and flyers and catalogs in his hands.

He was heading toward the desk with them, but I intercepted him and took the pile from him with a quick thanks. After he was gone, I began flipping through it. Halfway down, I spotted what I'd been waiting for: an envelope, addressed to me, from the clerk of court.

I tore it open and read the letter eagerly, only to find that Nick had been right. According to this, my request for the case file of Miriam Raber was going to be delayed “up to thirty days.” The records were so old they weren't in the system and would need to be retrieved from a remote facility. I shoved the letter in my pocket, my heart heavier than ever as I went back out to the front of the store and told the others I was going to lunch.

I'd just reached the house when a police car pulled up behind me, Nick at the wheel. He parked and climbed from the car, and I greeted him with renewed hope and then invited him for lunch, gesturing toward the house.

“Thanks, but no. I only have a minute. I found the names of the detectives who were on the Raber case. One of them passed away twenty years ago, but the other is still alive. He's in a nursing home in Ephrata. His name is Ralph De Lucca, and he was the lead detective.”

My heart soared as he handed me a yellow Post-it Note with a name, address, and phone number written on it. I was still staring at it when Amanda emerged from the house.

“Judging by the smile on my husband's face, I'd say you just made his day,” she said, coming to join us.

Nick smiled and tipped his hat. “Ma'am. How are you?”

“Just fine. Good to see you again, Officer.” Turning to me, she added, “Well? Was he able to come up with a name?”

I said yes, indeed, and flashed the paper toward her so she could see.

Amanda thanked Nick as well and also invited him to stay for lunch. “I have a nice pot of potato soup on the stove and a blueberry-peach pie baked just this morning.”

Nick put a hand to his stomach and gave a groan. “Aw, man, I'm sure it would be wonderful. But I need to get going.”

Amanda nodded. “I had a feeling you might say that. So here.” With a smile, she raised her hands and I realized she was holding about half of the pie, wrapped up in foil. “For you and your wife,” she added, giving the package to Nick.

He took it gladly and thanked her, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and pastry, saying he remembered her delicious pie from last fall. Amanda smiled and waved away the compliment, replying it was nothing and that we appreciated his help.

“Yeah, thanks again,” I said, pumping Nick's arm in an enthusiastic handshake. “I was just about out of options.”

“Glad to do it, Matthew. I don't know if it'll pan out, but it's worth a shot, I guess. We cops can be pretty tight lipped while we're on the force, but ask any retiree who's been out of it for a while about an old case, and he'll likely talk your ears off.”

That very afternoon, the car I'd hired to take me to Ephrata was dropping me off at the front door of the nursing home where Ralph De Lucca, the detective who had been in charge of investigating Miriam Raber's death, now lived. He and I had spoken briefly on the phone earlier, and though he sounded elderly, he also seemed quite lucid. He'd invited me on over, adding, “It's not like I'm going anywhere.”

The large brick building looked nice enough, with purple and white flowers bordering the path that led to the front doors. I entered the lobby and told the woman at the front desk I was here to see a Mr. De Lucca. She smiled and gestured toward the waiting area by the front window.

“I believe he's been watching for you,” she said.

I looked over to see a man sitting in a wheelchair right at the glass, peering intently toward the parking lot, eyes studying each person who came and went.

“Mr. De Lucca?” I said, stepping toward him.

He turned, his face wrinkled into a scowl but his eyes bright. “Yes?” he said, looking vaguely peeved at having been interrupted.

“I'm Matthew Zook. We spoke on the phone?”

I held out a hand to give his a shake and watched several emotions wash over his features in succession: surprise, that the guy he'd spoken to earlier turned out to be Amish; concentration, as he tried to match that information with the fact that I was here to discuss an old case; and recognition, as he most likely made that match and decided which case I had come here to discuss. Being a homicide detective, Clayton Raber was likely the only suspected murderer Mr. De Lucca had ever investigated who also happened to be Amish.

He suggested we chat in the day room, so I rolled him down the hall and soon we were in a bright, sunny area with numerous small groupings of chairs, most of them empty.

“Everybody's at bingo right now,” he explained, waving toward a seat near the window. “We shouldn't be interrupted in here for a while.”

I rolled him into place and then had a seat, meeting his rheumy blue eyes with my own.

“Like I said on the phone,” I began, “I'm here to ask you about a case you handled back in 1955. A man named—”

“Clayton Raber. I figured as much as soon as I saw you.”

I nodded, relieved that he was apparently as sharp as I hoped he would be.

“Do you remember the case?” I asked. And though I was prepared to explain the reason why I needed to know, he jumped right in and started talking. As Nick had predicted, it sounded as if this guy could go on for days.

Before he went very far into the tale, however, I managed to stop him, saying that my main concern was tracking down Clayton Raber now. “I need to find him, and I'm hoping maybe you've kept tabs on him over the years
or at the very least got a forwarding address from him back when he first left the area.”

“Nope and nope,” he said, dashing my hopes in three little words.

He didn't seem to notice how crestfallen I was because he just kept going, telling me all about the incident from his point of view, how the original responders hadn't realized it might be a crime scene and had ignored procedure, allowing any possible evidence to be trampled away in the immediate aftermath. By the time he was assigned to the case, though, enough suspicious statements had been made by others that De Lucca went into it certain the man was guilty.