The Amish Clockmaker (47 page)

“But I was wrong,” he added with a shake of his head. “That poor man was innocent.”

I was surprised at the conviction with which he said those words. “How can you be so sure?”

“There was a witness.”

My eyes narrowed. “A witness?”

“Yep. And the man's story completely corroborated with what Clayton told me, that Miriam had been acting crazy, that she really did accidentally fall, and that Clayton tried to save her from falling. He didn't push her off.”

“I don't understand,” I said, still surprised by this news. “Who was the witness? How come you believed him but nobody else seemed to?”

“Because said witness asked to remain anonymous.”

I sat back in my chair. “Anonymous? I don't understand.”

The detective surprised me by rolling his eyes. “This guy was in the barn when it happened, but no one knew it, and as soon as she hit the ground, he took off running. He didn't say anything to anybody for days, not until he read in the papers that we'd arrested the woman's husband for murder.”

“At least he came forward then, right?”

Again, the old man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, with a high-priced lawyer in tow. Said he wanted to make a statement but would do so only if we would keep his name out of the papers.”

How odd. “Why? What did it matter?”

De Lucca shook his head. “The guy was a stage actor and thought he was the next big thing. He didn't want any sort of scandal attached to his name. Apparently, Miriam had shown up at the theater earlier that day and made a big scene demanding to see him. He'd managed to get her removed from the premises, but then later he'd gone out to the Rabers' house to tell her to
leave him alone. Said he was going to tell her husband too, and demand that he control his wife.”

“Why was she trying to see him?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“Did I leave out that part? Sorry. He was her ex-lover, the one who had gotten her pregnant before she married Clayton. Guess she was hoping the actor might give her an encore.” He snickered at his own joke.

I closed my eyes for a moment, absorbing that thought, knowing the poor woman had not been in her right mind by that point. There was no telling what sort of delusion had taken her to the theater that day or what would have happened had she lived. What a tragedy all the way around.

“So this actor gets to the clock shop but it's closed. Then he walks up the hill toward the house. He hears a bunch of yelling and recognizes Miriam's voice. Follows the sounds to the barn. He's down below, trying to see who's up in the loft and what's going on when he realizes it's Miriam and her husband having an argument. He's down there watching and listening, waiting for the right moment to interrupt and have his say, when the whole thing goes down. She fell, and he took off like a rabbit, terrified of what it might look like if his presence there made the papers. What a schmoe. He really thought he was the next William Holden or something. But you tell me, ever heard of ‘Russell LaRousseau'? Please. Maybe a scandal would have done his career some good.”

Clayton. Innocent. I felt another smile stretch across my face as I helped the last customer of the day load sacks of feed into his truck. The late afternoon sun was in my eyes as he pulled out and a buggy turned into the driveway and took his place. I couldn't see who was at the reins until it was practically in front of me. Lifting my hand to shield my gaze from the glare, I was about to say we were closed when I realized it was Becky Helmuth.

Trying to contain my excitement, I secured her horse and then positioned myself to help her down from the buggy. Instead, she shook her head, saying this would only take a moment.

I was so happy to see her, I was about to burst with my news, to tell her everything that I'd learned from the detective. But she seemed to have something important on her mind as well, so I let her talk first.

“I was on my way home from town, and I just wanted to stop by to say thank you for the brochure you brought us yesterday.” She hesitated and then
met my eyes. “It answered a lot of questions for us. And it gave my mother much peace.”

I was moved by the emotion in her voice. “I'm glad to hear that.”

“You were right. The brochure described exactly what happened with Miriam.
Mamm
says it was terrible. She was obviously deranged, but it wasn't like she was running a fever or anything. Now that we know what was probably wrong with her, it explains so much.” She lifted her hand to her face and wiped at her eyes. “My mother said Miriam's brother Perry had strange, unpredictable moods. He could be extremely happy one week and horribly depressed the next, likely what we'd call bipolar these days. The brochure said a family history of that sort of thing is usually present for women who have postpartum psychosis. That has to be what was up with Miriam. The family just didn't know it.”

“Your mother was able to handle this news?” I asked, stepping closer to the buggy. I prayed she had.

“
Mamm
feels both better and worse now. Better that she understands what was happening with her sister-in-law back then. Worse that it just makes it that much sadder. We can't go back in time and change anything.”

She sighed heavily.

“Anyway, that's why I came by, to thank you for the postpartum psychosis information.” She took the reins in her hands, and then she paused and looked at me again. “But I also needed to ask you something. No offense, Matthew, but please stop coming over. You have to quit upsetting my mother. We can't help you find her brother. I hope you'll respect that.”

“I do respect your wishes,” I began cautiously, “but before you set that in stone, there's something I need to tell you too. I have huge news. Really significant information I wanted to share with your mother. I think everything will change once the two of you hear this.”

Becky continued to watch me, the reins tightening in her hands. I removed my hat from my head and held it in my hands.

“Clayton
is
innocent.”

She looked as if she were about to protest, to tell me once and for all to stay away from her family, to stop mocking their tragedy with my haphazard guesses, but I pushed forward before she could cut me off.

“I tracked down the detective today who was in charge of Clayton's case. That man is still alive. Do you know why they dropped the charges against your uncle?”

“Insufficient evidence.”

“No. They dropped the charges because there was a
witness
. A man came forward who saw the whole thing as it happened.”

Becky's eyes narrowed skeptically, but she didn't interrupt so I kept going.

“The thing is, the witness was willing to talk to the police, but otherwise he insisted on remaining anonymous. That's why nobody else knows it, but it's true. The guy saw everything. Clayton did not push Miriam. She fell.” I locked eyes with Becky. “Clayton is innocent.”

She didn't speak for a long moment. She just stared straight ahead, stunned, the reins she had been holding laying limp in her lap. “The family always hoped that it was so, but no one could say absolutely for sure whether he'd done it or not. When he left town, everybody figured that confirmed his guilt, at least for those in the community.”

“The community excommunicated the guy. No wonder he left town.”

She considered this for a moment. “My family has never stopped praying for him, though. Praying for repentance and reconciliation. Now you tell me there is proof that he was innocent after all.” She paused to soak in that thought. “My
onkel
really was innocent? Then you're right. My mother definitely needs to know.”

After a pause, she turned to me again, a flash of something like guilt in her eyes.

“Matthew, there's something I have to show you. It's at the house. Maybe you should come over.”

I swallowed hard. “I'll leave as soon as I lock up here.”

“Can you give us an hour? I need to break this news to my mother.” Her voice grew faint, almost weary. “I just don't know how she's going to take it. She'll be thrilled, of course, but also… ”

She didn't have to finish that thought. I understood. But a part of me feared that if Joan reacted poorly to the news about Clayton, then Becky might change her mind and once again send me away empty handed. I couldn't risk that this time, not if there was something she needed to show me, something that would help me find Clayton at last.

“What is it you want me to see? I just want to know before I come.”

She hesitated, that flash of guilt returning now in full. “My mother actually
has
heard from Clayton over the years. Just a few times, mind you, and not in a long while. But now and then he would send her a letter. She saved them all.”

“The envelopes too?”

She smiled slightly.
“Ya.
The envelopes too.
”

“And they have a return address on them?” I asked, hope surging in my chest.

“Sort of. There's a post office box, not a street address. A town up in the Poconos.”

“That's better than nothing,” I said, thankful for any bit of information at all. Even just knowing the town made me that much closer to finding him.

Becky turned from me, her eyes searching the distance. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I just… I didn't… ”

“It's all right. I understand.”

She looked at me again. “You can read those letters when you come. They might help you narrow things down better.”

“That would be an honor. I'll be over in an hour.”

She gave a somber nod in reply, and then she was gone.

T
HIRTY
-F
IVE

B
ecky was bringing in clothes off the line as I once again drove my buggy into her farmyard. Chickens scattered at my approach, and a pair of golden-haired little girls walking a baby goat on a lead rope laughed as the goat tried to chase them. Probably two more of Joan's great-grandchildren. As I tied up my horse to the hitching rail, Becky walked toward me.

“
Mamm
's out on the back porch,” she said, as she brushed a few wisps away from her brow. “Come on. I'll take you.”

I followed her around the side of the house to the ample porch that looked out over the Helmuth acreage and hundreds of grazing and bleating goats. Joan sat dozing in a rocker with a lap blanket over her knees. An embroidery hoop with a half-finished project rested on the table beside her, along with a small stack of yellowed envelopes poking out from underneath.

Becky laid a hand on her mother's shoulder. “Matthew Zook is here,
Mamm
.”

The older woman lifted her head and slowly opened her eyes.

“What?”

“Matthew Zook. He's here.”

Joan looked over at me in obvious consternation. Whoever I was, I had disturbed her nap. But then she seemed to remember who I was and why I had been invited out.

“You've come about Clayton,” she said, still frowning at me, but with less you've-interrupted-my-nap rancor.