The Amish Clockmaker (8 page)

I just shrugged and looked away, unable to say the truth aloud. If we couldn't find him in time, we might as well say goodbye to our business for good.

Later, before we left for the night, I brought Amanda up to my old childhood bedroom and showed her the strip of molding near the window seat where Clayton Raber's height had been charted over the years as he was growing up here.

Like me, she seemed most drawn to the last few markings at the top, where Clayton had carved into the wood with delicate and artistic lettering. She reached out and ran a finger over some of the initials, and after a moment I began to do the same. In a way, they were as familiar to me as the lines on my hand or the hills outside the window.

I realized she had withdrawn her hand, and when I looked over at her, it was to see that she was watching me. With a gentle smile, she thanked me for showing this to her. Gazing into her eyes, I had a feeling my wife understood what I was wanting her to know, that this had been my introduction to Clayton Raber, to the man everyone else thought was a murderer. I didn't understand it, but somehow I just knew that the person who had carved his initials here all those years ago could not have grown up to become the monster most folks thought he was.

Later, back at home, I tried to sleep but couldn't. My mind was racing. What if I wasn't able to find Clayton? And even if I did, who was to say he would be receptive to what I had to tell him? The uncertainties gnawed at my stomach. I looked over at Amanda, whose chest rose and fell with her steady breathing. We were going to be parents soon. How would I ever be able to provide for the two of them if I couldn't keep the shop open? The Amish community would be there to support us financially in a time of crisis, of course, but that was no solution for the long term. I still had to make a living.

More than anything, I wished
Grossdaadi
were here. Would he have known what to do, how to handle this situation? Or would even he, with all his business intelligence and experience, have been as stumped as I was now?

S
IX

T
he next morning, I sat down with a map of Lancaster County and the list of people I wanted to contact and began geographically organizing, from closest to farthest, the ones I'd decided to see in person. When I was finished, I added one more name at the top of the list, Ben Sauder, the neighbor down the street who always knew the goings-on of everyone around here.

I headed out just before nine and was at his house in minutes. He and his wife lived just a few blocks away on a small homestead that had been in his family for a century. Their setup was similar to ours in terms of size and layout, with a store and a small parking lot at the bottom of the hill, out front, and their house and barn at the top of the hill, out back. In their case, the family store was a woodworking shop, where Ben had labored for decades building custom cabinets.

Nowadays, that shop was in the capable hands of his children and grandchildren, and he spent most of his time puttering around the homestead or helping with the grandkids or shooting the breeze with the other old guys at the coffee shop down the street. I parked my buggy near the house, and as I climbed down I spotted Ben in his vegetable garden, trimming back some aggressive watermelon vines. Even in his seventies, he was still very much involved with the upkeep of his home. The yard and gardens were immaculate and beautifully trimmed and cared for.

“Matthew Zook!” he said, when he saw me walking toward him. “What brings you here? Could you smell my wife's homemade biscuits from all the way over at your place?”

I smiled, pausing to inhale. “Nope, but you're right. Something sure does smell good.” I came to a stop at the fence. “Actually, I'm here because I need help with something and I thought you might be a good place to start.”

His interest was immediately piqued. “Oh?”

“Guess you could say I need to talk to the guy who knows everything about everyone.”

Beaming, he set his hoe against a fence pole. “Well, then. Come on up to the porch and let's have a chat.”

With a nod I turned and continued along the walk as he made his way through the garden. We met at the house and ascended the three stairs to the wide porch together. As we did, Ben's wife, Sue Ann, appeared on the other side of the screen door, greeted me warmly, and offered me a cup of coffee.

“You might bring the boy a biscuit as well,” Ben told her. “That's the real reason he's here, you know.”

She chuckled. “Of course. Cream and sugar in your coffee, Matthew?” she asked as she started to walk away.

“Just black, please. Thanks.”

Ben settled into the first in a row of rocking chairs that lined the porch. I chose the one next to his and sat as well.

“So I hear you've big plans for the tack store,” he said, his tone clearly indicating he'd not only heard about those plans but had discussed them at length with his friends at the coffee shop. I shouldn't have been surprised. It had to be big news around here when something that hadn't changed in sixty years was about to undergo a metamorphosis, even it if it was just an old tack shop getting a much-needed expansion and facelift.

Before I could reply, he added, “I also hear you've run into a bit of a problem.”

Of course he knew all about that too. He'd probably been pumping people for information since he'd first gotten wind of the scene that had taken place yesterday morning, outside, amid the construction.

“Well, seeing as how you already know everything, maybe you can answer my biggest question, which is how to find Clayton Raber.”

Ben let out a low whistle. “Clayton Raber? The clockmaker? Why on earth would you need to know that?”

How to quickly explain?

“There was a small problem with the deed back when his mother sold their homestead to my grandfather, and I need Clayton's signature on a legal document now in order to straighten it out.”

“His
signature
? I can't imagine he's still…”

“Alive?”

He nodded.

“Actually, from what I've been told, there's a good chance that he is. I just don't know where.”

Ben considered that for a moment. “Well, wherever he's living now, he must be pushing ninety, at least. My, my. You have your work cut out for you, son, finding a man no one's heard from in more than half a century. Folks said your big ruckus over there had something to do with a property dispute, but I didn't realize—”

Sue Ann emerged from the door at that moment, carrying a tray. I jumped up and retrieved a nearby side table, inhaling the scents of coffee and fresh-baked biscuits as I retook my seat and she placed the tray in front of us.

The biscuits she had made were warm, fluffy, and golden brown. I chose one and gently pulled it open, releasing the steam from inside.

“May I ask how well you knew the Rabers back then?” I asked, using a knife to slather on some butter. “I assume pretty well, since they were in your same church district.”

He shrugged, blowing at his hot coffee before taking a sip. “Fairly well. They were a part of the community, but Clayton was an odd sort. He kept to himself more than most.”

“I understand he was handicapped as a result of a childhood accident?”

“Had a bad leg and a hot temper to go with it. He married a woman who didn't love him and ended up killing her and getting away with it.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he must have realized how they sounded, because he quickly added, “Or so people have always said.”

Surprised at his words, I let them sit between us for a long moment, focusing my attention on adding jelly to my biscuit, setting down the knife, and taking a bite. I wasn't here for gossip. I needed facts. And even though Ben was a busybody, he didn't usually go around repeating rumors.

“Sorry,” he said finally, looking appropriately sheepish. “I was just twelve when she died. Guess I gobbled up what everybody said back then and took it all as truth.”

I nodded, appreciating his admission. “Do you remember that time at all?”

“
Ya
, I remember a lot of it. Her death. His arrest. His release from jail. His
break with the church. It was all very dramatic and the only thing anyone talked about for weeks and weeks.”

“How sad for everyone involved. Any idea where he might have gone once he left here?”

“Not a clue. I don't think anyone ever knew. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“What do you recall about his break from the church?” I took another bite of biscuit and followed it with a sip of coffee.

“He was excommunicated, I remember that.” Ben squinted, as if trying to peer back through time. “Seems like the excommunication came first, and then he left town. As far as I know, he never tried to come back.”

“What were the grounds for the discipline?”

Ben set his mug on the tray. “To be honest, Matthew, I'm not sure. At the time I assumed he was renounced from the fellowship because he wouldn't confess to having murdered his wife. But looking back now, I realize that sounds kind of bizarre. There was no proof that he killed her, just speculation—albeit
lots
of speculation.”

“So you say.”

“Now that I think about it, the discipline was probably because he stopped coming to church, stopped being a part of the fellowship completely. He attended one Sunday service soon after he got out of jail, but just that once—and then never again.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Really.”

“
Ya
. I remember it well. We expected him to show up, you know, because he'd been released and the charges were dropped. We boys tried to scare the girls, telling them the wife-killer was coming. They were convinced he was going to commit some sort of violent act in the middle of the service—and, of course, all the boys were kind of hoping he'd try so we could take him down in front of all the girls.”

Ben chuckled, but then his smile faded into a mix of sadness and chagrin. “Poor Clayton,” he said, almost surprised, as if those were two words he'd never considered putting together before. “If he really didn't do it, then that must have been awful. Imagine, getting cleared by the
Englisch
authorities only to be found guilty in the court of Amish opinion.”

Truer words were never spoken
.

Shifting in my seat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the list I'd made of people relevant to my search. Though it helped to understand the
situation as fully as I could—and I was finding these details fascinating—I'd come here for a very specific reason, to ask about Clayton's whereabouts and his surviving relatives.

Unfolding the page, I held it out toward Ben and asked if he knew which of Clayton's sisters was still alive. “The lawyer said they have all passed away except one. My guess is that would be Joan. She married a Glick?”

Ben nodded, taking the page from me. “
Ya
, Joan Raber Glick. She's still alive, but the lawyer's right. The other sisters have all passed.” Looking down at the list, he scanned it for a moment before pointing at one of the entries. “Joan lives with her youngest daughter, Becky. Nice family. Becky and her husband have a goat farm just north of Leacock.”

He handed back the page, pointing again toward the name, which was Rebecca Helmuth, followed by an address in a nearby town. Looking down at it, I could feel my spirits lift. At last I was on the right track.

“Thank you so much, Ben. I think I'm going to head over there right now to see if they can tell me how to get in touch with Clayton.”

The man nodded, but his expression seemed hesitant. “Don't get your hopes up, son. Joan is ninety-five if she's a day, and her health and memory are failing. Or so I hear.”

I folded the paper and slid it back into my pocket, confident that all would go well regardless. “That's okay. Even if Joan herself can't tell me where Clayton ended up, maybe her daughter can.”

Ben's forehead creased even further.

“What?” I asked, my hands already on the arms of the rocking chair, ready to push myself up and get going.