“It’s complicated. Any chance you could come into my office and we could talk here? I have some time now—well, I can make time, I mean. This is important.”
I asked where he was located, and when he said Lancaster City, I told him that meant I’d have to hire a car and driver but that I would make my way out there as soon as I could, which would probably be in an hour or two.
“Fine. Just get here as soon as you can, Mr. Zook.”
He hung up without a goodbye. Returning the phone to its base, I looked over to see Daed and Amanda standing beside me, waiting to hear the details of what the lawyer said. I relayed our conversation in full, and then Amanda offered to arrange for a car and driver.
We traded places by the phone, and while she called around, Daed and I neatened the shop and put things away as best we could. Finally, the three of us locked up and left, agreeing to meet in front of the store in half an hour, when our driver would arrive.
As we walked up the hill together, I knew what Daed was thinking, that maybe this holdup was a sign from God that the expansion wasn’t supposed to happen. To my relief, however, he never said a word except for a quick, “See you in a bit” as we parted. Now that he and I had made our peace, I guessed the last thing either of us wanted was to start arguing again.
Once Amanda and I were inside our cottage, I pulled off my dusty work shirt and walked into the bathroom to clean up from my morning’s activities before returning to the bedroom to change into clean clothes.
“All right,” she said, coming to stand in the doorway. “I can’t wait any longer. You have to tell me. Who is Clayton Raber? And what is all this about him killing his wife?”
She sat on a side of the bed, watching me expectantly.
“It’s a sad tale,” I said. “One I don’t like to think about much.”
“Why? What happened?”
I looked over at my wife. This was her home now too, and she deserved to know what had gone on here all those years ago. So I gave her as much of the story as I knew.
Her expression was somber but curious. She reached toward the hat I had placed on the bed and took it in her hands. She turned it slowly, fingering the tightly woven straw as she processed what I had said.
“But you don’t believe he did it, do you? How come?”
Her eyes searched my face. My wife had the uncanny talent of seeing beyond my words and straight into my heart.
Truth was, I had learned in subsequent years that no one really knew why the police had changed their minds about Clayton and let him go, though most assumed it was simply from a lack of evidence. Still, local folks had been convinced that the man had committed the murder just the same. I, on the other hand, had always held the opposite opinion, that the reason there was no evidence was because Clayton hadn’t done it.
“It’s hard to explain. I’ve always felt a kind of connection with him even after I heard the story. Somehow, I had trouble believing it was true—then and now.”
“Why?”
I had to think for a moment. It had been a while since I’d sifted through any thoughts about Clayton Raber. “Well, I grew up in the same room he did, so I always felt kind of a bond with him. Plus there’s this thing on the wall…” My voice drifted off as I realized how silly it might sound to tell her about Clayton’s old growth chart and how it had always made me feel connected with him in some strange way. “You’d have to see it, I guess.”
“What? What is it?” Her eyes were wide with interest.
I shrugged, feeling embarrassed, and told her I would show her later.
She frowned in mock displeasure as she handed me my hat. I fit it onto my head, gathered the last few things I needed, and followed her to the kitchen. She grabbed a paper bag from the counter—sandwiches she had made for me while I’d freshened up—and we continued on outside. When we reached the end of the driveway, we sat on the bench in front of the store and I ate my lunch as we waited for the hired car to arrive. Daed joined us just as the vehicle was turning into the parking lot.
As my father stood and greeted the driver, I crumpled the wax paper that had been around my sandwiches and handed it to Amanda.
“Say a prayer for us,” I told her.
“I will.”
I got into the car and settled into my seat next to Daed. As we drove off, my mind again returned to the clockmaker, this stranger whose life had somehow intersected with mine even though he moved away from Ridgeview more than thirty years before I was born.
Where had he gone when he fled Lancaster County? Was he still alive now? And had he really killed his wife and gotten away with it?
As the scenery flew past, I put away such questions, praying that once we met with the lawyer, none of it would matter anyway.
When we reached the address on Mr. Purcell’s card, I decided it had to be one of the biggest, fanciest buildings in Lancaster City. The entire third floor belonged to the law office, and we stepped out of the elevator doors into a reception area that had marble floors, big oak furniture, and elegant decor. Even the people who worked there were fancy. The woman at the front desk had on a suit that looked more like something a person might wear in New York City than around here.
As soon as I gave her our names, she brought us through the main doors and down a hallway lined with offices. When we approached the end, she knocked on a door with the nameplate “James T. Purcell” on it. The door swung open, and there stood the lawyer I had spoken with earlier. I was expecting someone equally as fancy as the surrounding building and the receptionist, but this guy looked like a short, unkempt Santa Claus.
He welcomed us with a shake and a smile. His was a corner office, and as we stepped inside my eyes went to the big windows that looked out over downtown Lancaster. The view was nice, and it even included the tip of the county courthouse up the street.
Mr. Purcell took his place behind a beautiful mahogany desk and then gestured toward a pair of plush chairs across from it. “Please. Have a seat.”
Once we were settled, I pulled out our documents from the manila file and handed them over.
As he took them from me, he began to give us a little background on Starbrite Management Group, saying they were based in California and had been in business for more than twenty years. He explained that the company had its own in-house legal counsel, but that his firm had been hired to handle local matters such as this one. “I made some calls after we spoke this morning,” he added, “and I think I have a pretty good feel for what’s going on here.”
“I’m glad someone does,” Daed quipped, causing the lawyer to smile.
I wasn’t smiling. “What’s going on,” I said, “is that we’re being taken advantage of by your client.”
“I know it looks that way,” he said as he handed back the papers. “And I do want to assure you that this situation is in no way your fault.” He removed his reading glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him. “But the bottom line, Mr. Zook, is that you have a bad title. The homestead was sold to your family by a Mrs. Lucille Raber, but as it turns out, a portion of it wasn’t hers to sell. The piece of land in question had been given away by her husband before he died to their only son, Clayton. And because that son wasn’t a party to the sale, you folks never got legal title to his parcel.”
Daed and I looked at each other and then back at the lawyer again.
“Her thinking she could sell it to you along with the rest was probably just a mistake,” he concluded. “But, as it turns out, an important one.”
Daed leaned forward in his chair. “Well, if it’s a mistake, we should be able to fix it.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr. Zook. The only way to fix it is to get the current owner to sign it over to you—assuming that’s something he would even want to do.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” I asked, my tone sounding more irritated than I had intended. I tried for a calmer tone. “It’s not like he’s using it. And surely he would see that his mother just mad
e an error.”
The lawyer shrugged. “Yes, true. I imagine he’d take that into consideration. But, once he learns about this, he’s going to have a big decision on his hands.”
I mulled over his words. Something about them made me uneasy. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Purcell?”
He fiddled with the glasses on the desk. “My client wants that land, Mr. Zook. They fully intend to pursue the purchase and acquire it for themselves, if possible. It’s needed for Phase II of the resort.”
He gestured toward the far side of the room, and I realized he wanted us to see a small creation that resembled an elaborate doll house sitting on top of a table. Daed and I stood and walked over to it to get a better look.
“That’s a model of the resort in miniature,” the lawyer explained. “As you can see, phase one includes the basic hotel and banquet facility, with an indoor pool and a restaurant. Once that’s complete, they’ll open for business while moving on to phase two, which will add an outdoor pool, an indoor/outdoor sports bar, four tennis courts, and a small spa facility.”
We stared at the tableau in front of us, dumbfounded. It was all very impressive, but spilling over onto the land of lot twenty-three was the edge of a large pool and the indoor/outdoor sports bar, which would end up next to the tack shop.
“Look how close that bar is to our building,” I said to Daed as I pointed toward the tiny structure. “We’ll practically be sitting in the restaurant area.”
Sick at heart, we stared at it a moment longer and then returned to our seats.
“Let’s not exaggerate,” the lawyer told us as we again sat facing him. “Zoning requires a twenty-foot setback from the property line. And of course they’ll use plenty of landscaping to delineate the borders.”
“As if that’ll make any difference,” I said. “Landscaping or not, how would you like to live twenty feet from an outdoor pool and sports bar?”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I had visited a sports bar or two during my rumspringa, and though that had been a while ago, I could still remember what they had been like. Drunk fans screaming at television screens, fighting with each other, driving home while intoxicated. The memory made me feel exhausted. And deaf.
Daed found his words before I could. “But the land is ours. My father paid for it. Deed or not, that was the buyer’s intent—and the seller’s—at the time of the sale. That has to count for something. Even if a mistake was made back then, we just need to correct the documentation.”
The lawyer studied Daed for a moment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Zook. It may work like that in your world but not out here. A person’s intention isn’t enough, even when it comes from an honest man like yourself.”
I began to gather my things, taking the lawyer’s last words as the beginning of his dismissal. But then Daed spoke again, asking if we had any recourse at all.
“Sure. Title insurance. Maybe a quitclaim deed. But I don’t see either one of those… ” His voice trailed off, as if that answered the question.
But Daed wasn’t ready to be ushered out just yet. “Title insurance?” he persisted in a calm, respectful tone.
Mr. Purcell glanced at his watch, as if to say our time was up. “Yes, that’s something your father should have purchased when he first took hold of the property, though I doubt that he did.”
Daed shook his head. “He wouldn’t have. It’s not the Amish way.”
“Well, there you go, then.”
Daed nodded thoughtfully. “And the other? A ‘quitclaim deed’? What is that?”
The man began to squirm, eager to be done with us and probably wishing he’d never answered my father’s question about recourse at all.
“Basically, it’s a document that says ‘I give up any rights to my land,’ and so on. If you could get Clayton Raber to sign one of those, then the lot would legally be yours and there’s nothing anyone could do about it.”
“So we’ll try that then,” Daed said, optimism growing on his face.
The lawyer grunted. “You’re welcome to give it a shot, Mr. Zook, but you need to understand something. Starbrite’s pockets are very deep. I assure you, whatever offer you make, my client will be able outbid you.”
Daed glanced at me and then returned his attention to the lawyer. “Perhaps Mr. Raber will choose to honor his mother’s intentions and sign the land over to us without any payment at all.”
“Yeah, well, even if he did—which I doubt—that’s assuming you could find the guy in the first place. Which you won’t, at least not before we do.”
“How do you know Clayton Raber hasn’t passed away by now?” I asked. “He left here an awfully long time ago.”
“That’s a fair question,” Mr. Purcell replied with a nod. “All I can tell you is that thus far, we’ve turned up absolutely no proof of death—no death certificate, no hospital records, no obituary, nothing. If he’d died before now, there would likely be at least some sort of record left behind. So the assumption at this point is that he’s still alive.”
“How about his siblings? Are any of them still living?”
He hesitated before answering. “One sister, quite old. Our investigators talked to her, but she doesn’t know where her brother is.”
I wasn’t surprised. Word had always had it that once Clayton left, he was never heard from again.
“And this quitclaim deed thing that you mentioned, do we have to see a lawyer for that?”
He waved a hand, as if to brush off the question. “Not necessarily. It’s a standard form, I’m sure they’re available online.” He seemed to realize what he’d said after the words were out of his mouth. “Or… you know. Maybe at the clerk of court’s office or something.”
I didn’t bother telling him that even the Amish could google if needed, as long as they did it on a computer outside of the home.
“But, frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you,” he added, placing both hands on the desk. “My client is going to track this man down first, and once they do, they intend to make him a very good offer on that land. It’ll be a done deal before you folks have half a chance to do anything.”
Daed fixed his eyes on the man. “So they’re still going to proceed with this matter and try to buy the land out from under us, even though it was clearly an oversight? A simple mistake?”
The lawyer looked from Daed to me and back to Daed again. “What can I say? It’s just an acre, but it’s a very crucial acre to their plans.”
“Well, it’s an acre they’re not going to get,” I insisted. “We’ll track the man down and explain what happened. If he has even a speck of decency, he’ll make this right and sign the land over to us as his mother intended.”
Mr. Purcell hesitated, and then he stood and came around to the front of the desk. “Look,” he said, for the first time seeming genuinely sorry for us. “Starbrite has trained investigators, computers, legal databases at their fingertips, you name it. There’s no way you folks can compete with that. They’ll probably find him within another week, and then it’ll be a done deal. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Everyone leaves a digital trail. Even the Amish.”
“Ex-Amish,” Daed clarified. “Clayton Raber broke away from the church years ago.”
“Whatever. I’m just saying, with all of our technology and resources, I’m afraid we have a far better shot at finding him than you do.” His eyes were surprisingly apologetic.
We both rose, and he reached out to shake our hands. Daed took his willingly, like the forgiving man he was, and after a moment’s pause I followed suit. Though I was grateful to this lawyer for sharing with us as much as he had, I was still deeply frustrated. As we turned to go, one thought began to burn inside of me.
If this was a race to the finish, then I had to get to Clayton Raber first.
But how?
FIVE
Daed and I rode home from the lawyer’s office in silence, the steady hum of the car’s engine the only sound. We sat
in the back together, and at one point I stole a glance at his face, but he was staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. What was he thinking? Had he let the lawyer’s doubts sneak into his own mind? Was he regretting the olive branch he’d so graciously offered me this morning?
He and I were probably thinking the same thing, that without this land we wouldn’t be able to expand. He was probably happy about that, but I knew the truth. If we didn’t expand we would end up having to go out of business. We had to have that land, which meant we had to find Clayton Raber.
But could we find him before Starbrite did? The lawyer’s words rolled around in my head like an ungreased wheel, and I wondered if their fancy technology and resources did indeed give them advantages we couldn’t overcome. I voiced this concern to Daed, though I was wary of what his response might be.
After a moment of thought, he spoke. “You know, we have resources those people with their investigators and fancy computers would never think to use.”
I looked at him, curious, as he continued.
“The Amish community has a lot of its own tools, some of them entirely unavailable to the Englisch.”
“Like what?” I asked. I hadn’t expected optimism.
He turned and looked at me. “The Amish grapevine, for starters. Church directories. Genealogy books. Local lore. That sort of thing.”
I smiled. Of course. We had our own databases right at our fingertips. The information didn’t need to be stored on a computer. It was already stored in the hearts, minds, and memories of every Amish person we knew. It was already inscribed in the pages of dozens of directories and family histories. We just needed to know where to look and whom to ask. Suddenly, I felt a surge of appreciation at how solidly my father was now supporting me.
“You think we’ll be able to find Clayton before they do?”
He nodded. “God willing, I think we have a chance.”
When we reached home, he and I agreed we would touch base at supper tonight when dining together in the main house. He had some tasks to finish around the farm, he said, and I told him I’d be spending the rest of the afternoon with the Amish directories, trying to track down Clayton’s relatives still living in the region.
The Amish Clockmaker Page 4
