The Amish Clockmaker

by Mindy Starns Clark

  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.

  He shrugged. “I know this is important and you have to do what you have to do. But just remember that Clayton left a lot of pain and sadness in his wake. Most folks I know would be glad if they never heard his name spoken again.”

  I hesitated, sobered by the thought. Ben was right. To me, this was about tracking down a property owner for help in settling a boundary dispute. To Clayton’s family members, it was another matter altogether.

  “Thanks, Ben. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I stood to go and he followed suit, but I could tell there was something else he wanted to say.

  “Clayton Raber wasn’t a happy man, Matthew,” he finally blurted out. “Everybody knew it.”

  I thought for a moment. “But that doesn’t make him a bad man,” I replied evenly. “It doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  Our eyes met, and as Ben and I shook hands and I thanked him for his help, I could see he was still struggling with that notion. After a lifetime of assuming Clayton was guilty, it couldn’t be easy to accept that perhaps he might have been innocent after all.

  Then again, I realized as I turned to go, the same could be said for me. All these years I’d sided with Clayton, believing in his innocence. But for all I knew, the man was guilty.

  For all I knew, he really had murdered his wife and gotten away with it.

  Half an hour later, I pulled into the Helmuth place, a carefully maintained goat farm set off East Newport Road. Three or four family dwellings were located on the farmstead, and I saw a collection of family buggies both inside a shed and outside. Clothes on the line included dresses and pants of all sizes. I was pretty sure at least four generations of Helmuths lived here. As I pulled up to the main house, a young woman about my age emerged from the door with a baby on her hip. She greeted me as I hooked my reins on the hitching rail.

  “Afternoon,” I said. “My name’s Matthew Zook. May I speak with Becky Helmuth?”

  The woman turned toward the screen door she had just come out of.

  “Grossmammi, someone is here to see you.” Then she turned back to me. “You here about the ad for kids?”

  I smiled, thinking for a moment what Amanda would say if I came home with some baby goats. “No.”

  I was wondering how much I was going to have to tell the young woman when the screen door opened and an older woman with silvery hair under her kapp stepped out. She had a dish towel in her hands, wore eyeglasses, and looked to be in her seventies.

  “Can I help you?” she asked as she dried her hands.

  “Becky Helmuth?”

  “Ya.”

  I came closer to the front step and told her who I was and where I was from. My last name, common enough in Lancaster County, still gave her pause.

  “Your family owns the tack and feed in Ridgeview?” she said, cocking her head to the side as she studied me.

  “Ya. Going on sixty years now.”

  Her hesitation allowed me to ask my next question.

  “I was wondering if you might know how I could get in touch with Clayton Raber.”

  The towel froze in her hands. “Young man,” she responded, and I could tell by her rough tone that I had offended her somehow. “No one around here has seen my onkel in decades!”

  I thought about apologizing for the interruption and excusing myself before causing more insult, but I realized I was already committed. And I needed this information a lot—more than I needed to observe good manners. I plunged onward. “Well, could I perhaps speak with your mother, Joan Glick? I understand she lives here?”

  Becky wordlessly handed the towel to her granddaughter. She moved closer and stood so that she towered over me from the porch. “Absolutely not.” Her tone was protective. Authoritative.

  “I mean no disrespect,” I continued. “It’s just that there’s an issue with a land deed and I—”

  “I don’t care what issue brought you here. I told you no one has seen my onkel in sixty years. And you’re not going to speak to my mother about him.”

  As our eyes met and held, I thought of Ben’s warning and realized he’d been right about folks not wanting to hear Clayton’s name. If everyone else on my list reacted to this extreme, I was in for a difficult quest indeed.

  I wanted to object, to persist, to insist. But I knew that would only push me further from my goal. Instead, I simply thanked her, apologizing for the intrusion. She remained where she was as I returned to the buggy, and when I looked back at the house from the end of the drive, I saw that she was still standing there, watching me, her posture stiff and tense. I would try again tomorrow maybe, after I had time to come up with a new approach.

  In the meantime, once I had driven off of their property, I pulled over and checked my list. Next up was Becky’s first cousin once removed, a man who lived about a mile from here. I put the list away and started up again, allowing the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves to calm my nerves.

  I could only hope this guy would be a little more forthcoming.

  SEVEN

  Warren Yoder was the grandson of Clayton’s sister Maisie. As I found the home and turned into the driveway, I allowed myself to feel a small flash of optimism. Maybe, at last, I’d get some answers.

  A man responded to my knock at the door. He was tall and broad shouldered, with brown hair and broadfall trousers stained green at the knees.

  “Hi,” I started, “I’m l
ooking for Warren Yoder. I’m Matthew Zook from Ridgeview.”

  “Warren Yoder? That’s me,” he replied with a broad smile. He opened the screen door and gestured for me to come inside.

  Things started out well enough. After neighborly pleasantries I stated my reason for coming and my predicament. I was politely shown the door.

  Warren Yoder had no idea where Clayton Raber was.

  Warren Yoder didn’t care where Clayton Raber was.

  Warren Yoder didn’t want to discuss Clayton Raber at all.

  I got back into my buggy, disheartened. I pulled out my list of names, took a pen, and drew a black line through Warren Yoder.

  With a click of the tongue and snap of the reins, my horse and I were off again, heading in the direction of Bird-in-Hand, a town about five miles away, where the next two people on my list would perhaps be a bit more helpful.

  My first stop was a bit of a surprise. At the next address, where I had expected to find cornfields or dairy cows or a tobacco farm, instead I came upon a sea-monster-themed miniature golf course. I stood beside the buggy in the gravel parking lot and looked around, hoping to spot someone older and in charge who might be able to tell me more about the home that had been here before and where the family was living now. But all I saw were teenagers dressed in matching shirts and glinting name tags, handing out colorful golf clubs or ice cream cones from a stand.

  I was about to climb back into the buggy when I heard a squeal. I looked up to find a little boy pointing at me, his eyes wide and smiling. He was standing on the green of the hole nearest to where I was parked, waiting for his turn to knock a golf ball through the open mouth of a sea serpent. He wore a straw hat, the cheap imitation kind they sold in Englisch gift shops around Lancaster County, and he was jumping up and down.

  “Mom! Mom! Mom! Look, there’s another one! See? That man has the same hat as me!” He pointed more vigorously in my direction until his mother saw what he was doing and shushed him, embarrassed. I waved at them both and smiled, taking my hat off and holding it up toward the little boy in a sign of solidarity. He squealed again and jumped some more until it was his turn to putt, at which point he turned his attention back to the game.

  At the next house, there were no buggies or signs of activity outside, and no one came to the door when I knocked. I knocked again, louder this time, and as I waited for a response, I noticed someone in the yard next door, an older Amish woman hanging laundry. I moved down the steps, walked over to the fence that divided the properties, and called out to her, asking if she knew when her neighbors would be returning.

  “Never, I expect.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “As of right now, no one lives there.”

  “Oh,” I said, unsure if she was playing with me or just being factual.

  Then she cracked a broad smile, straightened the glasses on her nose, and leaned in my direction. “If you ask me, it’s obvious it’s been abandoned by the terrible state of the front yard. The wife died last fall, and her widower moved up near Hershey way to live with his youngest daughter—much to his eldest daughter’s relief.” She snickered and looked at me as if I would know what she meant. “In any case, no one’s been around to water the flowers, and the house looks just awful. I’ve done what I can, but I’m not in a position to care for two houses and two yards, now am I?”

  I hesitated, not even sure how to reply. I’d met this kind of woman before. She was the gossiping type—the sort to latch on to any bit of news and exploit it at the expense of other people’s reputations. I didn’t want to humor her now, but she wouldn’t stop talking long enough for me to excuse myself and go.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “rumor has it his grandson may move in soon if he ever marries the girl he’s been courting. But who’s to say? They’re not exactly my idea of a perfect match, but at least it would be a step up from his mother’s cooking—God bless her.”

  She chuckled again, and I took the opportunity to get a word in edgewise. “Do you by any chance know how I might contact the homeowner?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  “I’m just trying to track someone down, a relative of these people. A man who used to live in Ridgeview.”

  “Can’t help you there,” she said as she pinned another shirt to the line. “But I’m originally from Leola. Maybe I know the person you’re looking for. What’s the name?”

  It struck me that if anyone might know the whereabouts of someone once involved in a scandal, it would be a busybody like her. I placed my hands on the fence and said the two words that apparently no one wanted to hear.

  “Clayton Raber.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment, as if her brain had to process my words. Then she gasped, nearly dropping the pair of pants she was holding.

  “The clockmaker who killed his young wife? Why on earth would you be looking for information about him?”

  “Never mind,” I said with a sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  Suddenly overwhelmed with irritation and frustration, I managed to thank her for her willingness to help and then made my way back to the buggy as quickly as I could. I slipped into the driver’s seat, glad to be free from such a difficult woman but devastated that Bird-in-Hand had been a complete bust.

  The rest of the day went much the same. I worked down my list, visiting all of the houses on it that were within buggy-driving range. In each case, Clayton’s relatives either wouldn’t speak to me or had no information to give.

  I once again pulled out my list and scanned it carefully, making sure I hadn’t missed anyone. At this point, every single name was either crossed out or scribbled over with notes, even though I knew nothing more than I had when first starting out this morning.

  There was just one stop left to make, but not to a relative of Clayton’s. I needed to run by and speak to Virgil, the foreman of my expansion project, and give him an update on where things stood.

  Fifteen minutes later I was in his workshop, bringing him up to speed. Turning the hat I held in my hands in a slow circle, I explained about the meeting with the lawyer and my daylong search for information on Clayton Raber. He listened sympathetically, assuring me that the crew would be as flexible as they could.

  “But there are limits, Matthew. The problem is that we have a lot of projects pending. Some of them are time sensitive and can’t be put off for long.”

  Moving to the day planner on his desk, he flipped through the schedule and offered a solution. He said he had one project that would take just about a week to complete and that he could put his men on that.

  “That would have us coming back to you a week from Monday—which is eleven days from now. Do you think your situation will be figured out by then?”

  I appreciated his flexibility and willingness to help me out, but I hesitated before answering. What if I settled this matter in a day or two? Then I’d have to wait a whole week to get rolling again.

  My stomach sank as I thought about the list of scratched-off names sitting in the front seat of my buggy. What if tracking down Clayton took even longer than eleven days? Then I’d lose my window of opportunity, and who knew when they could come and finish the extension? We were fighting the calendar in another way as well, because autumn was just around the corner and the footings and the foundation all had to be poured and given ample time to cure prior to the first frost.

  “Okay,” I agreed, telling myself to take this one day at a time. “Let’s start up again a week from Monday.”

  We shook hands and he walked with me to my buggy.

  “Matthew?” he said as I hauled myself into the seat. His brow was knitted in concern. “If it turns out you can’t track Clayton down, let me know as soon as you can, all right?” He cleared his throat. “ ’Cause either we start a week from Monday or we’ll have to rethink the whole thing and slot it in for the spring instead.”

  I nodded, my stomach churning with frustration and disappointment and despair. “I’
ll find him,” I said. Then I cracked the reins and began to roll down the driveway.

  I have to.

  By the time I reached home, the sun had already set and supper had long been finished. I walked through the door of our small house and slipped off my shoes, my mind exhausted from the frustrating and fruitless day. I hung my hat on the peg by the door and dropped into my favorite chair. The warmth of the summer evening and my weariness pulled my eyes closed. When they opened again, Amanda was sitting across from me, a cup of hot tea in one hand and a plate of food in the other.

  “Hi, sleepyhead,” she said, humor in her voice.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Only about ten minutes. I heard you come in the door and came to heat your dinner for you, but by the time I got here, you were already sawing logs.” She leaned forward and handed me the cup and plate. I placed them on the table beside my chair and then took her hands in mine.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking in her eyes. “This is just what I needed after a long, long day.”

  Her smile faded as her face filled with concern. “Tell me everything.”

  And so, between bites of roast beef and carrots, I recalled my day to my beautiful wife, the burden of each failure feeling that much lighter with her to share the load.

  EIGHT

  The next morning at the store, I took Noah around to the last aisle and explained that we wouldn’t be returning the row of shelves to the walls and restocking them just yet. Instead, I needed him to rope off the area and make it inaccessible to customers for now. As he did that, Amanda and Daed went about removing all of the tarps from the other shelves and displays, and I grabbed a marker and some paper to write out a few signs apologizing for the mess and offering a “construction discount” of ten percent off everything.

  We’d been spreading the word for several weeks that the store was going to be closed because of the construction, so I expected business to be slow. My intention was to help open up and then duck out, slipping over to the library to use the computer there and do some research.