The Amish Clockmaker (10 page)

“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.

E
IGHT

T
he 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.

But instead of a quiet day, the store quickly became swamped. I realized I wouldn't be able to leave for a long while, not until after the rush was done. All morning long, the bells hanging from the door handle chimed as people flooded in and out—and in again. We were used to being busy, especially in the mornings, but this steady of a stream was unusual for a Friday.

The urge to move my search forward grew even stronger when I realized that most of the customers weren't looking for horse feed or new reins. They were looking for gossip.

I spent some time in the part of the store that was closed, using the tall,
empty shelves to sort out stock that had become mixed up in the shuffle of construction day. I couldn't see the customers from there as I worked, but I could hear them.

“I'm sorry about your shop,” one man said. “It's too bad the hotel next door is kicking you off your property and building a second hotel.”

“Oh, boy,” I heard Amanda reply, forcing her voice to be light and friendly. “Sounds like the rumor mill is working overtime on that one.”

The next customer asked if we offered guided tours “of the murderer's house and the farm that had been mysteriously willed to him by his father.” The accent sounded
Englisch
. When I peeked my head around the corner, I saw a group of young men in jeans and T-shirts standing at the register. I walked over to relieve Amanda from the situation, asking them if they needed help finding anything. They pelted me with questions about Clayton Raber, but when I offered no exciting answers, they left.

I was about to return to my work area when, yet again, the bells rang. Two Amish men walked through, one younger and one older. I was prepared to tell them we wanted no part of their curiosity or rumors, but I could see by the knowledgeable way they looked around the store that they were here to shop, not gossip. Finally, some actual customers.

“Excuse me,” the younger man said. “Where is your leather strapping?” He motioned to the older man beside him, explaining that he and his grandfather had a buggy shop down near Strasburg. “We've always bought our supplies at Waggoner's since it's so close, but now that he's retiring, he suggested we look here.”

Deeply pleased at this development, I was about to respond when I heard Amanda gasp. I turned around quickly to see if she was okay, but when I looked at her, she was smiling. She walked past me and up to the two men.

“What a nice surprise seeing you in here!” she exclaimed. She shook both of their hands warmly, as if they were old friends. Turning to me, she said, “This is my husband, Matthew.” I stepped forward and shook both of their hands. “Matthew, this is Joel and Tyler Miller.”

The tone of her voice indicated I should know who they were.
Miller.
I recognized the last name but couldn't remember why.

Tyler must have seen the confusion on my face because he paused to explain. “We're related to the blacksmith Jake Miller. I'm his nephew—though we grew up more like brothers—and this is his father.”

Miller. Now I remembered. Fumbling over my words, I welcomed them
to the store, shook their hands again, and excused myself, retreating to the closed aisle as fast as was polite. I was more familiar with the name “Jake Miller” than I wanted to be. Amanda had courted him. She had been courting him, in fact, at the same time she was falling in love with me.

Whether these two men knew the whole story or not, I could still feel the heat in my face as I considered what Jake Miller must surely think of me, the “other man” who stole his girlfriend away. Then again, by doing so, I had freed him up to be available for the true love of his life. Obviously, things had worked out well for both of us in the end.

Working back behind the shelves, I couldn't really hear Tyler and Amanda's conversation at the register. But then she brought him to the section of the store with the leather straps, which was right on the other side of the aisle where I stood. Through no fault of my own, I was privy to their entire conversation.

At first they just talked about the merchandise and the kinds of products the Millers would be buying here from now on. But then their voices grew silent for a moment.

“How's Jake?” Amanda asked after the lull.

“He's doing well. He and Priscilla just had their first child a few weeks ago, a boy. They named him Daniel, after her late father. Mother and son are healthy.”

“That's wonderful,” Amanda said with sincerity.

“Jake misses his family and friends here, of course, not to mention his mother's cooking. But otherwise he's happily married and enjoying Indiana. His blacksmith shop there has grown so much, in fact, that this past spring he hired his first employee, a second blacksmith, to work along with him.”

Amanda expressed her happiness and asked another question, but I was no longer listening. Relief had washed over me. I'd harbored such guilt about the whole matter, and seeing Joel and Tyler had reawakened that fear. But now that I knew Jake really had ended up with the right woman after all—as had I—I could forgive myself and let it go.

My mind was pulled from my thoughts when I heard Tyler say my name.

“Matthew looked sort of… uncomfortable about us being here. It's not going to be a problem for him, is it? That you used to date Jake?”

I cringed. Had I really been that obvious?

I heard her laugh. “No, Tyler. He's not uncomfortable. He's preoccupied.” To my relief, she proceeded to inform him of the current situation with the
expansion, the tension with Starbrite, and trying to locate Clayton Raber. I'd grown weary of the day's gossip, but this time around, the explanation was just the thing that was needed to reinforce Amanda's response.

Tyler was quiet for a moment once she was done. I could hear him picking up and putting down various leather straps. “You know, maybe Matthew should talk to someone in the police department to find out if they have an address for wherever Clayton moved to after he left here. That's where I'd start.”

My eyes widened at the thought. It was a good idea, one I would try as soon as things slowed down a bit and I could leave.

“I found what I needed. Are you ready to check out, Tyler?” asked an older voice. Joel must have joined Amanda and Tyler in the next aisle.

“Yep, I'm ready. We were just talking.
Daadi
, have you ever heard of a man named Clayton Raber?”

“The clockmaker?”

“Ya.
Amanda says he used to live here. This was his clock shop.”

“Oh.” Joel was quiet for a moment as he seemed to process this.

“Did you ever meet him?” Tyler asked.