Free The Amish Clockmaker by Mindy Starns Clark

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.
    â€œMom! 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.
    â€œNever, I expect.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œAs of right now, no one lives there.”
    â€œOh,” 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 whatshe 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.
    â€œAnyway,” 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