Free The Amish Clockmaker by Mindy Starns Clark Page A

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?”
    â€œI’m just trying to track someone down, a relative of these people. A man who used to live in Ridgeview.”
    â€œCan’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.
    â€œClayton 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.
    â€œThe clockmaker who killed his young wife? Why on earth would you be looking for information about him?”
    â€œNever 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.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œOkay,” 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.
    â€œMatthew?” he said as I hauled myself into the seat. His brow was knitted in