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back on track?
    First things first , I told myself as I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I waited for the men to leave and then used the phone in the shop to contact Jim Purcell, the lawyer on the business card. When I was finally put through to him, he said he’d been expecting my call.
    â€œI just heard from Kenny McKendrick over at the Ridgeview site, and he told me about the situation.” The man’s voice sounded cool yet melodic, his tone the kind one might use to soothe a worried child into going to sleep—or to trick a jittery cow into entering a slaughterhouse. I asked him what all of the confusion was about.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œFine. 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.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œIt’s a sad tale,” I said. “One I don’t like to think about much.”
    â€œWhy? 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.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œWhy?”
    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