“Caught out on the slab?” Temple called.
“Stuck for two hours. Would’ve gone home but we were already halfway, so . . .” The man shrugged.
An old guy who Temple didn’t recognize ambled over to the family. Temple heard him ask for a ride out of town. His car had stalled out. Day-old growth peppered his narrow chin, his lower lip folded inward—a mostly empty wallet with only a few coins. The old-timer’s wind-burned cheeks were the color of dried tobacco leaves.
Entering the alley, Temple spotted Ed kneeling beside a partially excavated drift. Four or five kids leaned out of the Maid-Rite’s back door and another cluster of spectators huddled at the far end of the alley. When Temple shouted, “Folks, please go about your business, we need some privacy here!” most of the lookie-loos melted away.
With a small grunt, Temple crouched beside his deputy. The dead man lay on his stomach. Someone, likely Chester, had cleared the face of its shroud of dust, but most of the fellow was buried.
“Took twelve snaps so far,” Ed said.
“Take a couple more, then we’ll dig out the rest of him.”
When Ed rose, Temple noticed that the deputy’s trousers were rolled up. Before joining the CCC, Ed had been nothing but a street tough from Chicago’s infamous First Ward. Rough around the edges. But now he was laboring mightily to file those down. For one thing, he’d taken to favoring an old man’s wardrobe of pleated pants, tan suspenders, and soft white shirts. Temple’s granddaddy would have been at home in the high lace-up shoes on the deputy’s feet.
While Ed snapped away, Temple asked, “Where’s Chester?”
“Inside. I told him to stay put until you’re ready to talk to him. And you can guess what he said.”
“And just where would I be going?” Temple smiled. “Snappish and high-strung as usual. Most stone-blind are.”
The sheriff inspected the body, his face grave. “Don’t recognize him.”
After a dozen or more flashbulbs flared and died, Temple said, “Let’s dig him out.”
Ed settled the bulky camera on top of a nearby ash can and grabbed the shovel that Chester had parked by the Jewel’s side door. He scraped away at the edges of the drift while Temple used his hands to scoop gently around the limbs and torso. The dead man lay with the toe of one shoe planted downward and the other splayed to the right. His store-bought suit was of a modern cut. Temple was surprised to see he was wearing a jacket since the last few days had been scorchers. Local men had an unspoken understanding that on the hottest days, shirtsleeves were acceptable. Even Darnell the banker walked to lunch at the Crystal Hotel with his jacket slung over one shoulder. The dead fellow’s collar had flipped up and a tie with bold geometric shapes that Etha would have pronounced gaudy was visible.
Temple pushed on his thigh and levered himself up. The dead man’s head was turned sideways as if the fellow was doing the crawl stroke, with his mouth and nose positioned to pull in air. Dried blood, crusted with dirt, ran from one nostril and the exposed ear. The deceased looked to be in his thirties with a strong jaw and a nose with a cleft at the tip. He’d been a handsome man.
“Accident?” Ed asked.
Temple made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Can’t tell just yet. Could be, I guess. Hoping so. Seems to be a fair amount of dirt underneath him. Could have stumbled out here in the middle of the storm and cracked his head against something.” He lightly touched the blood around the nose. “Tacky. Didn’t happen too long ago.” Working his fingers around the back of the skull, Temple said, “Uh-oh. Here we go.” He brought up his hand. Blackened blood and dirt smeared his fingers. “A goodsized gash.”
Ed snatched up the camera and squatted beside the sheriff.
Temple gently rotated the head so that they could get a better look. The concave, saucer-sized wound was a stew of blood, matted hair, and dirt.
Ed whistled, then snapped off a few shots. “That seems deliberate. Stove in with a bat or something.”
“Could be.” Temple scoured his face with a palm. “Shoot.” What a way to go, he thought. Without knowing what hit him. Without knowing that the end was upon him. Mouth stuffed with dirt.
Unbidden, the image of his first grade teacher materialized. Her bloated body facedown in the silt of the Little Conemaugh, whose waters had famously flooded Johnstown, back in Pennsylvania. He pushed it away, then rose and wiped his fingers with his white handkerchief, aware too late that Etha would have a fit. “Get some more photos. I’ll call Hinchie.”
Inside the Jewel it was cool and shadowy. Temple tugged at his shirt where circles of sweat bloomed under his arms. He found Chester in his office, cranking an adding machine.
“Come to interrogate me?” the blind man asked.
“Not yet,” Temple said. “I need to get ahold of the doc before we move the body. Can I use your phone?”
“Sure, sure.” Chester rose from the desk.
“Appreciate that.” Temple settled into the office chair and pulled the telephone toward him.
“The seven o’clock show is still a go, right? No reason not to. I mean, you’ll have everything taken care of by then?” Chester’s hands had a life of their own. Right now, they were alternately clutching one another like passengers on a sinking ship.
Temple paused, his finger in the rotary. “Do what I can.”
Chester headed down the stairs, muttering.
Hinchie’s wife answered on the third ring.
“I’ll send him over as soon as he beats the parlor rug. I asked him to do it forty minutes ago and he’s still fussing with his tomato plants. As if they’re going to pull through.”
Minnie was a tough nut. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me that rug can wait. I’ve got a dead man outside the Jewel. I need Hinchie. Quick.”
A short intake of breath came through the line. “Dead? Who?”
“Don’t know.”
“A stranger? Goodness! I’ll send him right over.”
Temple was hanging up when Chester entered with a sweating bottle of pop. “This might cool you off.”
“Thank you kindly,” the sheriff said, downing a healthy gulp.
“Now do me the favor of hurrying this whole thing along so I don’t lose my evening box office,” Chester said. “And make sure the telephone is in the exact spot you found it in. I have a system, you know.”
Temple rolled his eyes. “As soon as Hinchie finishes, I’ll be back to talk with you.”
Ten minutes later Hinchie was trotting down the alley, despite his weak ankles. A cigarette wagged from the corner of his mouth. Dr. Wilburn Hinchie was not only the town’s general practitioner but the medical examiner as well. When a medical opinion on cause of death was needed, Hinchie got five dollars a day for his services that included testifying at the inquest. Everyone in town, including Minnie, knew he used the extra money to buy hooch and cigarettes behind her back. He was of the impression that she was unawares.
“Get to that rug?” Temple asked.
“No . . .” Hinchie was breathing heavily. “I did not. But it will be waiting when I return.” He gazed skyward, inhaled a lungful, and returned Temple’s gaze with a smile. “All righty. What do we have?”
Temple filled him in as the doctor bent over the body. The sheriff stopped when he saw disappointment cross the man’s face.
“What?”
“It’s the rainmaker,” Hinchie said, straightening.
Temple’s brows shot up. “From last night? You sure?”
“Indeed.” He took off his jacket and handed it to the deputy. Squatting beside the body, he probed the head wound. “Nasty. Pushed bone a couple of inches into the brain,” he said, wiping his fingers on a piece of gauze from his doctor bag.
“You think this could happen from, say, staggering into a wall or maybe an ash can?”
Hinchie gave this due consideration. How many times had a patient told him that an accidental fall caused the gaping cut on the head, the broken arm, the deeply bruised ribs? ’Cour
se that happened plenty. But also plenty of times it was due to drink or fisticuffs or an epileptic fit that no one wanted to admit to. Just last week he’d treated the wife of a prominent citizen for a nasty bruise on her jaw. Slipped on a rug had been her story. He’d heard it all from her over the years and it sickened him. He was sick with rage at her husband for beating her and sick with loathing at himself for not having the guts to speak out about it.
Now Temple was clearing his throat, and Hinchie answered, “Not in a million years. If I had to guess, I’d say he got slammed in the back of the head by a board or a pipe. That sort of thing. Undoubtedly went down like a sack of feed.”
“Shoot,” Temple said, turning to Ed. “This is going to be complicated.”
Hinchie said, “Almost certainly you’ve got an intentional act here by an unknown party or parties, as they say.”
The doctor unbuttoned the dead man’s jacket, slid his hand inside, and drew out a brown wallet with rounded edges. He handed it to Temple. With Ed observing, the sheriff pulled out a healthy stack of small bills, a shriveled four-leaf clover folded inside a scrap of paper, and a receipt for r. beef + mashed from a restaurant in Alva, Oklahoma. There were also a bunch of business cards imprinted with:
Roland R. Coombs
Rainmaker and sewing machine repair
Work guaranteed
Francis and Fourth
St. Joseph, Mo.
“You were right, Hinchie,” Temple said.
“I’m surprised you boys didn’t recognize him.”
“I missed the fireworks,” Temple said. “There was a still out near Boiling Springs that needed smashing.”
“And I’m not one for that kind of voodoo,” Ed said.
The three men studied the body. Hinchie snorted. “Sewing machine repair? If I’da known that, I wouldn’t have put up a nickel.”
Temple laughed. “You were in on it with the Commercial Club? A man of science?”
“Listen. If Vermillion goes the way of rest of the towns around here, just how do you think I’m going to earn a living? I thought it was worth a shot.” Hinchie did not add that he’d ponied up the last bit of his old-age savings to help hire Coombs. Seventy-two and still a fool, he derided himself. The possibility of putting his black bag away for good seemed more remote than ever.
Excavations of the deceased’s pockets yielded half a stick of chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes, and a key from Mayo’s Rooming House.
Temple counted the cash. “Two hundred plus or minus. Was that what the Commercial Club put up?” At Hinchie’s affirmation he added, “Not a robbery.”
While Ed snapped more photos, Temple quickly canvassed the alley for a weapon. But the drifts were too deep. He’d get Ed back on the shovel in a bit.
Temple clapped his hands. “All right, gents. We’ll get Mr. Coombs here over to the undertaker so you can give him a good going over, Hinchie. Say in about an hour?”
The doctor nodded.
“And Ed, watch the body until Musgrove gets here with the hearse. In the meantime, dig into the bigger dunes. Keep sharp for anything that might be connected to Coombs or the killer. And a possible weapon. That duster is going to complicate things. I’ll interview Chester and then be back to help.”
As Temple was entering the Jewel he spotted Etha hurrying up the sidewalk with two tin dinner pails. He was surprised to see her wearing an old wrap dress and a shapeless felt cloche; Etha was a stickler for correct street attire. And rightly proud of her trim figure.
“I was afraid I’d miss you,” she said, slightly breathless.
He pecked her cheek. “Almost did.”
She held up the pails. “Brought you both a bite.”
Temple lifted one of the lids. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. “Much appreciated. Could be late when I get home.”
“Who was it? Anyone we know?”
“No. That rainmaker fellow. Name of Coombs.”
The tight corners of Etha’s lips relaxed. “At least it’s not a local. But that poor man. A stranger and all.” Then her gloved hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. How will you let his family know?”
Temple shook his head. “Have to track them down. His business card has a St. Joe address.” He watched in sorrow as Etha’s eyes welled. She quickly pulled out a hankie, dabbing the edge along her lower lids. With any death, the first thing she worried about was the family getting word. She’d been that way ever since their son Jack had wandered off and it was eighteen agonizing hours before a Peoria patrolman had come to their door, hat in hand.
She blew her nose. “But it was an accident?”
Temple raised his angular shoulders. “Not sure.”
Mrs. Albright and her daughter strolled by with polite smiles. Everyone exchanged greetings. After they passed, Etha sniffed and wiped her nose again. “Now one of these pails is for Ed.”
“’Course.” He bent down to kiss her. “Sorry, sweetie, I’ve got to get along and—”
“I know, I know. I was just wondering if I could keep the car. Only for an hour. I’ve got some errands.”
He pushed his hat to the back of his head in the way that reminded her of his hero, Will Rogers. Temple had that same hank of hair always falling onto his forehead. “Now?” he asked. “The roads will be a mess. Can’t it wait?”
“I promised the McDonalds a couple of care packages. They’re not far out,” Etha said, running her words together. “I heard they were trying to swap Mary’s great-grandma’s best china platter for a bag of sorghum.”
“You’re a big-hearted woman. Be careful out there.”
She watched him stride into the Jewel with the loping gait that had caught her eye on his first visit to her music studio. Such a sweet man. She hated deceiving him.
Chapter five
Not far from town, Etha turned off the highway onto a dirt road. Before her, railroad tracks zippered toward the setting sun. To her left, tucked along the rails sprung the clump of cottonwoods she’d been scouting for. As the sedan bumped closer she spotted a glimmer under the darkening trees that swiftly swelled into a campfire ringed by dozens of ruddy faces. A spore of fear swelled in her gut. Real men and boys squatted under the trees. The kind who slept rough. Who reeked of woodsmoke and sweat. Who slunk through town pleading for handouts.
What was she thinking, driving out here with her boxes of fried chicken, a pound bag of sugar, and the sack of coffee? When it had come to her last Tuesday, the idea had seemed sound, jolting loose some long-buried enthusiasm that Reverend Coxey’s sermons on charity had not. She had stopped by the Maid-Rite for a cup of coffee. It was late afternoon and the wooden stools around the U-shaped counter were empty. Only Ernie, the owner and cook, was there.
“Take a seat, young lady. There’s nothing deader than a café between lunch and dinner,” he had called from the steam table. He was arranging and rearranging a heap of loose meat with broad strokes of a spatula. Spread across his belly was the usual apron marbled with grease stains. As Etha sipped her coffee, half listening to Ernie’s circular chatter, a skinny figure appeared at the back door. It was a kid, not more than twelve. He knocked timidly. Ernie kept on talking.
“Someone’s out back,” Etha said.
Ernie didn’t turn. “I know. If I gave handouts to every kid riding the rails I’d be out of business. I do my share but there’s a limit to my good nature.”
Etha had known, of course, that most Vermillion shops and houses got regular visits from tramps squatting in the hobo jungle by the tracks. They offered to do odd jobs in exchange for a sandwich, a slice of bread. No one stopped at her house. Being it was three floors up in the courthouse and next to the jail, the vagabonds kept their distance.
The kid rapped a couple more times before slinking away. Her thoughts leaped to her son Jack, as they did whenever she spotted a vulnerable boy.
Now here she was, out on the prairie with night approaching and on what Temple would have called a cockamamie good-works mission, if he’d know
n about it. All because of some nameless kid who’d made her think of their son Jack, dead for fifteen years. A nameless kid to rescue because her own lost boy was beyond reach.
She braked and shakily exhaled, her hands pattering on the wheel. Shadows quivered thickly behind humped backs circling the fire. The heavy air absorbed the metallic tang of unwashed bodies, of urine-sour loins. I can’t do this, she thought. I’m too scared. She abruptly clutched the gear stick, shoved it into reverse. Then her headlights caught two young men ambling toward the car. She pressed her elbow into the lock button inside the door.
“Ma’am, you lost?” asked the taller of the two.
“I just thought . . .” Etha heard her voice shaking just a little. “I thought that you all might be wanting some homemade fried chicken.”
“Sure enough we would!” He broke into a face-splitting grin. “I’m Gil and this here is Carmine.”
With that smile, Etha’s fears dwindled. “Pleased to meet you. Now, you best help me unload.” She climbed out and retrieved a box, passing it to Gil, who sniffed mightily and exclaimed, “Wee doggies!”
Turning to slip a crate into the arms of Carmine, Etha caught her breath. The young man, who was wearing a denim shirt, bore a resemblance to Jack. There were the same dark waves of hair and eyes set close to the nose. She struggled to gather herself.
“Guess I picked the right time to pay a call,” Carmine said with laugh, revealing an overbite.
When she saw that, his similarity to Jack faded slightly. Her gut unkinked. He’s not Jack, but I know boys like him, she thought. I know him.
They hefted the boxes to their shoulders and loped toward the clearing. Etha followed. The short path led to a fire ring near three patched tents and a couple of lean-tos made of boards and flattened tin cans. A pocket mirror was nailed to the trunk of a cottonwood. From the tree’s branches swung an empty pot and a couple of straight razors.
Carmine called out, “Hey, fellows, dinner’s on!”
Death of a Rainmaker Page 4