A slight smile crossed her lips as she leaned forward and dropped her voice: “That’s not all. When Uncle Vince was here earlier, I told him about the blood and he said not to mention it.”
“Really?” Temple said.
“He told me, The sheriff doesn’t need to know about this. He’ll just be sniffing around Mayo’s all the more and you all don’t need that kind of attention. Ma was here with us and backed him up. But I didn’t think it was right.”
Temple gazed abstractly out the window. The sky was quiet. Clearly Doll had gotten wind of the murder. He might be trying to slow down the investigation—tarnish Temple’s record. Maybe Doll was even mixed up in the killing somehow.
“You’ve done right. Thank you, Beatrice.”
“You won’t say anything about Uncle Vince, will you?”
Temple shook his head.
As the two men descended the stairs, Temple stopped abruptly and asked Ed, “Where were the matches?”
“What?”
“Matches or a lighter. Roland was a smoker, right? Cigarettes in his jacket, in his room. But nothing to light them with.”
“Think that’s something?”
Temple shrugged. “Could be. Write it down just in case.”
He poked his head into Myra’s room, where she was back in bed resting her gallbladder; he thanked her and met Ed outside. The porch was empty. The boarders were either already in their rooms or had sauntered over to the Idle Hour for a beer.
“What do you think about Coombs’s bloodied handkerchief?” Ed asked.
“Could be nothing. Could be something.”
The night air was still, holding the day’s heat as a mother cradles a fevered child. Temple speculated on who might have told Doll about the dead body. And once again felt Doll’s hot breath on his neck.
Chapter eight
Ed drew out his notepad as Temple tramped into the Idle Hour. Months ago, just minutes after Temple’s call letting Ed know he’d been hired, the young man had hustled to Model Apparel for a smart silk necktie. As he handed a five-spot to Mr. Klein, a display of narrow pocket-sized notebooks alongside the cash register caught his eye. A well-dressed businessman with a coat casually thrown over his elbow and a suitcase beside his well-shod feet was rendered in blue ink on the covers. Beach’s “Common Sense” Travelers’ Note Book, it said. That’s for me, Ed had thought. Professional. Serious-minded. Not a bum or CCC pity case.
Now he was using it to take notes on his first murder investigation.
The Idle Hour’s bar ran down the left side with booths on the right. Three loners, sitting two or three barstools apart, hunched over beer glasses. The remaining clients filled one of the wooden booths and more—overflowing so that several had pulled up chairs and another was leaning against the booth’s coat rack. Ed immediately recognized Vince Doll and his cronies, including the lawyer John Hodge, who had been griping about the Peeping Tom. Temple’s back stiffened. Ed and Temple had not talked much about the primary, but the deputy knew that his boss, underneath his composure, was worried. And Ed walked his own tightrope. If Temple lost, God forbid, he’d be depending on Doll for the deputy job.
“Let’s go say howdy to the boys,” Temple said.
Doll was holding court, leaning back on a chair with his legs crossed. A cigar was pinched in one hand and he gripped a cane with the other. There was something prideful about his paunch, festooned with a double watch chain.
“Look who it is!” Doll exclaimed as Temple and Ed approached.
Everyone exchanged small nods. Doll was joined by Hodge, Darnell the banker, a couple of shop owners, the Methodist minister, and three county clerks. There had been several rounds of drinks, judging from the number of shot glasses and steins on the table. The entire scene reminded Ed of the Christmas basket packed with oranges, nuts, a dressed turkey, and candy that the Democratic precinct captain used to bring to his family’s apartment. He’d strut into their kitchen, install the basket crinkling with red cellophane on Mom’s kitchen table, pump Dad’s hand, and sweep out into the hall where a group of sycophants stood at the ready with more baskets. Growing up in Chicago, Ed knew all about the political machine’s barter system. Christmas baskets, loads of coal, city permits, and rounds of drinks for the house—all greasing the gears to ensure election. And the currency of highest denomination was patronage—choice jobs in city hall or public utilities. Ed eyed the county clerks.
Doll gestured with his cane. “Get our sheriff and his deputy chairs so they can sit a spell and have a beer with us. You do have time, I’m hoping. Nothing pressing?”
Ed assumed Temple would brush this aside and get down to business so he was surprised when the sheriff said, “Kind of you. We could use a drink.” While Temple eased himself into the offered chair, Ed stood behind—legs planted in a wide stance.
“I’ve got a beef with you,” Hodge said, pushing a finger toward Temple. “Someone been lurking around—”
“Cool down, John. Ed told me you called and I promise we will look into it as soon as we get past the storm cleanup.”
“What’s this about?” Doll asked, looking at the lawyer.
“Sheriff’s business,” Temple said, putting a period at the end of the sentence.
Once the beers arrived, Doll began speaking: “That was some duster. Never seen one so big. I was at my desk ordering seed when the whole place went black. Black as pitch at noon. Never would have believed it. Couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. And choking. I swallowed enough dirt to plant wheat in my belly.”
“It was nasty,” Temple agreed.
Doll pointed his cigar at the sheriff. “Heard you had to take shelter outside of town.”
“Heard right. The Fullers took me in.”
“You mean the family you and Walter here were supposed to foreclose on today? That must have been a might uncomfortable.”
Several members of the entourage laughed. Ed saw Temple’s jaw muscles tense.
“They’re good people and were nice enough, considering the circumstances. That’s one part of my job that I find distasteful.”
Doll narrowed his eyes. “Now that’s where you and me differ. I’m all for pruning away the withered vines. Those not strong enough to survive a couple of bad crop years. I expect our lawmen to flush out the weak sisters. Vermillion would never have been on the map if it hadn’t been for men and women with strong backs and stronger stomachs. I’ve said this many a time but it’s worth saying again: I was all of seventeen when I took the train up here from Texas. When I stepped off, there was nothing but the station platform. And you all know what I mean by nothing. Prairie grass, blue skies, and sun white enough to blind a man. Not a building, not a windmill, not a tree. Staring out at the flatness, our eyes were just begging for a mooring, a speck of something to build on. But there was nothing out there. Just a big old armful of air. It all had to come from in here.” Doll thumped his chest. “Not out there. But we made it something. Built from the ground up. I’ve seen worse times than these. Way worse.” Webs of spit glistened at the edges of his mouth.
“Yes indeed,” the banker murmured.
Temple settled his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands loosely. His voice dropped to a confidential tone: “I tip my hat to any man or woman who came out here in the early days. I can’t begin to imagine what it took to build this county from the dirt up. And I know that there are some who came later and maybe took all that’d been done for granted. Who grabbed a piece of land when those cannons went off in ’93 and didn’t know two hoots about farming. But the Fullers aren’t those people. They tried to make a go of it but the weather was stacked against them. I’m not saying the bank isn’t owed its money. I’m not saying I won’t uphold the law. I’m just saying I don’t believe it’s all as clear cut as some think and it gives me moral indigestion.”
Doll started in: “But let me tell you that—”
“I’m sorry we can’t hash this out right now and I promise we will,”
Temple cut in, “but tonight I need to talk business. Ed and I are trying to cull out the comings and goings of that rainmaker and Myra tells me he was in here last night. Did any of you see Mr. Coombs?”
For a moment, the only sound was the irregular whir of a fan with a bent blade. Ed drew out the notebook and positioned his pencil.
Doll knocked cigar ash onto the floor with a firm tap. “Not me. I spoke to him a few minutes after the detonations but that was all. Went straight home afterward. Why? Is he missing? I hope to God he didn’t take off with our money.”
Temple ignored Doll and examined the other faces. The banker and minister shook their heads. One of the county clerks, a young man with a fringe of silky hair on his upper lip, said, “We was here. The three of us. Coombs come in about ten. He was belly to the bar drinking a beer when we left twenty minutes later. We didn’t speak to him or nothing.”
“Was he alone?” Temple asked.
The second clerk, sporting a snappy bow tie, jumped in: “There were three boys from the CCC with him. They were all hooting and hollering. I heard him say he’d buy the first round.”
The pencil froze between Ed’s fingers. CCC fellows? He’d only been out of the corps a couple of months and knew everyone in the camp. It sickened him to think that a CCCer was somehow mixed up in this. The corps had been his salvation. Sure, it had taken the townsfolk and farmers months to warm up to the fellows sleeping in the bunkhouses, clearing brush, and planting trees. To trust they weren’t a bunch of young hellions. But eventually they’d see its true merit. If a CCCer was involved in Coombs’s death, it would bust up all that goodwill.
Temple was still talking. Ed turned back to the notebook, reminding himself that even if Coombs was drinking with some of the boys the night before, he’d been murdered that afternoon.
“Now I have a question for you, sheriff,” Doll said, holding up his empty glass which one of the clerks promptly carried to the bar for a refill. “If you remember, I notified you last week of a big old still set up beyond the Copes’ abandoned soddie. As far as I can tell, nothing’s been done about that as yet. When do you think you might get around to it?”
The sheriff took his time answering. His right foot, propped on his left knee, jiggled double time. Ed recognized how deeply exasperated Temple was, although his face was as still as a low-water creek.
“Ed and I will take care of it first chance we get. Now let me ask you this: why did you try to hide the fact that Myra found a bloody handkerchief in Mr. Coombs’s room? As a citizen, she has an obligation to report anything that might have a bearing on—”
“An investigation?” Doll broke in. “Is that what this is?”
“I could charge you with interference.”
“I didn’t think it was important and would be bad for her business, that’s all.”
Temple stood. “And yes, to answer your question. It is an investigation. Mr. Coombs was found dead in the alley outside the Jewel this afternoon. If you come across any other information that might help us with this, I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Jeez,” one of the clerks said, lowering his glass with a bang on the table. A few of the others pulled their heads back in surprise.
Doll said, “Dead? That’s a shame. Seemed like a nice enough fellow. But if you find any money tucked somewhere, remember that’s the Commercial Club’s. And of course I’ll cooperate.” He waved his cane dismissively.
“Promise to do that,” Temple said gravely.
The chink of toasting glasses accompanied Temple and Ed to two stools at the far end of the bar. The sheriff pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the deputy.
“What can I get you gentlemen?” the barkeep, Ike Gradert, called from his station at the taps.
Temple snapped a dime, in the manner of a tiddlywink, onto the bar’s polished wood. “Two beers.”
Ike, a man of middle age with a face that sagged like overalls on a wash line, filled the glasses and shuffled over, slopping liquid on the floor.
Temple raised the dripping glass and, as was his custom, said, “To you, Ike.”
Across the room, chairs scraped. Doll and his pals prepared to depart. As they filed out, Doll spoke for the group: “’Night, gents. And good luck, sheriff.” The screen door bumped behind them.
Ignoring the interruption, Temple said, “We need to talk about a customer you had last night.”
The barkeep glanced at the wall clock. “Could you give me five? Got stew going in the back.”
“Sure thing.”
Ike traipsed into the kitchen and Ed took a swallow of beer. It went down smooth. “So, did you buy Doll’s story about the handkerchief?”
Temple snorted. “I think he’s hankering to gum up our case, hoping to improve his chances.”
“Agreed.”
The two men fell silent. Ed chewed over which CCC boys had been in the Idle Hour with the rainmaker. He contemplated the bar’s uneven tin ceiling and the squat coal heater with its stovepipe exiting through a poorly plastered wound in the wall. This place was a pity case if he ever saw one.
Tapping the bar with an index finger, Temple said, “And he’s trying to pile on the work so that we can’t keep up. That’s why he brought up the still. I’d bet my last dollar.” The sheriff sighed and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. “Why don’t you question Ike? I’m wore out.”
“Well, ah, sure,” Ed said, trying to tamp down the excitement in his voice.
The swinging door to the kitchen flapped open and Ike reappeared with two small bowls. He plunked them down in front of the lawmen, and wiped his hands on his apron. “Tell me what you think.”
Temple put a spoonful of stew in his mouth. “Right fine.”
Ed nodded his assent. He slid the bowl to one side and, after wiping the counter with his handkerchief, opened his notebook and began questioning the barman. The Idle Hour had been deserted while the TNT show was on, Ike said. After the explosions, the regulars trickled in and the place steadily filled up. Ike agreed with the clerks’ description of the rainmaker’s arrival.
“Came in sort of cocky, with three of those kids from the camp. And . . .” Ike paused. “Say, aren’t you a CCCer? I remember you coming in here in the uniform awhile back.”
Ed stiffened. “Yeah, I was. Now I’m the deputy.”
Ike leaned against the counter with folded arms. “You appear on the up-and-up, but some in the corps are nothing but young toughs. Last night one of your CCCers sucker-punched Coombs. And that was after the man had bought him and his buddies a couple of rounds of beers.”
Ed’s stomach dropped. The fan’s thwacking drone seemed louder.
“Ah, jeez,” Temple said.
“Yep. It was coming on closing time. I was washing up,” Ike pointed to bar sink, “when I heard shouting up front. It was a CCCer and Coombs ripping into each other. I couldn’t tell what about. Coombs shoved the kid’s shoulder and then wham, the kid socks him in the nose. Must have broke because it was a gusher. Coombs was dripping all over but got in a healthy punch before heading out.”
“Did you recognize the kid?” Temple asked, then turned to his deputy. “Oh, sorry. Go ahead.”
Ed said, “Did you?”
“He’d never been in before but I’d know him now. Short. Dark hair. Close-set eyes. Wore his hat brim snapped back.”
Ed ran through the faces in the chow hall, the bunkhouses. He couldn’t come up with a match, but new fellows arrived all the time. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
“Nope.”
Ed asked a few more questions but didn’t get any more useful information. He closed his notebook and tucked it in his pocket.
Temple finished his beer. “Okay for now, Ike. Thanks for the help.”
Outside, the air was slightly cooler. The two men walked toward Main Street—Temple on his way home and Ed to the room he rented from the Murphys.
“Do you know who the CCC fellow might be?” Temple aske
d.
Ed shook his head. “Maybe a new guy. Could be Ike got the details wrong.” Either way, Ed thought, I’ve got to check this out quick. If it was true, if someone in the corps fought with Coombs, he wanted to be the first to know. He had a better chance of making it clear that the kid was just a bad egg. And if the fellow had nothing to do with the murder, that was something else Ed needed to find out too. Right away.
Temple was saying, “Okay, we’ll drive out to the camp tomorrow. Together.”
At the courthouse steps, the sheriff put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “We’re just starting so don’t jump ahead of yourself. Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. Meet me at nine sharp at the Maid-Rite. We need to know if Ernie heard anything during the storm. Then we’ll follow up on the CCC lead and make time to secure that truck.”
Ed nodded and watched Temple stride toward the back entrance. He waited until the light in the top floor’s hallway snapped out. If he walked at a good clip he’d get to the camp in an hour.
* * *
From the hallway window, Temple watched Ed turn away from the direction of the Murphys and trot out toward the highway leading to the CCC camp. He’d figured as much. Would have done the same when he was Ed’s age. Temple sighed. I’ve got no energy to chase him down tonight, he thought.
Closing the apartment door quietly behind him, Temple pulled off his boots and padded to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. In the bedroom he removed his trousers and shirt and slid into bed beside Etha. She fumbled for his hand and squeezed it. Her voice was groggy. “You home?”
“Yep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Pretty much. You have some sweet dreams.” He kissed her on the cheek.
Etha mumbled and rolled onto her side. As she did, Temple caught the faint scent of woodsmoke. His brain started to puzzle on that but sleep overtook him.
* * *
Dust swirled around Ed’s legs as he hiked west. Solitude no longer made him jumpy, as it had in those first lonesome days when he’d arrived here, fresh from Chicago’s raucous streets. Now it was a balm. The same as all those saplings he and the crew planted for windbreaks were a balm to the stripped earth. We are both trying for a cure, Ed thought, this barren ground and me. His mind turned to the fistfight between Coombs and one of the boys. The corps’ reputation could be destroyed in a blink of the eye by rumors spread by some of Doll’s pals. That the killer might be a CCCer wasn’t even to be considered. Ed had to get this cleared up before Temple turned his gaze to the corps.
Death of a Rainmaker Page 7