Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “That setup isn’t going to change. Bertha badgering Meyer about a Sunday drive. The dog barking its head off. Lottie rolling her eyes. Go on and wash up, change your shirt. I’ll set the table.” She plucked two knives, forks, and spoons from the drawer.

  Temple headed down the hall. He peeled off the uniform shirt and trousers, stuffing them in the bedroom hamper. In the bathroom he bent over the sink, splashing tap water on his face and the back of his neck. He swabbed his underarms. Coffee-colored water swirled down the drain. He shuffled back to the bedroom and pulled on the frayed blue shirt and soft trousers with holes in the knees that he wore around the house. The bed, with its tufted chenille spread, called. Temple flopped down, trying to empty his mind, but something bristled up through his thoughts. Something about the expression on that kid’s face was not lining up but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Temple lay back to rest his eyes for a couple of minutes.

  “Dinner,” Etha called. At the same moment, the phone in the hallway rang. Years of late-night calls about strangers in someone’s barn or a fight at the Idle Hour had trained Temple to go from a dead sleep to fully awake in an instant. He jerked upright on the bed and moved to answer the trill. Etha, trained by the constant interruptions, slid the roast back in the oven.

  Temple had the receiver in his hand and Walter Darnell’s voice in his ear. The banker was the only man in town with the wide desk, leather chairs, and hooded lamps of a city-style office, yet he did business everywhere but. Darnell was known to discuss loans, mortgages, and new accounts in Trinity Episcopal’s parlor during fellowship hour, in the bleachers at Vermillion High’s varsity game, and astraddle a stool at the Maid-Rite. Now Temple envisioned the banker stretched out on Mrs. Darnell’s floral davenport, his stockinged feet propped on the armrest.

  After an exchange of niceties Walter said, “The auction at the Fuller farm is on for tomorrow at noon. Can you or Ed be there?”

  Temple groaned. He’d been hoping that after Saturday’s postponement, he’d have at least a week to focus on the Coombs case. But First National rolled on, no different than the flooded Little Conemaugh River rampaging through Johnstown, heedless of mankind’s tragedies and sorrows. And keeping the law was his job, in matters big and small.

  “I’ll be there.”

  A rustle of paper told Temple the banker was already on to his next task. “Much obliged. I find these foreclosures as distasteful as you do, but the big picture is we’ve got to protect the bank’s assets and this is just one of those necessary evils to make sure First National stays afloat.”

  Walter gave out this little speech whenever a foreclosure came up. And it was, Temple thought, getting as drained of meaning as an ancient vaudeville gag. “All right, then. See you at noon.” He let the receiver fall into the cradle with a thunk. “Sorry, Etha, but that—”

  The telephone rang again. This time it was Ed.

  “Hey, sheriff, I need to fill you in on questioning Maxine.”

  “All right. Hold on a minute.” Temple laid the receiver on the small table and walked into the kitchen.

  Etha was at the table, flipping the pages of a magazine. She seemed nerved up about something; probably fretting about the roast turning to shoe leather.

  “It’s Ed and this will take a bit. Sorry to make you hold dinner.”

  She gave a half smile. “Not your fault. Although I don’t know why people don’t think about folks trying to eat Sunday dinner before they ring.”

  He walked over and kissed her on the check, inhaling the sweet scent of her face powder. “Thanks.”

  Back on the telephone, Temple leaned against the wall, propping his forehead between thumb and index finger to listen. Ed described the interview and ended with reading off Maxine’s list of who bought movie tickets on Saturday morning.

  “We were right, then, about Coombs ducking out in the middle of the storm,” Temple said.

  “Yeah, and maybe there was someone else right behind him. Maxine’s a pretty observant kid. Despite the spectacles.”

  “Good to know because we’re going to need her for an identification.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. After a moment Ed said, “What’d you find out up at the camp?”

  “The news isn’t good. I had to chase him down, but I did talk to Carmine DiNapoli and . . .” Temple was saying when Etha’s scissors clattered to the kitchen floor. He watched her hesitate before stooping to pick them up. Temple continued, “He admitted to the fight but says he didn’t kill Coombs. Says he was sleeping one off in someone’s toolshed during the storm and then hiked back to camp on Saturday night. Trouble is I found blood on his shirt and Coombs’s lighter hidden in his dirty laundry. DiNapoli admitted pinching it. And then there are those entrenching shovels all around camp, as I’m sure you know. Same as what was used to bash Coombs’s head in.”

  Ed’s voice trickled weakly across the wires: “So, you’re thinking it’s this kid?”

  “Right now, if I was a betting man, I’d lay some money down. But there’s still a couple of strings dangling. We need to see if Maxine recognizes DiNapoli as one of the CCCers at the Jewel on Saturday.”

  “How we going manage that?” Ed asked.

  Temple scratched his chin. “I don’t want to do a police-style lineup.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure how Maxine would take to that. She’s just a kid.”

  Temple made a sucking noise with his teeth. “How about you drive her out to camp tomorrow? Maybe park in front of the office and we could ask Commander Baker to meet with a few of the corps about something, I don’t know what, and include DiNapoli as one—”

  “And have her eyeball him from the passenger seat?” Ed broke in.

  “Exactly.”

  “Guess that would work.”

  “Good. I’ll call Baker tomorrow and then you and I can set it up,” Temple said. “Did you get those photos of the body developed yet?”

  “On my way over to the Gazetteer right now.”

  The sheriff’s office had an agreement with Hank Stowe, the Gazetteer’s publisher, to use the newspaper’s dark room when Ed needed to print crime scene photos.

  “Then see you in the office first thing.” Temple tugged on his lower lip in thought. He wanted to trust Ed’s professionalism in dealings with the CCC. He thought it doubtful that Ed would purposely try to confuse Maxine somehow and stack the deck in favor of DiNapoli. His deputy wasn’t that kind.

  It was after seven o’clock when Temple and Etha sat down to eat. The roast was dry, the potatoes shriveled, but Temple’s empty stomach didn’t care. He filled Etha in on his trip to the camp and talk with Baker.

  “I invited him over to dinner some night soon. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” Etha replied. “So, you’ve got a suspect, then?”

  “Think so. Not hungry?” Temple asked, and Etha opened her mouth to answer when the phone rang again. “Ah, jeez.” Shoving a forkful of carrots in his mouth, he made another trip to the telephone.

  Hinchie was already launched into midsentence: “. . . had me so busy I only got around to studying the handle you dropped off earlier.”

  Ignoring the gap, Temple said smoothly, “What’d you find?”

  The doctor sipped something, almost certainly a whiskey, and cleared his throat. “First, that is definitely blood on the wood. Human blood. Type A. Same type as the victim’s. Of course, there are lots of folks who are type A. Then I compared the handle with the indentations on Coombs’s skull. As far as I can tell, it matches up perfect. Also, there is a hair stuck in the splintered end. I don’t have the equipment to analyze it, but the boys at the state lab do. For what it’s worth, Dr. Hinchie’s naked eye test says it’s a match.”

  “I’d back that test any day. Much obliged that you got to this on a Sunday.”

  “No problem. With the election coming, I’m not all that fired up to give Doll any kind of advantage. He’s always struck me as a self-promoter. Of c
ourse, that’s not for general circulation. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side if, well . . .”

  “If he wins,” Temple finished the sentence. “Don’t worry. I know we’re all walking on a tightrope around here. No crops, no money, no rain will do that. I’d give a lot to know who tipped Doll off on the murder, though.”

  “My money’s on Musgrove.”

  Temple reared back. “The undertaker? The man doesn’t speak!”

  “He’s not much of talker; that is true. But Doll’s sister-in-law over in Woodward is poorly. She’s a rich woman and maybe Musgrove is smoothing the way, hoping he’ll get the business of doing up her funeral. Get on Doll’s good side.”

  “Jesus. Well, that answers that.” Temple shook his head. “One last thing. Can you tell if the handle was broken off recently? I mean within the past week?”

  “I’m not an expert, of course, but the break strikes me as old. The edges are dried and dark. Not the light color of newly snapped wood.”

  Etha was cutting off a generous slice of apple pie when Temple stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Let me guess,” she said, wedging the triangular pie server under the crust and efficiently transferring it to a plate. “Hinchie.”

  Temple laughed. “Yes ma’am. You get a gold star for that correct answer.” He swatted her lightly on the bottom. “Old Hinchie came through. I’m feeling much better about this case than I did when I walked in tonight.”

  After Temple had a second piece of pie, the couple retired to the living room. He snapped on the radio. Seven thirty on the dot. The Gulf Headliners with Will Rogers was his favorite program. Temple and Etha had staked out their preferred spots, as long-married couples often do: he in the upholstered armchair with small tufts of stuffing sprouting from its worn arms and she in the narrow straight-backed chair with a pillow tucked in the curve of her spine and a bridge lamp behind. The workbasket at her feet was a muddle of stockings with holes and shirts without buttons. She pulled out one of Temple’s brown socks, located the scarred darning egg and set to work.

  A protracted musical number opened the program. As always, the pianist irritated Etha. Much too showy with fancy glissades and trills that affected her stomach the same as a birthday cake with too much icing. She eyed Temple, who was chuckling over the Gazetteer’s funnies. Still a boy, she thought. My boy. A smile started to crease her lips but then her deception about driving to the jungle welled. Disappointing him, seeing the hurt darken his eyes, would break her heart. But concealing her dishonesty was worse. It was tainting every mundane exchange, every routine act that they had built up over the years; those little things which comforted them, that bound them, through which their devotion was made manifest. And now, besides her dishonesty, there was the added worry about Carmine. The sock with the darning egg inside dropped to the floor.

  Etha opened her mouth to speak when the program’s soprano launched into a solo. Temple crumpled the newspaper into his lap.

  “I can’t abide that woman,” Temple said. “Why don’t they put on Will? If I’d wanted to listen to opera, I’d have tuned into another program.” He glanced at his watch. “This will go on for another couple of minutes at least.” He turned the volume down. “Sorry. I’m out of sorts. Something’s making me burn.”

  Beneath her face powder, Etha blanched. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you—”

  “It’s that DiNapoli kid,” Temple cut in. “You know, he lied right to my face. Right to my face. I asked if he’d boosted Coombs’s lighter and he said no. Knowing that it was back in the bunkhouse. Did he think I wasn’t going to search his things? I can tell the fellow’s not stupid. Far from it. So why? Why lie? I can’t understand it. Can you?”

  Etha’s tongue was a husk. She couldn’t speak. Just then Will Rogers’s voice, as familiar as your next-door neighbor’s, broke in. Familiar but tart. Spoke his mind about the need for a trickle-up economy. Suddenly the anger melted from Temple’s face. He raised the volume, put his feet up, his head back, and closed his eyes.

  As Rogers launched into a story about deer hunting that was, sure as shooting, going to end up as a political barb, Etha willed her hands to stop shaking. This wasn’t the time to confess her deceit. She studied her husband’s face, glowing in the lamp light, his half smile gradually relaxing as he drifted off to Rogers’s prattle. She knew that there would be another chance. She hoped she would rise to the occasion.

  Chapter twelve

  Smashing a centipede with Granny’s flat iron, Viviane Gilbert, the courthouse secretary, silently raged at life in a house built of sod. Despite the carpet tacked over the dirt floor and sheets of newspaper covering the walls, the centipedes squirmed in, dropping from the ceiling with squishy plops onto Pa, Ma, her four brothers, and Granny. It being a weekday morning, she set the coffee to boil, pumped a bucket of washing-up water, and rousted her little brothers. She washed and dressed behind a sheet that hung in the corner.

  On this particular Monday, she pulled on the print frock, wet-combed her hair, and stepped outside to wait. After milking, Pa would drop her off at the courthouse before continuing on to the train yards where he unloaded freight.

  As they jolted away from the farm in Pa’s truck, Viviane’s mood lifted. The shame of eating and sleeping in the cramped soddie with dirt and bugs constantly sifting onto her dinner plate faded. They rode silently. Pa was a man of few words. And Viviane was lost in her favorite daydream where she was a secretary in Oklahoma City. By the time she tapped up the courthouse steps, she had shaken off the sod house completely and entered the world of plaster walls and paperwork. First thing after she settled at her desk in the county office, two clerks strolled in, jawing about the Cubs’ shellacking of the Reds the day before.

  “Morning, doll,” the lanky one with big ears said. The other winked. Viviane shot them a cool glance. Shrugging, as if she couldn’t take a joke, they loudly resumed their discussion of the previous night’s game.

  Annoyed, Viviane was sorting the day’s filing when Deputy McCance strode in. The clerks abruptly stopped their chatter. Lordy, Deputy McCance surely put them in their place, she thought. Viviane’s irritation, which had been crawling up her neck like one of those nasty bugs, vanished.

  Hiding a smile and calling up her most polished secretarial tone, she asked, “How can I help you, Deputy?”

  Since the sheriff’s office had no secretary of its own, she often typed warrants, mailed reminders for overdue fines, and processed invoices—all swell, in her mind. The chores carried with them a whiff of cops and robbers—broke the monotony of routine.

  So today, when Deputy McCance politely handed over the rainmaker’s business card and asked for her help contacting next-of-kin, Viviane responded in her best secretarial voice, “I’ll see to it right away.” She picked up the telephone receiver. “I need to send a telegram to St. Joseph, Missouri, please.” Her tone was crisp.

  Ed smiled inwardly. Viviane was way more businesslike, even just out of high school, than the two shirkers snickering across the room. “Let me know if you run into a brick wall on this. And thanks,” he said.

  Returning to the sheriff’s office, he bent over the photos of Coombs’s body spread across the worktable. They stunk slightly of developing fluid.

  Temple gave his dinged-up letter opener a rest, laying it beside the considerable stack of mail. “How’d you make out with Viviane?”

  “Fine and dandy. She’ll get back to us.”

  Temple perused the front page of the Gazetteer. “That bugger of a storm we had Saturday? Well, it hit five states. Carried soil all the way to New York. They’re calling it the worst duster in history. Some folks thought it was the end of the world.”

  “I believe it.”

  Temple folded the paper and spun his chair around to face his deputy. “Let’s talk.”

  “Sure thing.” Ed put aside a close-up of the glistening black mass that was Coombs’s head wound, and drew the notepad from his shirt pocket.

>   “First, give that Coldwater sheriff a call to confirm that it was indeed Coombs’s last stop before here. Find out if the rainmaker got involved in any brush-ups out that way. Then contact Darnell at the bank. I’d like to know which member of the Commercial Club Coombs first made contact with when he rolled into town. Then I want you to call Mrs. Saunders. Get permission to take Maxine out for a gander at a group of CCC boys. See if DiNapoli wasn’t one of those at the matinee.”

  Ed’s shoulders slumped slightly at the last edict, but he gripped the pencil and noted Temple’s orders.

  The sheriff continued, “I phoned Commander Baker. He’ll be ordering a dozen of the boys to stop by his office, individually, beginning at noon. You okay with driving Maxine up there?”

  Ed nodded.

  “I mean, will you be able to handle it if she recognizes DiNapoli? I’m not questioning your integrity. Just need to know if you can handle it.”

  Ed’s ears reddened. “Yes sir, I can. I’ve thought it through and if there are bad apples among the corps, they need to go.”

  “Glad to hear it. Also, the foreclosure auction at the Fullers’ is a go for this afternoon. I’ll be holding the reins on that. I should have time to secure Coombs’s truck on my way there.”

  Within five minutes Ed had completed his first two assignments. The Coldwater sheriff confirmed that Coombs had spent about five days in town, peppering the skies with TNT, and when not a drop of rain appeared, he’d been politely escorted to the city limits. Darnell the banker had himself been the first to hear Coombs’s pitch and thought it worth a listen by the Commercial Club.

  Getting through to Maxine’s mother took longer. The telephone operator informed Ed that Monday was laundry day at the Saunders house and calling before ten thirty a.m. would be futile. There was no way in heaven that Mrs. Saunders would answer the phone when she was operating the crank washer. So it was not until late morning that Maxine’s trip to Camp Briscoe for a possible identification was arranged.