Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “I imagine you’re hungry,” she said.

  A half smile hung on his face then dropped away. “Not really, ma’am.”

  She kept one of the cups for herself and passed the food through. “Have some coffee with me, at least.”

  Carmine lowered the tray to the bed. “The sheriff was just here. Said my lawyer would be coming by again. My arraignment is this afternoon and . . .” Carmine rubbed his mouth with a palm, his eyes glazed with dread. “Do you really think they’ll charge me with murder?”

  Etha swallowed her mouthful of coffee. Leaning forward, she fixed her eyes on Carmine. “Listen. Mr. Jennings is a fair man. You are not guilty and when evidence is assembled that proves that, the charges will be dropped. He will make sure of it.”

  “But he must think he’s got all the evidence he needs.”

  “He might think so now, but I’m going to do some digging on my own. If I can find some facts to the contrary, he will listen.”

  Carmine shrugged without expression.

  She continued: “But you’ll have to tell me exactly where you were, from the time you left the Idle Hour on Friday to when I met you out by the tracks on Saturday night. That’s the crucial time. And no hooey or whitewashing. If you vomited in someone’s bushes, if you took a joy ride in the minister’s Ford, I need to know.”

  “I told you all that already.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Carmine walked her through the details of Friday night and Saturday. Etha listened; asked a few questions. As he finished she studied the grounds at the bottom of her cup.

  “The first order of business is to find that shed you slept in. Ask the owners if they saw you sneaking out after the storm. That would establish your alibi.” Etha stood up. “Now, get some rest. I don’t expect you slept much last night.”

  Back in the apartment, she changed into her street shoes, gathered her pocketbook and hat. On the first floor, she was heading for the front doors when she heard Temple’s voice coming from his office. She froze. If he spotted her would he question where she was going? Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. She ran errands all the time and he didn’t think a thing of it. Still, she wheeled around and crept out the back.

  Outside another broiler of a day gathered steam. Etha decided to start at the Idle Hour and retrace Carmine’s steps as best she could. Peering into the bar, she envied the men seated on the stools in the cool darkness. Rivulets ran down the glasses of beer in front of them. And there she stood in her felt hat with the sun beating down.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself as Carmine, stumbling out in the night with a bruise blooming on his jaw. Which way would he turn? Not right, she decided. Down that way was a padlocked warehouse and not much else. It would be dark when he lurched out of the bar. Left then, toward the lights of Main Street. Two blocks down, she paused in the shade of the Quality Foods awning. Now where? Carmine had remembered the shed as being behind a house on a quiet street. She had a choice to make. Down a block and to the right squatted the clusters of simple porchless homes ubiquitous in the town’s early years. Farther down and to the left were the newer, grander homes. Lottie and her parents lived there, alongside other well-to-do citizens. A toss-up. Etha went with her gut. It told her that a drunk tends to wander. Has trouble leaving the bar, but once in motion will stagger around for a good long time. That was the complaint of her sister in Arkansas, anyway. She often grumbled about tracking down her drunken husband a mile or two outside of town and finding him propped against a fence post.

  Keeping to the shadier side of the street, Etha made her way toward Lottie’s neighborhood. Carmine had mentioned spotting the shack from an alleyway. In this section of town, grassy byways where families stowed garbage cans and kids played leap frog hemmed the small backyards. As she turned down the first alley, Etha suddenly became aware of her street shoes and purse. They were out of place in these private domestic spaces. She dreaded being accused of snooping. But midmorning on a scorcher, folks generally sheltered inside home, barn, or office. She took a chance. The first alley yielded nothing. Not a single outbuilding in sight. Two streets down she sauntered by three backyard sheds. Too big and no windows. Carmine had mentioned watching the storm through rattling panes.

  So far, Etha had not bumped into a soul. This changed with her next move. Halfway down the third alley, she spotted a housewife kneeling outside a backyard fence, industriously pulled weeds. How to explain herself? Maybe Etha didn’t have to. Maybe she could just exchange the customary greeting about the heat and forge ahead. But that was not the small-town way. Etha would need to explain the nature of her errand. She cast about for a reason but couldn’t think of one. The housewife, as Etha got closer, turned out to be Mrs. Lawson, the mother of Vermillion’s switchboard operator and a sponge for tidbits of any kind. The standard niceties were exchanged.

  “With this drought and all, thistles are the only things that grow and they’re tough as nails to get out,” Mrs. Lawson said companionably, waving a wilted stalk. “What brings you out in this heat?”

  Etha bit her lower lip. Her mind was blank. And what with the heat and not sleeping the night before, she suddenly felt dizzy. She swayed and grabbed the fence post.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Lawson asked in alarm. “Let me get you some water. You’re pale as milk.”

  “No, no. I just need to stop and rest a bit.”

  “I insist.” Mrs. Lawson brushed off her housedress and hastened toward her house.

  Etha watched until the housewife was inside. Then she straightened. The dizziness had passed. She hurried farther down the alley. A shed, small and with a window, caught her eye on the left. She darted into the yard, again with no plan to explain herself if the homeowner emerged. The lawn baked silently in the heat. Etha approached the outbuilding and peered in. The glare of the sun and the interior darkness blinded her, but in a couple of moments she could make out long-handled tools hung neatly against one wall. She glanced over her shoulder. A door slammed down the way. She waited tensely but there were no other sounds and she turned back to the window. Besides the tools, there was a push mower and, yes, in the far corner, a large burlap bag. Etha pressed her face hard against the glass. The sack was at an odd angle. She squinted. Corncobs. It said corncobs! Could this be where Carmine hid until the storm passed? Maybe. But his movements would need to be confirmed by someone seeing him entering or leaving the outbuilding. And the likeliest witnesses would be the homeowners. Etha scooted past the bungalow’s tidy back porch, alongside a wall of shrubbery, across a shallow front lawn, and to the sidewalk. She paused to pat her hat and straighten her dress. All was quiet. She turned to face the house. Why, it was the Hodges! Although Etha and Temple didn’t know them well, the lawyer and his wife went to the same church as the Jennings. This was all working out just fine. Mrs. Hodge would welcome her in and hopefully offer a cool glass of lemonade. Then Etha could casually bring up the storm. But wait, Lottie had said Mrs. Hodge was trying on a dress when the sky blackened and that Mrs. Hodge and the Kleins had ridden out the storm together. But what about Mr. Hodge? He was supposed to be at the fitting but he’d never come. Maybe he had been at home. Both the screen and front doors were shut, despite the heat. Etha pressed the bell. When no one answered, she tried again. The street was quiet. As she turned to leave, she noticed the sheer curtains sway slightly in the parlor window. Mrs. Hodge’s strained face swam briefly from behind the organdy before receding. All right then, Etha thought, you are home. She spun around and knocked hard. There was a sound of footsteps and then Mrs. Hodge opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hodge. I’m sorry to trouble you but . . .”

  “Oh, Mrs. Jennings. What brings you out in this heat?” The woman produced a watery smile.

  Yes, the heat, Etha thought. “I was running some errands just down the block and started to feel dizzy. I remembered you lived here and wondered if I could rest inside for a moment
.”

  “Here?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  Mrs. Hodge touched her throat. “I don’t know. Mr. Hodge will be home for lunch soon . . .” Her voice dribbled away.

  Removing her hat, Etha fanned herself. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “All right, I guess.”

  The inside of the house was dreadfully close. Etha wondered if she could even continue the charade of coming in to cool off. She dropped onto a stiff cane-back chair. “I’ll just sit here in the hall and catch my breath, if you don’t mind.”

  Mrs. Hodge pushed up a sleeve to check her wristwatch. A violet bruise was imprinted on her forearm. “Could I bring you something to drink?” she said at last.

  “That would be very kind.”

  Mrs. Hodge practically sprinted to the back of the house and returned almost immediately with a glass of lukewarm water. “I’m sorry I don’t have ice cubes to spare. Mr. Hodge expects a full glass of iced lemonade for lunch and I don’t want to run short.”

  Etha sipped and smiled. “This is just right. Refreshing.” Sensing that the skittish Mrs. Hodge would be pushing her out the door any minute, Etha said, “Say, how about that storm? Lottie Klein said you got caught in the shop.”

  “Goodness. It was a nightmare. And the house filled up with dust. I don’t know how it gets in. I’m still wiping down baseboards. The mister demands a clean house.”

  “Yes, men can be particular. By the way, did your husband get caught out in the duster?”

  “No. He was at the office.”

  “Oh? I imagine something came up at the last minute, then. Lottie said he was expected at the fitting.”

  “Something did. Yes. Something came up.”

  On a low console table at Etha’s elbow was the morning’s copy of the Gazetteer, still tightly rolled. Etha gestured toward the newspaper. “My husband also has a lot on his plate these days, as you can imagine. What with the murder investigation.”

  Mrs. Hodge frowned. “In Vermillion?”

  “Yes. It’s been in the paper.”

  “Oh, I don’t read it. Mr. Hodge makes sure to keep me up to date on matters that concern me. Someone in town was killed?”

  “That rainmaker who came in on Friday. Chester Benton found his body in the alley outside the Jewel after the storm.” Rising, Etha started to hand the empty water glass back to Mrs. Hodge but saw that the little bit of color in the woman’s cheeks was now entirely washed away. “Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Hodge planted two fingers on the console to steady herself. She inhaled sharply. “Fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I just don’t like to think there are people in our town capable of that sort of violence. That’s all. I’m fine.” But there was no reassuring smile punctuating her stilted words.

  “You know, let’s call one another by our first names. Mine’s Etha. And yours?”

  The woman spoke to the floor: “Florence.”

  “Florence? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “My, what a pretty name.”

  When there was no response, Etha added, “Thank you again. I’ll see you on Sunday at church.”

  Back outside, which now seemed cool after the airless heat of the shut-up house, Etha considered Florence. Such a sad woman. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Why had she only now learned the woman’s first name? It was as if Florence Hodge was as unremarkable as her parlor curtains. Passing down the sidewalk, Etha’s thoughts turned to Carmine. It seemed possible that no one had witnessed him slipping out of that shed, or it might not be the right shed anyway. Still, as her father had remarked when her eight-year-old self was banging away on the family’s upright, practicing the same sonata over and over, Etha was dogged. Since she had a bit of time before her first piano student of the day, she decided to get a look at the murder weapon, if it was still at Wilburn Hinchie’s office. That was another thread that appeared to connect Carmine to the killing.

  * * *

  While Etha made her way to the Hinchies’, Viviane concluded a long-distance call. “Yes sir, I will certainly convey your message to the sheriff.”

  A burst of static emptied into her ear.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” she said loudly.

  Another volley of unintelligible sound was launched.

  “I’m sorry, we have a bad connection!” Viviane shouted. “I’m going to hang up but I’m sure the sheriff will be in touch!”

  Without taking the time to transcribe her notes, Viviane hurried across to the sheriff’s office and strode in without even bothering to smooth her skirt.

  “I just got off the phone with St. Joe,” she said in a rush. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Temple and Ed looked up from their desks.

  “Great,” Temple said. “Ed, get this young lady a chair.”

  Perched on the edge of the rail-back, Viviane became conscious of her flushed cheeks. Mind before mouth had been the motto of her clerical teacher at Vermillion High. Now Viviane wished she had taken the time to collect her thoughts.

  She cleared her throat. “The owner of Blodgett’s Boarding House in St. Joe telephoned. He received the telegram that I sent at your request. It seems Mr. Coombs was a resident of Blodgett’s for five years but has been away on business for the last, ah . . .” she consulted her notepad, “two weeks. He asked me why Jackson County was wanting to contact Mr. Coombs’s next-of-kin. Of course, I declined to answer.”

  “Good,” Temple broke in.

  Viviane smiled. “Then he said, and I’ll quote.” She glanced down at the notepad in her lap. “He said, If that no-count is dead, I want it on record that he owes me eighty dollars for storage of his trunk at ten dollars a month. I asked him if he knew of any of Mr. Coombs’s kin and he said there was an uncle by the name of Bert Coombs in town. Then Mr. Blodgett asked if Fenton was in Oklahoma and I informed him it was not. He said someone from Fenton’s merchant association had come nosing around for Mr. Coombs a month ago with,” here she read from the notepad again, “with blood in his eye. The man claimed Mr. Coombs had fleeced his town out of five hundred dollars by swearing he could make it rain. Then the connection broke up. Mr. Blodgett insisted he wanted the eighty dollars he was owed if Mr. Coombs had any money on him and I assured him you would be getting back to him, Sheriff.” She looked up. “I hope that was all right?”

  Temple smiled. “Sounds as if our man was none too popular. Did the landlord have a number for this uncle so I can notify him of his nephew’s death?”

  Viviane slapped her hand across her mouth. “I forgot to ask.”

  “Don’t fret. We can get that, I’m sure. I appreciate your help.”

  She smiled broadly. “Anytime.”

  “And by the by, your father telephoned from the depot. I guess you were on the other line and Shirley put him through to me. They need him to work the night shift. I told him we’d make sure you got home, no problem. Ed’s going to drop you off.”

  Viviane blanched. “But. Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure . . .”

  Holding up his hand, Temple said, “Won’t take no for an answer. You come by here when it’s quitting time and Ed will run you out in the county car.”

  Hugging the notepad to her chest, Viviane trudged out into the foyer. Everything had been going swell. Now Ed, the fine-looking deputy, would see that she lived in what amounted to a heap of packed earth, busting at the seams with children and grown-ups and alive with bugs. It would be as bad as someone seeing her saggy homemade underwear with the stretched-out elastic. Sniffling, she blew her nose twice before entering the main office. She knew the eyes of the two county clerks would be on her as soon as she stepped inside. They watched her every move as if they’d never seen a woman before.

  * * *

  Peering through the Hinchies’ screen door, Etha observed Minnie, the doctor’s wife, on her hands and knees in the entrance hall, her broad fanny raised in the air. At Etha’s knock, M
innie waved her in while straightening her stout body in segments like an articulated measuring stick. Scattered at her feet were scraps of cardboard, a ruler, scissors, a single shoe, and a number of hairpins.

  Before Etha could even say howdy-do, Minnie announced, “And to think I’ve come to this.” She gestured at the littered carpet. “Father warned me about marrying a doctor. He said, Minerva, Wilburn is a good fellow but he is not the provider you need. I should have listened to him.”

  Along with Lottie, Minnie was one of Etha’s closest friends. Like Etha, she was from east of the Mississippi—in her case, Cincinnati. Minnie fashioned herself as a woman who had come down in the world, a woman who had been destined to continue along the path of engraved silver pickle forks until Wilburn Hinchie had strolled into her sickroom one afternoon, palpated her swollen adenoids, and stolen her heart.

  Now that romantic impulse was long past. Minnie’s eyes snapped in her long face that conjured the image of an outraged horse, Etha mused, before brushing the unkind thought from her mind.

  “What’s got your feathers ruffled?” Etha asked

  In answer, Minnie stomped over to the stairway landing where a magazine lay open. Snatching it up, she waved it in Etha’s startled face. “Simple instructions on repairing one’s shoe with cardboard. Hah! First, it is not simple at all.” She kicked the bits of cardboard. “I’ve done four tries and haven’t gotten close to making it work. Then there is the bigger outrage of having to patch a worn shoe. When I was a girl, my foot never knew a resoled shoe. And now, not only am I reduced to that, but using cardboard! Oh my God. I’m nothing better than a tramp in one of those shantytowns. What are they called?”

  “Hoovervilles,” Etha murmured, stooping to pick up the rejected shoe. She wiggled her finger through the hole. “I might be able to make this work.”

  Minnie flapped her hand. “Forget all that for now. I’m sick over the whole thing. Let’s have an iced tea.”

  The two women sat at the kitchen table. There was a sharp smell of rubbing alcohol from Dr. Hinchie’s office, which was attached to the house. Voile curtains as ruffled as a young girl’s party dress hung at the windows. While walking over from the Hodges’, Etha had decided to speak plainly to Minnie about Carmine’s case and her desire to inspect the murder weapon.