Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “I’ve got good news!” Etha exclaimed giddily.

  Minnie sighed. “I could use some. Mrs. Fitzgerald and her brood are back. Seems the children don’t have colds but dust pneumonia, poor things.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “Hinchie is trying to talk her into taking the kids . . .” A barking cough in the background drowned out Minnie’s voice for a moment. “. . . to the hospital in Enid. Get them away from the dust. In the meantime, I’m smearing their nostrils with Vaseline. Seems to give some relief. What’s your news?”

  Etha launched into her story of noticing the missing glasses and the possibility that Carmine was wrongly identified. “So it seems likely that he’ll be released. I mean, without the identification, the case is pretty weak. Temple said so himself. I can’t tell you what a relief that would be.”

  “Certainly that’s good news for the boy. And for you. You seem fond of him.”

  “He’s a good kid with no mother to stick up for him.”

  “But you do know that arresting the wrong man will not help Temple’s stance with the voters. Not one iota. So, while you celebrate with the boy, you better be also thinking about ways to get Temple reelected.”

  Etha grew still. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And I hate to pile on more gloom, but on my way home from the library I stopped by the Gazetteer offices to have a frank talk with Hank about the election. He’s not hearing good things about Temple’s chances either.”

  “No!”

  “If he says there’s a problem, I believe him. Hank knows the county like the back of his hand. Apparently Jess Fuller, the farmer from last week’s auction, is still fuming even though it turned out he’s hung on to his property for now. He’s spreading venom about the bank, the auctioneer, the sheriff’s office—anyone and everyone involved.”

  Etha dropped down into the chair beside the telephone table. There was silence on the line and finally Minnie said, “I’ve gotta go. Hinchie needs a hand.”

  “Of course! I’m sorry to keep you.”

  Etha slowly lowered the receiver into the cradle. Temple might very well lose, she thought. She gazed around the living room. At the walls she’d papered with the large gray-and-mauve fern pattern. At the matching bridge lamps, the walnut knickknack shelf, the desert painting above the radio. This was home. It had been for a long time, even without her knowing it. Her eyes fell on Temple’s chair. These days it was not uncommon for men, good men, who lost their jobs, couldn’t put food on the table or shoes on their kids’ feet, to drift away. Women woke to permanent hollows on the other sides of their beds. Children sat at the table while suppers cooled, waiting for Pappy, who had “stepped down the street for a pack of cigarettes” and never came home.

  All the joy that had bubbled up at the prospect of freeing Carmine fizzled out.

  * * *

  Ed was at his desk, hammering the typewriter keys as if they were nails, when Temple strode in from morning patrol. The deputy abruptly stopped typing and stood.

  “Sir, we need to talk.”

  Temple caught the urgency in the deputy’s voice. He removed his hat, hung it on the rack, and dusted off his cuffs, then lowered himself into his chair. “Let’s hear it.”

  Haltingly, Ed described how Etha took notice that Maxine was not wearing glasses and how he, after careful thought, was sure she didn’t have them on for the identification up at the camp.

  Temple exhaled heavily.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. There is no excuse and you will have my resignation—”

  “Whoa. First, did you confirm any of this with Maxine?”

  When Ed shook his head, Temple told him to get over to Maxine’s pronto and confirm what was at this point only speculation. “Then we’ll see where we are.”

  Ed hustled out the door, his boyish face stiff with remorse. Temple attempted to gather his thoughts. It was noontime and the metal desk fan, whirring on top of the file cabinet, was no match for the stagnant air. He pushed his face into its tepid breeze and studied the framed portrait of George Washington hanging on the wall. The first president appeared to be ascending from a cloud. The same print had been suspended above the chalkboard in his third grade classroom and it wasn’t until many years later that Temple had learned that, in fact, Washington wasn’t emerging from a heavenly cumulus but that the portrait was simply unfinished. Temple, too, felt submerged in thick fog—the murkiness of the case, the uncertain outcome of the primary, the discord with Etha.

  Ed returned within twenty minutes with the unhappy news that Maxine had confessed. She had not worn her glasses during the trip to the CCC camp. Her identification of Carmine was a falsehood.

  “Shoot,” Temple said, kicking the file cabinet.

  “I should have noticed right off, when she first climbed in the car,” Ed said glumly. “I’ll type up my resignation right now.”

  “Hold it,” Temple said. “I don’t think we need to go that far.”

  Ed swallowed audibly.

  Temple studied the air. When he spoke, his words were clipped: “I think I’m a fair man and I believe in second chances. You already got a pass when you went out to the camp to investigate on your own. But I can’t afford another slip-up. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ve got too much on my plate right now to be losing my deputy. You’re going to have to work harder, be more careful to earn back my trust, though.”

  “No question.”

  “Good.” The sheriff’s tone was brusque. “Get going on that paperwork for releasing DiNapoli. I’ll be back.”

  Temple was surprised to find Etha in the living room at this hour of the day, without a darning egg or even a book in her lap. She was sitting still as a bird on a nest.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  She started, as if she hadn’t known he was there. “I’m afraid.”

  “What about?”

  “People are saying you might lose to Doll. And I started to think about our home here and how much I would miss it. And what if you can’t find work?”

  Scrubbing his jaw with his hand, he said, “I don’t think any of that’s going to happen. And if it does, we’ll get by. And here’s something to feel good about: you got your boy out of a fix. Maxine has admitted she lied about the DiNapoli identification. He’ll be out by afternoon.”

  Etha jumped to her feet. “Thank you, I—”

  Temple held up a hand. “This is not a favor for you or anybody else.”

  * * *

  Within an hour, the paperwork complete, Temple unlocked DiNapoli’s cell and told him he was being released.

  “But don’t get too cocky,” the sheriff said. “You’re still under suspicion. This just means I don’t have enough evidence to hold you for now. I’m going be keeping a close eye on you while we continue to investigate. You’re still at the top of the list. Gather up your belongings.”

  Carmine snatched up the book, harmonica, and toothbrush. “All set, sir.”

  Temple snorted. “I’m not happy about this.”

  As the two left the cellblock, Etha emerged.

  “I can’t thank you enough, ma’am,” Carmine said, his voice hoarse.

  She flapped her hands at him as if to say, No need.

  He caught another glimpse of her face, far up at the kitchen window, as he climbed into the county car.

  * * *

  As the sedan jolted along the road to Camp Briscoe, Carmine sat silently, his head turned to the monotonous rhythm of the fence posts. They passed a sign reading, No Substitute—the lone survivor of a Burma Shave roadside jingle, the remainder having been blown off by various dusters. Temple observed his passenger. The kid’s hands hung limp between his knees. He seemed a different person from the one who’d punched Coombs in the bar. Etha saw this side, it seemed. Even knowing he was accused of killing a man hadn’t deterred her. She passed out second chances as if they were sugar cookies, Temple thought, forgetting that he himself h
ad done the same with Ed not an hour before.

  When the sedan approached the camp turnoff, Carmine broke the silence: “Could you pull off a minute? There’s something you need to know.”

  Here it comes, Temple thought. “Now don’t tell me—”

  “No, it’s not that. I didn’t kill Coombs and that’s the truth. It’s something else.”

  Temple drove onto the shoulder and cut the ignition. “You’ve got three minutes.”

  Carmine told him about rigging the electric boxes and the building fire. “I should’ve told you before. That’s why I ran when I saw you. I’ve been scared stiff for all these years. On the move. I thought when I got accepted into the CCC it was finally my chance to turn things around.”

  Temple massaged his chin. “You were thirteen?”

  “Yep.”

  Nothing was said for a few moments.

  “I’ll have to notify the Kansas City police, but given the amount of time since the fire and the impossibility of mounting an investigation, I doubt anything will come of it. And you were a minor.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carmine extended his hand but Temple ignored it.

  “You’re still my top suspect in the Coombs killing. Commander Baker will have someone watching you around the clock, so don’t even think of running away.”

  Five minutes later they pulled into Camp Briscoe.

  Baker emerged from his office. “We’ll take over for now,” he said to Temple. “But I’ll be honest with you. I hope this isn’t your man.”

  The kid’s face softened at Baker’s words and Temple caught an echo of Jack there. Etha had sworn she saw it yet he hadn’t . . . until now. But he shook it off. This roughneck was nothing like their boy. When he had time, he’d call the KC police, but that could wait. More pressing matters brewed.

  When Temple got back to the office, he took a long drink of water from the jug kept for such purposes, and then collapsed in his chair, beating the dust off his Stetson. “Pull your chair over here, Ed. We need to powwow.”

  For the next hour, the two lawmen picked through the shreds of their investigation. Coombs was still dead, but for what reason and by whose hand was unknown.

  “What we really need to do is talk with more folks at the detonation; see if anyone noticed anything,” Temple said. “I tracked down a couple, but then when DiNapoli seemed to be our man, I put that on the back burner. And that Saturday-matinee crowd needs going over too. Find out if anyone remembers seeing someone follow Coombs when he slipped out the side door.”

  Ed pulled a folder from a side drawer. “I’ve got the list of the Jewel patrons.”

  “Terrific. I’ll hone in on those. You call on Attorney Hodge.”

  “About?”

  “About a couple of things. First, we gotta take care of his Peeping Tom as best we can. Get a detailed description from Hodge and his wife. Times, dates, what the prowler looked like. Tell Hodge I’m hiring a civilian to patrol his block for the next three nights. In the meantime, Mrs. Hodge needs to keep the doors and windows locked. That’s number one.”

  Temple shook a cigarette out of his packet, lit it, and took a draw. “Second, talk to him about the Coombs case. Seems to me Hodge has some connection with it. Not that I’m thinking he’s a suspect, but he does seem to be turning up like a bad penny—at the explosives show, at the Maid-Rite when Coombs told anyone who would listen he was going to the movies, then later at the Jewel. And Hodge bought one of those shovels. I want to know if he still has it. Think you can handle him?”

  Ed patted the notebook in the shirt pocket of his uniform. “I’m your man.”

  * * *

  On his way out, Ed paused at the open door of the county offices. Viviane was threading a ribbon into the typewriter, her brows drawn together in a pretty frown. Since he’d taken her to the Maid-Rite, the county offices had acquired a new allure. She turned to him and her frown bloomed into a wide-open smile. He said hello, and after a moment went on his way.

  As it turned out, Hodge was not in his office when Ed swung through the frosted-glass door of the reception room. In a stern voice, the secretary informed Ed, “He always lunches at home. You can wait here if you like.” She pointed to one of two red-leather chairs embellished with borders of brass nail heads.

  “No thanks. I’ll catch him at his house.”

  “He hates to be disturbed at home. His time with the missus is sacrosanct.”

  Ed, mindful of wanting to get back into Temple’s good graces as fast as possible, pushed on: “This involves a murder case so he’ll have to accommodate me.”

  * * *

  A wilted geranium provided the only bit of color on the Hodges’ front porch. The lawyer answered the door, and when the man’s eyes lit on Ed, a smirk stretched across his face.

  “You finally here about the down-and-outer skulking around my house? Took you long enough.” Hodge gestured for Ed to take a seat, then closed his front door and lowered himself into the porch swing. “Guess your boss heard from the governor. I called Marland this morning. The governor and I go way back. It’s a shame strings have to be pulled to get protection for upright—”

  “Excuse me,” Ed cut in, “but Governor Marland didn’t telephone. The sheriff apologizes it has taken so long to get on this but the murder case has taken up a lot of time.” He filled Hodge in on the plan for a nightly patrol, adding, “But we also could use more specifics from you and Mrs. Hodge on times and dates.” The deputy pulled out his notebook and looked attentive.

  “Well, this is more like it. But your boss will still have to answer to the governor on why it took so long to get on this.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Hodge seemed to relax. He ticked off the four nights, mostly around nine or ten, when he or Mrs. Hodge had spotted someone peering around the edge of the kitchen window. Each time the lawyer had run outside, the prowler dissolved into darkness. Hodge hadn’t gotten a clear look at the face. Certainly it was a man, not too tall, judging by the window frame. The face was dark. “Not a coon,” he hastened to add, “but like the fellow hadn’t shaved in a while.”

  Ed made a note. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Friday, after Coombs’s demonstration. Mrs. Hodge and I got home late, after ten. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before bed and started screaming.”

  “I’ll need to talk to her.”

  “She was too hysterical to get a good look.”

  “Well, maybe now she could—”

  “I’m not involving my wife in this,” Hodge interrupted.

  “I need a couple more minutes of your time,” Ed said slowly, but with force. “About the Coombs case.”

  Hodge paused. “I thought an arrest was made.”

  “Didn’t hold.”

  Hodge shook his head. “Jennings can’t leave office fast enough for me.” He walked toward the door dismissively.

  Ed swallowed his anger. “As of now, he is still sheriff and this is still an active murder investigation. Five minutes is all I need.”

  From down the street came a thump, thump, thump, as a small kid, listing under a heavy canvas bag, lobbed the Gazetteer against front doors. Both men watched him approach, and after the boy politely handed the rolled paper to Hodge, the lawyer said, “Five minutes.”

  Ed silently reviewed the questions he had jotted down in his notebook and decided to try to throw the lawyer off his mark. “How’s the garden coming along?”

  Hodge reared back. “What are you talking about? I don’t have time for this foolishness.” He reached for the doorknob.

  “I understand you bought a shovel recently and it happens to be the type used as the murder weapon. I’m tracking them all down.”

  “Gave it away. It wasn’t suited to my use,” Hodge said curtly.

  “Really?”

  “I bequeathed it to one of those tramps always showing up at the back door. That all?” Again the fleshy hand gripped the doorknob, and again Ed stood his ground.<
br />
  “All right. I’m making a note of that. Could you describe this fellow?”

  “Ragged trousers and shirt, slouch hat. Standard vagrant attire. Tall and skinny. A real beanpole.”

  “All right. Also, we’re asking folks who were at the Jewel on Saturday if they noticed anybody in particular sitting near Coombs.”

  “I don’t know! This is enough. I barely know what the man looked like. I only saw him once, at the detonation. And that was from a distance.”

  Ed’s antenna, which he had begun to doubt since the slip-up with Maxine, quivered. According to Ernie, Hodge had been at the Maid-Rite at the same time as Coombs on Saturday morning. A place so cramped that you couldn’t bring the fork up to your mouth without elbowing other patrons.

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten. Weren’t you, in fact, at the Maid-Rite when Coombs was—”

  “Are you calling me a liar? I won’t stand for it. If the sheriff wants to pursue this, he’ll have to bring me in for questioning. You tell him that. I don’t have to tolerate this nonsense. And I better see someone patrolling tonight or I’m going straight to the Gazetteer offices to make this negligence public.”

  The oak door slammed hard behind Ed. What made Hodge so sore? he wondered. And how can I make that happen again?

  Chapter twenty

  “He’s covering up something. I know it,” Ed declared the moment he returned to the sheriff’s office. “That Hodge isn’t near as smooth as he thinks.”

  Temple thrust back a flop of hair. “I hope you didn’t accuse him of lying. Hodge is a bigshot around here. We’ve got to tread carefully.”

  Ed snorted. “He’s not voting for you anyways. He said so. And he threatened to go to the Gazetteer. Said he already called the governor, but I don’t believe him.”

  “We can’t let the primary influence this investigation either way. Whether someone votes for me or not has no bearing on the law.”

  “I know, I know. But he claims to only have seen Coombs once and from a distance. When I brought up his Saturday-morning breakfast at the Maid-Rite, he shut down. Heck, I’d bet money he could tell us the number of hairs in Coombs’s snoot.”