Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  As Ed approached, the teacher tucked a ribbon between the pages and stood. He was a tall man in a too-small suit coat that pulled across his stomach and had only a nodding acquaintance with his wrists. “Harvey Lovell,” he said, extending his hand and smiling broadly.

  “Deputy McCance.”

  “Welcome to Thornfield, named after Rochester’s manor house in Jane Eyre. Appropriate, don’t you think?” He gestured at a second chair. “Have a seat. Can I get you something cold?”

  “No thanks.” Ed pulled out his notepad.

  “Please indulge me. I’ve taken the trouble to chill a pitcher of buttermilk.”

  “All right, then.”

  “You won’t be sorry.”

  Lovell ducked inside, the screen door bumping behind him. The view from the porch was as empty as Ed had ever taken note of. Besides the schoolhouse, there was nothing, not even a tree, to anchor the horizon. A tray with two glasses, a small pitcher, and a plate of soda crackers emerged from the doorway, followed by Lovell, who carefully placed his offerings on a small table. He poured the thick biscuit-colored milk into the glasses and handed one to Ed.

  The deputy, not partial to buttermilk, sipped gingerly. Its slightly sour taste was surprisingly refreshing.

  “Better than you thought, right?”

  “Have to admit.” Ed drained the glass and set it on the tray. “So, I just need a bit of your time. We’re investigating the murder of the rainmaker.”

  Lovell spread his hands. “Got all the time in the world. It’s the summer. School’s out. Maybe for good, what with so many families leaving. As of yesterday, I’m down to eight pupils come September. If I lose one more the county has notified me it plans to consolidate. Load my students onto a bus and drive them over to Vermillion every day and put me out of a job.”

  Both men settled into their seats.

  “So, if you could start with what brought you to Coombs’s demonstration?”

  Lovell held up the book he’d put aside when Ed pulled in. “Ever hear of this? Tortilla Flat?”

  “No sir, but I—”

  “It’s about these roughnecks. Not bad fellows, just floating along without purpose. Of course, they get into trouble.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll pick it up sometime. But I need to know what exactly you observed at the detonations.”

  Lovell took a swallow of buttermilk. “I understand that. But I need something too. I am a lonely man. It’s awful quiet out this way. Sometimes I stroll over and ring the schoolhouse bell just for the heck of it. So I’m asking for ten minutes of your time. Ten minutes and then I’ll tell you whatever you want.” He swept his hand in a grand gesture. “We can discuss literature, music, baseball.” He stabbed a finger at Ed. “I bet you’re a baseball man. Right?”

  Ed checked his watch; he could spare ten minutes. “All right. Sure. And yeah, I follow the Cubs.”

  “The Cubs is it? A Chicago man. Well, I’m Cards all the way.”

  The two men talked through two more glasses of buttermilk, arguing the merits of Leo Durocher’s bat and Lon Warneke’s overhand curveball.

  Finally, Ed helped himself to the remaining soda cracker. “I have to say, you know your baseball.”

  Lovell saluted. “Books and baseball. If it weren’t for them, I’d be a crazy man.”

  Ed brushed the crumbs off his pad. “Right then. Let’s start when you got to town on Saturday.”

  “Glad to keep up my side of our bargain.” Lovell cast his gaze to the horizon over Ed’s shoulder, collecting his thoughts. “I drove into Vermillion at the dinner hour. I do have a car,” he thumbed over his shoulder toward an outbuilding, “but not much money for gas. Anyway, I was treating myself to a ride, a sandwich at the Maid-Rite, and a show. The show being the rainmaker and his TNT.”

  “Big crowd?”

  “Indeed. A couple of my older students were there. I’d introduced them to physics last winter. They took to it, I have to say. Other folks I recognized from coming to town for supplies. Shopkeepers and such.”

  “And John Hodge was familiar to you?”

  “Oh yes. He fancies himself an amateur chemist. He invited me to speak a couple of times before the Vermillion Men’s Club. But I didn’t take note of him or Mrs. Hodge until after the show.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “I happened to be standing close by.” He laughed. “I’m one of those fellows who sits in the front pew at church. Don’t want to miss anything. I heard Hodge asking Coombs about what chemicals he used in his explosives. Coombs started to answer, and then spotted Mrs. Hodge standing in back of her husband. He made a fuss over her, trying to kiss her hand. Coombs was a salesman, after all. She wasn’t having any of it, though, yanked her hand away. It was then I saw Hodge grab Coombs’s upper arm, jerk the rainmaker toward him, and say, quite loudly, Don’t you ever touch my wife again.”

  Ed looked up from his notepad. “Whoa!”

  “Took me by surprise, I can tell you.”

  “And what did Coombs do?”

  “Backed away saying, Nothing intended, or something of that nature. Hodge wasn’t satisfied. He demanded an apology and Coombs couldn’t get the words out fast enough.”

  Ed finished scribbling down the teacher’s last few sentences, then raised his head. “Anything else?”

  “Hodge seemed satisfied, asked a few questions, and then stomped off toward his auto dragging his wife with him. The man was making a stink over nothing, in my opinion.”

  Chapter twenty-two

  Temple contemplated jackrabbits as he motored to the Campbell farmstead for the rabbit drive. Where herds of bison had once grazed, cropping the prairie grasses with their sensitive mouths, now jackrabbits overran the exhausted soil. They scoured the plains by the thousands—shearing off stalks and digging up the roots. Long and leggy, open-range jackrabbits could outrun hawks and coyotes. At dusk, as they zigzagged frantically across the prairie, the setting sun infused the orange membranes of their long ears—flames dancing and skittering over the dying ground.

  An hour before the roundup, the Campbell place was crowded as a carnival midway. Kiddies brandished snapped-off broom handles as they dove and swooped around their elders. There were a fair number of women, some cradling babies, and men in overalls with wagon spokes propped on their shoulders. A river of barnyard dogs whipped through the throng.

  From a farm wagon decorated with Vince Doll posters, jugs of corn whiskey were passed, while the candidate himself handed out blue Doll For Sheriff buttons. Temple skirted the hubbub, driving a half-mile beyond the farm and onto the hardpan. There, a dozen men pounded wooden stakes and unrolled chicken wire, knocking together a pen a couple of farm fields wide. Darting throngs of jackrabbits rippled across the ground, bounding over the bundles of wire and snaking between the fellows’ legs. Unfolding himself from the Packard, Temple settled his hat on his head and ventured out to inspect the doings. A couple of fellows he recognized stopped to wave or tug on the brims of their hats. Temple knew they were happy to have real work after months of squatting in the shade of Vermillion’s storefronts, spitting and ruminating. The men shouted directions to one another all the while. A couple of jugs of corn whiskey sat off to one side, giving Temple pause since he was out here to keep the peace and it was always dicey when men got liquored up. One of the fellows by the name of Ray Flynn paused from hammering in a stake to take a swallow.

  “Got a project here,” Temple said.

  “Been at it since daybreak.” Ray raised the spout to his lips a second time, wincing with pleasure.

  “How do these things go anyways?”

  Ray blotted the sweat from his forehead with a cuff. “My understanding is that we all form a big old square way out.” He circled an arm as if spinning a lasso. “Way out. Standing apart to start, then, when the bell rings, walking slow toward the pen, tightening up the lines, and driving the jacks. Close off the pen and the fun begins. You brought a club, didn’t you?”

  Tem
ple, though not a hunting man, respected those who were. “Nah. I’m here in the line of duty. When do you expect things will start up?”

  Shading his eyes, Ray surveyed the men bent over the acreage and ignoring the skittish jacks. “Should be set in an hour or so.”

  Temple motored back to the farm, which from a distance had taken on the look of an anthill someone had driven a stick into. He parked across the road and ambled over. Mrs. Campbell, a twig of a woman, was selling slices of sugar milk pie. Temple dropped two bits into the jar and the farmwife shoveled a piece onto his palm to eat barehanded. It was not quite up to Etha’s, but close.

  Doll, now standing on the wagon bed with his suit coat off and sleeves rolled up, was reminding listeners that as a young man, he had all but birthed Jackson County. “I contend it is high time that the sheriff’s office be run again by someone who knows and appreciates the pioneer stock. Who will weed out the charity cases and bums so that honest, hardworking folks can reap the rewards they deserve. Who will pursue thieves, debtors, and panhandlers with vigor.”

  This was met with a burst of clapping and finger whistles. Spurred on, Doll swore he would hire four local men as deputies. They would work on commission, getting paid when arrests were made, warrants were served, stills were raided. Temple knew Doll was taking a shot at his own hiring of Ed, who was not a local. The sheriff also disapproved of deputies working on commission, an arrangement common in other counties, but he kept his lips buttoned. He believed in running on his own record, not sullying his opponent.

  Doll yammered on: “’Nother thing. I vow to break up that jungle of bums out by the tracks and run off the tramps once and for all. Many of you farmers have told me those vagrants are stripping your orchards and vegetable gardens. And they surely are a nuisance in town. Housewives can’t hardly fix supper without being interrupted by a tramp begging at their back doors.”

  A shot was also taken at the CCC camp which introduced bad elements from the city into the county, Doll said, citing Carmine’s arrest as an example but also adding that the corps was making it unsafe for the womenfolk. “When I’m sheriff, I will be patrolling that gutter every day. I promise you that!”

  After pausing for a drink, Doll seemed to take a moment to assess the crowd’s reaction, which was uniformly positive. His gaze lit on Temple. “I see that Sheriff Jennings has joined us. Perhaps he will favor us with an update on the murder investigation. I heard he might have arrested the wrong fellow and had to let him go. Or maybe got the right fellow but not enough evidence? We deserve to know what’s going on and who bashed in the skull of the rainmaker who committed no crime other than pledging to end this drought.”

  Cheers greeted Doll’s suggestion.

  Temple pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the remains of the sticky crust off his fingers. “Excuse me, but I was just enjoying a piece of Mrs. Campbell’s pie, which I highly recommend.” He got a few chuckles for that. “Mind if I join you up there? Want to make sure folks can hear me.”

  “Plenty of room,” Doll said, grinning. “Make yourself at home.”

  Temple boosted himself up on the wagon bed. More people gathered when it was clear a show was underway.

  “First, I want to thank Vince for this opportunity to fill you in on the case. I am here at the drive chiefly to keep the peace. That is my duty as the sheriff and that comes first. But part of ensuring order is also informing the citizenry. Rumors, falsehoods, and such make rash actions more probable. Why do I say this? Take the current investigation of the death of Mr. Coombs. My deputy Ed McCance and I have been pursuing this case every day. This type of work takes time and patience. Interviewing witnesses, sending samples to the crime lab in Oklahoma City, tracking the victim’s last hours and days. Many of you may have heard that a CCC boy was arrested and, after a couple of days, set free. That is true. All signs pointed to his guilt but when we discovered that a witness had mistakenly given wrong information, we had to release him. That’s the law. It is not shameful to make an arrest and then later, when new evidence is found, to drop the charges. That is what a dedicated lawman doing his job the right way does. As of now, Ed and I have several leads on possible suspects we are following and will keep you informed, with the help of Hank Stowe and his Gazetteer. In the meantime enjoy yourselves, and all I can say is I think you’ll harvest a good crop today. Plenty of jacks out there for the taking.”

  Someone shouted from the back. “Seems our county is overrun with tramps! Maybe you should be cleaning out that bivouac by the tracks, like Doll is saying!”

  Temple gathered his thoughts. “My belief is that a lot of the fellows passing through out there were once honest working folk, but lost their jobs through no fault of their own. And at least half are just kids, set loose by families that are wanting fewer mouths to feed. It don’t seem right to give them another kick in the pants. Of course, if they’re breaking the law, that’s another matter.” He scanned the crowd. “Anything else?”

  There was muttering but no other questions.

  “Thanks for listening.” Temple hopped down and joined a cluster of men under the shade of Mrs. Campbell’s sassafras.

  “Just so’s you know, I’m here to sample Doll’s whiskey, but I’m voting for you,” Cy Mitchem said to Temple in low tones. The hardware store owner was leaning against the tree sipping from a tin cup.

  “Appreciate that.”

  “You might have a tough sell this time, though.”

  “I’m getting that feeling. How’s the missus?”

  “You know Ruthie-Jo. Not one for hubbubs.”

  Nor anything beyond the front and back doors of her small kingdom, Temple thought.

  “I closed up this afternoon. Figured no one would be in town with the rabbit drive and then Dish Night,” Cy said.

  “Forgot all about Chester’s big doings. Lot going on.”

  Cy sucked on his teeth, making a fizzing sound. “All the ladies are fired up, I can tell you. Even my Ruthie-Jo said she might go.”

  Temple reared his head back. “Wouldn’t that be something? Hey, I heard the lawyer was in your place last week. Bought a shovel?”

  “Hodge in my store? Don’t remember. And I would because he hardly ever comes by and I can’t think he’d buy a tool. He has a handyman . . . Oh, wait,” Cy snapped his fingers. “Your missus was asking about a shovel too. Musta been Hodge who Jimmy Clanton sold it to.”

  “You’re surprised about Hodge’s purchase?”

  “Oh yes. Ruthie-Jo says that man never dirties his hands if he can help it.”

  Temple smiled inwardly. Ruthie-Jo’s knowledge of everyone’s quirks, despite her self-imposed quarantine, was legend.

  “Now, if he’d come in for, say—” Cy’s commentary was interrupted by Doll’s voice booming through a megaphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get in place for the drive. Follow my men out yonder and they’ll show you where to line up. You all got your noisemakers?”

  A cacophony of pots and pans burst forth along with a fair number of jalopy horns and the Campbell’s dinner bell.

  “All right then, let’s get to it!”

  The multitude moved forward, flowing around the wagon bed and on toward the pen. Temple waited a bit until the crowd cleared and he found himself ambling alongside Trot, the fellow he’d driven home after the Fullers’ auction.

  “Aren’t you afraid the action will be over by the time you get up there?” Temple asked.

  “Nope. Ain’t any advantage in being the first to go over the top that I can see. I’ll get my share of jacks when the time comes.” Trot’s grin slipped to one side.

  Tipsy, Temple surmised.

  They tramped on as, up ahead, Doll’s men shouted directions, wrangling the crowd into a rough square.

  Trot shook a heavy stick over his head, slightly swaying toward Temple. “Those jacks won’t know what’s coming when I start swinging. Even though my best club went missing, this’ll do.”

  “Be
careful with that thing. Keep it aimed at the rabbits.”

  Temple and Trot stepped into gaps on the southernmost side where folks stood a couple of yards apart. Three long blasts from a car horn sounded and a hundred or more scared rabbits skittered past. Suddenly the dusty air was filled with hoots and shouts and the continuous clanging of pots and pans. The men to the left and right of Temple moved forward in a slow march and he matched their strides. Soon he spotted the other two sides of the square closing in and the river of rabbits trapped in the center flowed faster, breaking up into frantic rivulets and coming back together, fur packed into a tight weave, ears aflame. Now the people stood shoulder to shoulder, stooping and waving their arms in a drive toward the pen. The wind whipped up, stinging everyone’s faces with grit, but no one stopped to pull on a bandanna or press a handkerchief to his face. The last few yards before the pen were dicey. Children tripped over the packed herd. Rabbits squealed. “Plug up that hole!” Doll’s men were shouting. A stream of rabbits broke free and made a run for it, but were headed off by a swift pack of young men. Temple, who was near the open end of the pen, saw the last few dozen forced inside before a makeshift gate was slammed shut.

  Inside the corral, the rabbits formed an undulating brown-and-white fur carpet as they swarmed atop one another. And now the clubs and wagon spokes came out. Some folks stayed outside the pen, bending over the chicken wire to strike and smash. Cy Mitchum, Temple noticed, attempted one or two ineffective swipes with a broom handle before stepping away, his brows contracted in pity. But a good number of men jumped the fencing and waded in, sticks raised. Jess Fuller was near the center, his sledgehammer pounding relentlessly, his jaw set in granite. Beside him, other farmers swung and cussed. Temple was surprised to see Trot in the thick of things administering crushing blows. As the rabbits died they emitted high-pitched screams, eerily mimicking the howl of newborns.