“But you are considering other leads, right?”
“Yes, but he has not been ruled out. What about the pie?”
“Carmine finished it off.”
“The whole thing? An entire pie?”
“I had a piece too. A pretty big piece, but yes, it’s all gone. I’ll make another first thing in the morning.”
Temple closed his eyes.
Etha’s voice was tentative: “Rabbit drive went okay?”
“Yep. Had to deliver a fellow home after too much corn liquor, but other than that it was fine. Same old-timer I gave a ride to after the auction. He’s in a soddie outside of town. I think he’s squatting there. These times are tough on the old folks. I think this Trot might have a son somewhere, but he seems pretty much on his lonesome.”
“That’s so sad!”
“Anyway, Doll was in his glory. Cornered me into saying a few words to the crowd. I think I held my own. Who knows?”
“Big turnout?”
“Never seen bigger, even at an auction. Not my cup of tea, clubbing jackrabbits. But then again, they’re destructive pests.”
Etha wrinkled her nose. “They didn’t just shoot them?”
Temple laughed grimly. “Let folks wade into a crowded pen with guns? You’re asking for trouble.”
The conversation turned to other matters and eventually came around again to the murder.
Etha tapped her front tooth. Something was lodged at the back of her mind. Something she’d heard that day. Meyer Klein’s round face suddenly surfaced. “You know, I was talking to Meyer about the storm. He said Hodge showed up at the store to escort Florence home within minutes of its passing.”
“So? Coombs was killed in the middle of the thing. Hodge could have done the deed, slipped back into the theater, and easily been at Klein’s afterward.”
“But Meyer said Hodge showed up in a practically spotless white suit. If he’d been out in that alley in the middle of the blizzard, his clothes would have been black as night.”
Temple sighed heavily. “Can’t catch a break. I’ll send Ed over to interview Meyer.”
“What if Hodge doesn’t pan out? Maybe it’s worth going up to St. Joe where Coombs was from. Could be the killer knew Coombs from way back.”
“That again?”
“Lottie did mention something,” Etha pressed on.
“That so?”
Etha relayed the china salesman’s story. “It might be nothing, but when Lottie said it happened in St. Joe, that caught my ear.”
Temple tipped his head. “I’m not sure an argument between two drunks in Missouri, even if one was Coombs and someone was threatening to shoot him, is connected to his murder down here. It still feels local to me. Someone from around here developed an aversion to the man.”
“Someone like John Hodge?”
Temple sipped noisily. “He clearly has a short fuse. Had access to one of those shovels. Was at the Jewel when Coombs was killed.”
“Hmm . . . It seems to me the killing was not a spur-of-the-moment thing. Someone trailed Coombs to the movies, brought along a weapon, then followed him outside in the middle of the worst dust storm we’ve seen and bashed his head in. Coombs was in town less than twenty-four hours. Hard to anger someone enough in that short a time to plan a murder.”
Temple stretched out in the chair—lanky legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded across his belly, head cocked against the back cushion. “I can’t think straight on any of this tonight. It’s been a long day. How about ten minutes of Tommy Dorsey and then bed?”
Etha carried the tray to the kitchen, knowing not to press the point. But tomorrow she’d bring it up again, and if he did decide to drive to St. Joe, she intended to ride along.
Chapter twenty-four
The next evening, as Temple and Etha sauntered home from weekly Bible class and Etha contemplated the state of her pantry, Temple broke into her thoughts: “You know, I’ve been turning over what you said about Coombs’s past.”
Although she wanted to jump in with her opinion on the matter, she held her tongue. It didn’t pay to rush him. Temple’s voice moseyed on.
“It is possible that the killer knew him from way back. So it might be worth poking around further out. Find out more about the man. About his business dealings. Did he have a sweetheart or even a wife?”
“Good idea,” Etha said.
“This is all by way of saying I’m cogitating a drive north on Saturday.”
“To St. Joe?”
“Yep. But first I want see what Ed comes up with about Hodge and that white suit.”
They’d reached the courthouse and Temple pulled the heavy oak door open for her.
“If you go, I want to come along,” Etha said.
His brows lifted.
“I want to see how this turns out. I’ve been a help on the case. You can’t deny that.”
“No, I can’t. But this all could be a wild goose chase and it’s a long hot ride up to Missouri.”
“I know.”
“The roads are bad.”
She tipped her head to the side.
“And the springs on the Packard are shot to hell.”
When she didn’t respond, Temple sighed. “You’re set on this?”
“Yes.”
“All right then.”
As they reached the third floor, they found Carmine sitting on the top step. Temple frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Returning the library book Mrs. Jennings loaned me, sir. I bummed a ride.”
Temple snorted, yanked the door, and headed inside the apartment.
Etha lingered in the hallway. Carmine handed her the Hammett.
“What did you think?” she asked. “Good one?”
“Heck yeah. If you haven’t read it, you should.”
“Maybe I will. It was nice of you to bring it by, but I could have driven out and picked it up.”
Carmine flushed. “I know. Had the time and wanted to. You’ve been so swell. Anyway, I’ll be going.”
“Okay.” Etha was aware of Temple’s presence just beyond the apartment door.
“So, yeah, you really should read it,” Carmine said, still rooted to the top step.
Then he wheeled and abruptly clattered down the staircase. Etha watched him descend and waited to hear the big doors shut behind him before going inside.
* * *
The next day, while Temple grumbled over a stack of paperwork, Ed interviewed Meyer, who repeated what he’d told Etha: that, while not spotless, Hodge’s suit had most certainly not borne the full force of the Brown Blizzard. Next the deputy approached Maxine in the cashier’s booth. She meekly confirmed that yes, Mr. Hodge had attended the previous Saturday’s show and that he was wearing a white suit. Finally, Ed took it upon himself to question Hodge one more time. As he turned the block, he spied the lawyer bent over the open hood of his Ford.
“Mind if I interrupt?” Ed asked.
Hodge straightened with a grunt, delicately wiped his fingers on a rag, and rolled down his shirtsleeves. “If you are here expecting my gratitude for setting up the nightly patrols, you are not going to get it. The Peeping Tom situation should have been taken care of long ago. Shame I had to get the governor’s office involved, but so be it.”
Ed kept his face smooth. “Actually, I’m here about the murder investigation.”
Tendons in Hodge’s neck strained above his collar. “I’m not answering any more questions. If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to bring me down to the courthouse.”
“I am within my rights as a public servant to question you at your place of residence,” Ed said, hoping this was true. “New information has come to light.”
Hodge turned his back on Ed and fooled with the motor.
“We have a witness who heard you arguing with Coombs on Friday night.”
The lawyer, still bent over the car, stopped tinkering. “Who says?”
“A very credible witness. And we have also le
arned you were at the movies on Saturday, seated directly behind the victim. Do you have an explanation?”
Hodge straightened up and pushed his chest inches from the deputy’s. “I don’t have to explain anything to anyone. That two-bit hustler was attempting to seduce my wife. Had the gall to do it right in front of me! Insisting that she looked familiar. Tried to kiss her hand. I let him know straight out that he was to stay away from Florence.”
Ed wrote in his notebook. “And the next day at the movies?”
“When I was having breakfast at the Maid-Rite, I heard him asking about the movies. I needed to know he hadn’t arranged to sneak off with her. Get her in the back row in the dark. So I followed him inside the theater, settled in, and made sure nothing happened.”
Flipping over a new page, Ed asked, “What were you were wearing when you attended the picture show?”
“What I was wearing? What does that have to do with anything?”
“If you could just answer the question.” Ed planted his legs apart.
“Don’t think I won’t remember you harassing an upstanding citizen. I never forget anything. For your information, I wore a blue shirt, brown socks, brown shoes, black leather belt, white jacket, and white trousers. That enough? Or do you need to know what drawers I had on?”
“Got it. Thank you, sir.” Ed made another note and turned, forcing himself into a slow and dignified gait.
* * *
Back at the courthouse, after Ed reported his findings to Temple, the two agreed there wasn’t enough to make a case against Hodge. Regardless of how odious the man was, his clean white suit and the general lack of anything but circumstantial evidence against him ruled him out as a primary suspect. That tent had collapsed. Time to turn their attention elsewhere, Temple decided. It seemed a trip to Missouri was indeed the next logical step.
When Etha brought sandwiches down to the office a little while later, Temple announced, “Pack your bags. We’re going to St. Joe.”
“Hot dog!” she cried, clapping her hands.
Ed chuckled. “I never heard anyone get so excited about spending twelve hours bumping across lousy roads.”
“Never dismiss the need of a woman—or a man, for that matter—to get out into the wider world every so often. Besides, I’ve dropped a healthy number of coins into this particular collection plate. Better watch it or I’ll be taking your job.”
After she left, the two men were quiet for half a tick.
“Guess I got told,” Ed said.
“Keep on your toes, boy. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
* * *
That evening, Temple got called away after dinner on a report of a fight at Mayo’s. Etha was packing for St. Joe when there was a knock on the door. It was Carmine, standing self-consciously in the doorframe.
“You again,” she said jokingly.
Carmine shrugged. “I couldn’t get the taste of your pie off my mind. Wondered if you had a spare piece I could take back to camp.”
Etha laughed. “How can I turn that request down? Come on in. You can eat it here.”
When he finished, she wrapped another piece in wax paper for him to take on the road.
It was late when Temple returned. Etha was already in bed reading. He unbuttoned his shirt, stepped out of his trousers, and wearily threw them over the back of a chair. Etha had promised herself there would be no more secrets between them and so she told Temple that Carmine had stopped by for pie. Maybe the fatigue worked in her favor because Temple didn’t raise much of a squawk, just reminded her as he fell into bed that DiNapoli was not completely off the hook.
* * *
The next morning, as the sun inched above the horizon, slowly tinting the clouds lilac and pink, the Packard had already been on the road for several hours. So far, it had rumbled across nothing but dirt roads. But now, sixty miles east of Vermillion, the tires jounced onto a stretch of concrete highway. Etha sighed in relief.
“Well then,” she said.
“Don’t get too comfortable. The roads are hit and miss until we get on 40, north of Wichita. Then it’s smooth sailing. But that’ll be late afternoon at best. Having regrets?”
“Not a one. And do you think I’d admit it?”
“Not for an instant.”
During the remainder of the morning, the conversation meandered. Will Rogers’s dispatches from Alaska were on Temple’s mind.
“You know, he says they are flying right over herds of caribou and polar bears? What a sight that must be. Boy, I’d love to be along on that ride. Landing on water with those floats? What a thrill.”
“Not my idea of fun.”
Talk drifted to Etha’s sister Nance, who lived in Arkansas with a dedicated drinker and his ailing mother. Near Ponca City Temple turned the radio knob and the plinky-plink of a banjo came through from station WBBZ. They listened to a solid hour of music before the car jerked out of range, heading north into Kansas.
Outside of Wichita, Temple pulled off under a spreading hackberry. They stretched their legs. Etha unstuck her dress where it was pinned to her skin with sweat.
“You get the hamper and I’ll bring the cloth,” she said.
They settled under the stubby tree; Temple unscrewed the thermos of lemonade while Etha unpacked the egg salad sandwiches, apples, and oatmeal cookies. Not a single car passed.
Eyeing the road sign indicating that it was twelve miles to Wichita, Etha raised her sandwich in its direction and said, “Did you know John Hodge met and married Florence there? That she’s not from Vermillion?”
“Nope.”
As there was nothing more to say on that topic, Etha continued, “Driving by all the empty farms made me think of the folks moving on. But others, you can’t blast them out with dynamite. Why is that, do you think?”
“Circumstance. Some farmers were already edging into bankruptcy before the hard times set in, or owed money to bankers not willing to wait. Others lost babies to dust pneumonia or an entire crop of wheat three years straight and the spirit was kicked out of them.”
Etha bit her bottom lip. “I also think some people are born with the jitters in their legs and will pick up and move at a moment’s notice.”
“I’m guessing that’s directed at me?”
They exchanged smiles as people long married do, even when they’re fussing at one another.
“We’ve been in Vermillion fifteen years now and I’m running for reelection. I intend to stay.”
“Do you still have a chance? I mean, it looks bad with the unsolved case and Hodge calling the governor and all the grumblings among the townsfolk.”
Temple laughed grimly. “The farmers aren’t too happy with me neither.”
There was a quiver in Etha’s voice: “What will happen to us?”
Temple reached across the remains of their picnic and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my sweetie. We’ll be fine.”
But within themselves, both Temple and Etha were skittish and recognized that the other was too.
Trying to lighten the mood, Temple said teasingly, “We could move up to Alaska. Will Rogers is making it sound mighty attractive.”
Etha jumped to her feet with a grin and threw a crumpled ball of wax paper at his head. “You’ll be going up there by your lonesome.”
They spent the night just north of Kansas City in a spick-and-span tourist court with a sign promising, All The Comforts Of Home. Temple carried their suitcase inside and opened it on the foldout rack. The bathroom had a small tablet of soap and two drinking glasses. The couple collapsed on the twin beds, pushed off their shoes, and promptly fell asleep on top of the chenille spreads.
The next morning, they finished the drive northward along rolling bluffs above the Missouri River to St. Joe, a city that had been circled on many a map besides the one spread in Etha’s lap. In the 1800s, it had been a starting point for those heading west. First came the gold prospectors traveling to California. Later pioneers outfitted there before hitting the Oregon Tra
il. Eventually St. Joe evolved into a cow town. The odor of manure and hay hung over the pens thick as fog when they drove past and into town. Blodgett’s Boarding House, their first stop of the day, was within sniffing distance of the stockyards.
The usual lodgers, unshaven and wary, had arranged themselves on the front porch. Yes, Mr. Blodgett was in. However, after no answer came to Temple’s repeated jingling of the call bell, he and Etha stepped inside. Following a heavy clanging from above their heads, they took the stairs to the second floor. There they found Mr. Blodgett in a hall bathroom, balanced on a stepladder. Wielding a wrench, he was smacking the pipes of an old-fashioned toilet tank mounted high on the wall. Spotting Temple and Etha in the doorway, he paused.
“Either of you know how to fix a commode?”
After a surprised pause, Temple said, “I’m pretty handy. Willing to take a look.”
Mr. Blodgett, a man in his thirties with dark brown hair, descended the ladder.
Temple rolled up his sleeves. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s dripping down through the kitchen ceiling.”
Temple mounted the ladder and peered inside the tank. “By the way, I’m Sheriff Jennings from Jackson County, Oklahoma. This is my wife.”
Blodgett backed up. “Whoa there. I’m not responsible for any illegal activities my lodgers may or may not partake in.”
Temple said dryly, “I’m not sure that is truly the case. You got a screwdriver?”
“Think so.” Mr. Blodgett scrabbled around in a toolbox sitting inside the bathtub which, Etha noted, was thickly circled with grime. “Here.”
“Those are pliers,” she said calmly. “That with the yellow handle is the screwdriver.”
“Jesus, but I hate this place and the son of a b, pardon me, I bought it from. Nothing works, the furniture isn’t even up to junk-shop standards, and it’s in a nasty part of town. If I had any other place to go, if I still owned my properties in Kansas City, I’d be long gone.”
Etha passed the screwdriver up to Temple. “How long have you been running the place?”
“Six months. Six months of hell. Pardon me. I bought it as an investment, oh, maybe eight years ago, when times were good. Adding to my string of, er . . .” he glanced up at Temple who was elbow deep in the tank, “social clubs in KC.”
Death of a Rainmaker Page 26