Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “You mean speakeasies,” Etha said.

  “Anyways, after Prohibition ended and the Depression set in, all I had left was this dump. So, here I am in Nowheresville waiting for better times and cursing Arthur Blodgett.”

  Temple yanked on the pull chain. The toilet tank emptied with a vigorous cascade. He climbed down the ladder. “So you aren’t Mr. Blodgett?” he asked, tossing the screwdriver and wrench into the box.

  “I go by that. Makes it easier. But the name is Joe Curtis.”

  “Okay, Mr. Curtis, I don’t think you’re going to have any more trouble with your tank. I’ll wash up here, and then is there someplace we could talk?”

  Curtis’s desk was jammed into the kitchen’s narrow pantry because, as he explained, “If I can let out the back room to a boarder, I’d rather have the money than an office.” He offered Etha the guest chair, next to a shelf of canned corn.

  Temple slouched in the doorway. “I believe a secretary at the courthouse called you about a Roland Coombs?”

  Curtis snapped his fingers. “I knew there was something familiar about where you were from. Just couldn’t place it. Yeah, that freeloader. Did he leave any money? Because if he did, it’s mine. He owes—owed—me two weeks rent plus storage on the trunk.”

  “Let’s back up a minute. How long did he board here?”

  “Came with the property, same as all the other junk.”

  “So he lodged here a while?”

  “Yep. Couple of years, I think he said. Born here in St. Joe. Guess you know that. Salesman of some sort. Always coming and going. Last time he stayed here was about three weeks back. Kept the same room and mostly paid for it even when he was away.”

  “Did you notice any hard feelings between Coombs and anyone?”

  “Not in particular. Well, he was sort of a big mouth. Braggart. Actually, I think the last time he was here he got in a fistfight.”

  Temple straightened. “With who?”

  Curtis waved his hand dismissively. “Bud Hitchcock. Pulled an empty pistol on Coombs. Hitchcock’s been bunking here longer than Coombs, I’m told. Picks a fight with someone every other week.”

  “Has this Hitchcock been away in the last week or two?”

  Curtis tapped his finger, outlining Hitchcock’s daily routine: “Here, stockyards, saloon, back here. That’s it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Who do you think bangs on his door every morning to get him to the yards on time?”

  “Okay. This last time, did Coombs happen to say how long he expected to be gone? Where he was going?”

  Curtis traced his mustache, no thicker than the fine print in a pocket Bible, with the tip of his tongue. “Now as I think on it, he did. I had just come back from the post office and he was holding court on the porch. Talking about driving down to Oklahoma, naming off a bunch of burgs no one had heard of.”

  Temple scratched his chin. “I’d appreciate glancing at your register. See if any of the names look familiar.”

  From atop a row of Mason jars at his back, Curtis pulled down a canvas-bound ledger.

  Etha stirred. “While you men finish up, could I have a look at his trunk? It might save some time.”

  “Okay by me.” Curtis looked at the sheriff, who nodded. “It’s not locked, as I remember. I’ll take you out to the trunk room.”

  The trunk room was nothing but a stack of suitcases piled behind a partition in the stable. Coombs’s baggage was neatly labeled. Etha made herself comfortable on the wide plank floor, snapped open the trunk, and caught the chemical scent of moth balls. A plaid winter jacket had been carefully folded on top. It was probably ten years old, Etha thought, judging from the style and the frayed cuffs. But someone had carefully stitched up tears in the lining. The sweaters, wool trousers, and a knitted cap underneath were also worn but respectable. Farther down was a jumble of keepsakes: a lumpy and deflated football with 1916 City Champs painted on one side, a Brownie camera, a dented Kewpie doll of the sort given out as carnival prizes, and a framed certificate from a sewing machine repair correspondence course.

  “Now here’s something,” Etha said aloud as she pulled out The Crescent—1917, a yearbook from St. Joseph Central High School. Flipping through the pages, she soon found Coombs among the thirty or so seniors. Printed under his name and list of activities, which included football and glee club, was the observation, Three-fifths genius, two-fifths sheer fudge. Sounded about right. Etha idly glanced at his classmates. They all had nicknames: Pudge, Watso, Spuds, Sparky . . . and Floss. Something in Floss, who was a slight girl with sorrowful eyes and a narrow chin, caught Etha’s attention. She pulled the yearbook closer.

  My God, it’s Florence Hodge! The spitting image. Etha, her hands shaking, quickly read the brief words beside the photo:

  Well-Versed in Household Arts Is She. Clionian Literary Society, 3, 4. —Florence Case

  Her name was Florence Case. Etha’s mind jumped all over the place, like a needle bouncing across a scratched phonograph record. Coombs and Florence knew each other. Had grown up in the same town. Had they been sweethearts? Had Florence recognized him when he’d turned up in Vermillion? Bursting with questions, Etha shoved everything back into the trunk except the yearbook. Clutching it to her chest, she raced inside.

  In the pantry, Temple was saying, “. . . the uncle is the one to talk to about Coombs’s debt. And if you think of or hear anything else about Coombs that might be relevant, call me. Remember, you owe me one after I fixed your toilet. So think on it real hard.”

  Curtis slowly escorted them to the front door, still lamenting his bad fortune in getting stuck in a cow town. He kept them at the front door for a couple of minutes listing all the things that needed repair in the kitchen and outbuildings. Etha thought he’d never shut up. Her insides fluttered, wanting to tell Temple what she’d found.

  At last they were alone on the sidewalk and she blurted out her discovery: “See. Right here.” She tapped on Florence Case’s photograph.

  Temple, lower lip pushed out, nodded in a way that Etha recognized as conveying, I’m impressed.

  “So what now? The connection between these two must have something to do with the murder. It’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I do.” Temple said. “And Ed tracked down a lead from a teacher at the explosives who overheard Coombs talking to Hodge and his wife. Seemed Coombs thought he knew her. Sounds like he did.” He bent over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Good eyes, my dear. And now I think we need to go talk to Coombs’s uncle. Fill in some more puzzle pieces.”

  * * *

  Bert Coombs, the closest living relative of the murdered man, was a ticket clerk at the train station. When they strolled into the brick building, a long line of travelers was crawling toward the window, toeing their picnic baskets forward an inch at a time. There was a general air of noise and confusion. All the tall-backed benches were packed with weary fathers and mothers watching as their children chased one another around the aisles. Several small boys played on the penny scale.

  “Goodness!” Etha exclaimed.

  “Wait here. I’ll see if Mr. Coombs is around.” Temple moved toward the counter, bypassing the line with a show of his badge.

  Etha asked a harried mother where everyone was headed and learned that the state fair in Sedalia was underway. She wandered to a metal postcard rack and flipped through its offerings. Mostly buildings and statues from other parts of the state, but one St. Joe attraction caught her eye. She dropped three pennies in the honor box and slipped the postcard into her pocketbook.

  “We apparently showed up on one of the station’s busiest days,” Temple said, returning to her side. “Coombs gets a break at three.”

  Etha brightened. “So why don’t we grab a bite and poke around? I found a place that might be worth a peek.”

  At a lunch counter one block from the station, they ordered roast beef and mashed. Temple asked the waitress if she knew Roland Coombs or Flor
ence Hodge, née Case.

  “Only got here last week. On my way west.”

  The food arrived on thick plates. After two strong cups of coffee, they felt revived. Etha pulled out the postcard which depicted an old-fashioned frame house with splintered shutters.

  “You want to see this?” Temple asked, frowning at the tiny lettering on the back.

  Etha returned the postcard to her pocketbook. “It’s where Jesse James was killed.”

  “Don’t say?”

  “I knew you’d be curious.”

  After motoring up and down the hilly thoroughfares overlooking town, Temple fussing about the clutch the whole while, they found Lafayette Street and the sorry little house. Tours By Appointment Only, a hand-painted sign announced.

  “Shoot,” Etha said, “let’s peek in anyway.”

  “You know this man was a cold-blooded killer? Got what he deserved?” Temple replied.

  “Yes, but he is a legend after all.”

  They waded into the weedy yard. Tourists had tattooed initials on the clapboard and torn away pieces of the spongy wood for souvenirs. Behind the panes of the single shutterless window, swarms of dust motes threatened to smother the dingy parlor.

  “Why, there’s a pump organ!” Etha declared. “Just like my granny’s.”

  Temple starting crooning, “Jesse James was a man who killed many a man . . .”

  “What?”

  “Something I picked up from a drunk.” Temple hummed a few bars, interjecting words when they came to him.

  “It is a shame to let a good pump organ go to rot.” Etha turned from the window and headed back to their car.

  * * *

  When they returned to the train station, they found Bert Coombs leaning in the main entrance, tamping tobacco into the bowl of a pipe. He was slightly built with watery blue eyes, and thin ribbons of hair raked across a pink scalp.

  “My wife Etha and I offer our condolences on the death of your nephew,” Temple said, extending his hand.

  Bert nodded. “Appreciate it. Why don’t we go around back to talk. There’s an old caboose we use for breaks.”

  The dilapidated car that once housed train crews now sat on a stretch of sidetrack thick with Queen Anne’s lace and blue chicory.

  “I’ve always wanted to see inside one of these,” Etha whispered to Temple.

  Bert swung up on the ladder and reached down to help Etha. She had brought along Roland’s yearbook and tucked it under one arm as Bert pulled her up by the other.

  The car smelled of pipe smoke and linseed oil. There was an antiquated potbelly stove, a snug desk, and, beyond the hatchway, a tiny kitchen. The three settled onto the narrow padded bench lining one wall.

  Temple began: “My deputy and I are working the case hard, but so far no leads have panned out. I came up here because, frankly, Etha convinced me that maybe your nephew’s death is somehow connected to St. Joe.”

  Bert studied his hands. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be. He was my sister Trudy’s son. One of those kids who palled around with older boys. Got in a fair amount of scrapes, but nothing serious. Bloody noses, tardy at school, that sort of thing.”

  Temple said, “Fair enough. What about high school?”

  “Oh, he was the big man on campus. Captain of the football and baseball teams. Very athletic. Took after his dad. My side of the family are skinny minnies.”

  Pipe smoke eddied toward the ceiling.

  “And after high school?” Etha asked. She noticed Temple raising his brows as if to say, Whose interview is this? but she went on: “Did he join up?”

  “According to my sister, he was deferred due to a bad heart. Although, to be honest, I sort of found that hard to believe, being that he played sports and all. Of course, many young men in town did go overseas. Lots of sweethearts got left behind. Matter of fact, I believe Roland got engaged right after graduation and it seems to me it was to a girl that one of his classmates was sweet on. A fellow who got the patriotic fever and signed up before even finishing high school.”

  Etha’s breath quickened. She pulled a stool opposite Bert and sat down. “So he stole a soldier’s girl? That seems to me a reason for revenge.”

  “But that was seventeen years ago. Long time to hold a grudge,” Temple said.

  Etha ignored him. “Did your nephew and this young lady marry?”

  Bert shook his head. “Roland wasn’t the marrying kind, even though he pretended he was. I believe he had a number of lady friends after that one.”

  “And what happened to her? Do you remember her name?” Etha’s eyes danced excitedly.

  “Not really.”

  Opening the yearbook to the pages of the senior class, Etha passed it to Bert. “Could you take a look at these girls? See if one looks familiar?”

  Bert pulled a pair of folded spectacles from his shirt pocket, settled them on his face, and drew the book toward him. “Um, none of these,” he said, slowly turning the pages. “There’s Roland, of course.” He prodded the page with a finger. “Hey! I believe it was her. Yes, Floss Case. She was the one.”

  Etha was practically jumping out of her skin. “Do you know if they stayed in touch?”

  “No idea. Doubt it. He and she ran off, then he left her high and dry. Somewhere in Kansas, I think.”

  “Wichita?” Temple asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “And what about her soldier?” Etha asked. “Do you see him? What was his name?”

  Bert flipped the pages. “He left before finishing school. His name was Frank something.” He studied the window abstractly, then abruptly said, “Turnball. Frank Turnball.”

  Etha drew the yearbook into her lap. “Did he did make it home after the war?”

  “Oh, yeah. But he didn’t stick around. Likely because of Floss. He’d turn up every once in a while to see his mom and for funerals, but that was it. Matter of fact, he was just in town a month and a half ago. I spotted him here at the station. Life has been hard on him, from the looks of it. Could have passed for sixty or more. Heard he got gassed in the war.”

  Temple exchanged glances with Etha. “He was here, in St. Joe?”

  “Yep. Sitting right inside,” Bert thumbed toward the station house, “for a couple of hours, waiting for a train. Heard him jawing with a couple of different folks about how he hadn’t been back in town for ten years or more.” Bert snapped his fingers. “And hey, one of the ladies was kin to Floss. A second cousin or something. She must have recognized Frank too, because I heard her telling him Floss was married to a lawyer and had been living down in Oklahoma. Some town. I don’t remember the name.”

  “Vermillion?” Etha said quietly.

  “That could be it. Not sure.”

  Etha leaned forward. “So, this young man came back from the trenches to find that the girl he had a crush on had been romanced by your nephew and then cast aside?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “He must have been terribly angry.”

  “I would be,” Bert said. “But I can’t remember hearing of a showdown, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  From up the rails came a screech of brakes, the soar and dip of a train whistle. Bert checked his pocket watch. “It’s the 3:17 out of Kansas City.”

  “One last thing,” Temple said. “Besides this Frank, was there anyone else who might hold a grudge against your nephew?”

  “Not that I know of. But he had a way with the ladies and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had an angry husband or two on his tail. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Temple stood and extended his hand. “Appreciate you taking the time. I’ll be in touch when we find who did it.”

  Etha nodded her thanks.

  * * *

  As they slid into the car, Etha said, “Do you think it’s possible that this Frank came to Vermillion to track down Florence?”

  “If so, that’s something I’ve got to work on back home. I haven’t heard of a Frank Turnball rattling around the c
ounty, but there are a lot of tramps floating through, so maybe.”

  Etha pulled out the postcard and scribbled some notes on the back. “Got to be someone who was a veteran, who was Roland’s age—what, thirty-seven?—but looks older, like the uncle said. Someone who showed up in Vermillion about six weeks ago.”

  Temple absently tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ll put Ed on that. And I’ll speak with Florence Hodge. Bad luck that Frank quit school before he could get his photo in the yearbook.”

  They drove until early evening, spending the night in a tourist camp near Lawrence, Kansas. The next day, they were on the road before sunrise, reckoning to get home by midafternoon. But they hadn’t calculated on another duster.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Ten miles west of Vermillion, Temple spotted the wall of dust, as massive and imposing as the Rockies, abruptly taking shape in the rearview mirror. His first impulse was to stomp on the accelerator and try to beat the roiling mass to town. It would be a gamble, though, because you never knew how fast the towering clouds of grit and sand were traveling or, without a single landmark to gauge their size, how big they really were. He glanced at Etha dozing beside him and changed his mind. Her earnest face, even as she slept, moved him deeply. No, better to find shelter now before the sightlines were reduced to zilch.

  Temple slowed the Packard to a crawl and kept a lookout for a barn, shanty, or even a clump of trees. After fifteen years out here, you would think I’d know this stretch of road by heart, he thought. Dirt roads intersected the asphalt in a couple of places. Some might end up at a homestead but others could just be shortcuts to remote wheat fields. Best to keep heading east. Then it came to him that Trot, the fellow he’d ferried home from the auction and rabbit drive, lived down one of these roads. Temple recalled a spindly cottonwood near the turnoff.

  The advancing steamroller of topsoil was closing in. Temple guessed the turnoff was not more than three miles away. Another five minutes passed. Not a cottonwood in sight. Fear boiled up in Temple’s throat. He jiggled Etha’s shoulder.