“What?” Her eyes opened wide and unfocused.
“Duster.”
She squinted through the rear window. “Oh Lord.”
“I’m looking for a place to shelter. When I pull off, get ready to make a run for it.”
Etha reached into the backseat and snapped open the suitcase. After some scrambling, she unearthed two bandannas. She tied one around Temple’s neck as they jounced along and another around hers. She clamped her pocketbook to her stomach.
The towering storm closed in. The wind pushed against them, rattling every screw and nut in the sedan’s frame.
“Just pull into that gulley!” Etha hollered.
Temple gritted his teeth. They were close to Trot’s. He knew it. Sand clotted the windshield like a stirred-up river bottom. Was that a tree? He wasn’t sure. Maybe. Yes! And beside it a dirt track. Temple yanked the steering wheel to the right and they bumped off the asphalt just as the full force of the duster slammed into them.
“Get down!” Temple shouted, pushing Etha’s head into the footwell. The Packard jolted and swayed. Through the heavy curtains of dirt, Temple thought he spotted the soddie. They’d have to chance it. He braked hard and yelled at Etha to stay put. Smashing his shoulder into the door, he forced it open. Grit filled his eyes and mouth. Jerking up the bandanna and bent double, he lurched around to the passenger door. With the wind plowing into the side of the car, he yanked on the handle but it wouldn’t budge. Through the window, he made out Etha’s pale face. She pushed against the door while he wrenched the handle, and she finally tumbled out. They staggered toward the fluid dark shape that Temple hoped was Trot’s soddie. When his fingers touched the door’s rough planks, he was weak with relief. He turned the knob. They fell inside.
Trot, for it was indeed his soddie, jumped away from the kerosene lamp he had been in the act of lighting. The burning match dropped to the dirt floor.
Hurrying over to Temple, he shouted over the wail of the wind, “You all right?”
Temple nodded and helped Etha to her feet. Trot rushed back to the lamp and got it lit this time. Only then did he seem to recognize who had burst into his house.
“Sheriff! What you doing way out here in this?” The air in the soddie was thick with dirt, silt raining from the porous roof. Etha was coughing heavily.
“Get her some water!” Temple bellowed above the noise, and Trot hurried to the kitchen pump. Etha’s cheeks were smudged, nostrils blackened. Temple gently pushed the hair, stiff and gray with dust, away from her forehead.
Trot returned with a cracked drinking glass. A squatter’s china cupboard, Temple thought. Etha took the glass and drained it.
For twenty minutes, the howling duster made talk impossible. Several times the kerosene wick wavered, but it held. As dust storm veterans, the three knew how to wait it out. Trot wet down their bandannas and a rag for himself. They crouched, heads down, taking shallow breaths through the sodden fabric. Then, mercifully, the whipping sand and soil moved on, leaving behind a murky fog of dust.
Temple untied his bandanna and blew his nose. “Trot, you are a sight for sore eyes. Etha, this is the fellow I gave a ride to after the auction and then the rabbit drive.”
“Oh yes.” She extended her hand. “Sorry to bust in.”
“Glad to be able to return the favor.” Trot’s seamed face broke into a toothless smile.
“We were heading home and didn’t quite make it,” Temple explained.
Etha took in the surroundings. She’d been in many a soddie but this one was in particularly poor shape. No one had bothered to change the newspapers covering the ceiling in several years, she judged. The walls were pocked with snake holes. The air smelled of earth and the stale odor of unwashed skin. Poor soul, she thought.
“Where were you at?” Trot asked.
“St. Joe.”
“Really?”
“Investigating that murder. Got a promising suspect. Now just need to flush him out,” Temple said.
Trot’s laugh was brittle. “Not another kid, is it? I have to say, I don’t think a young’un would do something like that. Bash a man’s head in. It plagued me when you had the other one under arrest. Didn’t seem right.”
“No, this fellow’s older.”
Trot reached for Etha’s tumbler. “Let me refill that, ma’am.”
Temple peered out the window. “I think the worst has passed. Etha, I’m going to see if the road is clear enough and dig out the car. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Rising, Etha said, “My, I’m stiff.” She moved around the cramped room, shaking out her legs. There was an illustration torn from a children’s magazine tacked low on the raw wall where a child’s bed had undoubtedly stood before the last family moved out. She bent for a closer look. The magazine was dated July 5. Six weeks ago. Straightening, she gazed at Trot. So the soddie had only been abandoned a short while. A spout of dirt suddenly opened above her head as the little house settled itself.
“Gracious,” Etha said, bending to shake out her hair. She continued her tour. She came to a photo of a soldier, propped on a rough shelf. This must be the son that Temple had mentioned. She studied the picture. The doughboy stood stiffly with his hands behind his back and legs apart. Taking it off the shelf, Etha noticed that Camp Funston was scrawled on the back. They had driven past the former camp in Fort Riley, Kansas, just that day. It was not quite 150 miles from St. Joe.
Trot brought her the glass, dribbling water across the floor. She noticed his hands. They were smooth, the veins hidden beneath the flesh. The skin was nut brown, but not spotted by age. She considered his face. With its wrinkles and missing teeth, it might be that of an old man. But Etha knew that hands were a better judge of age.
Etha pointed to the photo. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Is.”
“You were in the war?”
“Yes ma’am.”
There was a bang from outside as Temple dropped the hood in place. The sky and grasses were still, as if the blow had drained the prairie of movement.
Temple tucked the oil rag he kept for cleaning the pistons under the seat. As he did so, he took note that he was once again humming the tune about Jesse James. He rested his gaze on the soddie. Trot had never said where he’d come from. But the man had mentioned stockyards. And Jesse James.
Temple strode toward the house, yanking open the door. Etha and Trot were facing one another by the far wall.
She was saying, “You were sweet on Floss, weren’t you?”
Temple froze.
Trot mumbled, “I was.” He jerked his head up, his voice louder. “I was, and that bastard used her and threw her away. And I couldn’t protect her. She was the purdiest little thing. Nice as can be.” His face distorted by grief, Trot pressed his palms into his cheekbones, covered his eyes.
In two steps Temple was across the room, gripping Trot’s upper arm. “We need to talk. Sit down.” Trot tried to pull away but the sheriff, keeping a tight grip on the man’s arm, pushed him into a chair.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Your name.”
“All right. It’s Frank Turnball. But I’ve been Trot for a long while.”
“From St. Joe?”
“Born and raised.”
“And since then?”
“Over there with the army. That’s where I got the gas. When I got back home and found out that Floss was gone, it didn’t matter where I was. I bummed all around, mostly in the south. Working as a hired hand. Painting houses. That sort of thing.”
Temple rotated the other chair and straddled it; his face was inches from Frank’s. “So you never went back to St. Joe?”
“Never said that. But only swung through every now and then. Was there in early July for a funeral.”
“And how long have you been squatting here?”
“Six weeks.”
“So you came down here right after your trip to St. J
oe?”
“So?”
“Why here?”
Frank shrugged.
“Most folks are leaving Jackson County, not moving in.”
“Wasn’t really thinking of settling. Just riding the freights; jumped off here and thought to stay for a bit.”
Etha, who had been standing in the shadows, approached, and said softly, “You came because someone told you Floss was here. Isn’t that so?”
Frank studied his hands. After a moment he muttered, “No law against it.”
“But there is a law against peering into folks’ windows. That was you at the Hodge house, wasn’t it?” Temple said.
Frank thrust his jaw out stubbornly. “I just wanted to get a look at her. Me being not much more than a broken-down bum and her married to a lawyer and all, I couldn’t just go knocking at her door, could I? I didn’t mean no harm.”
Temple leaned toward the man. “But you did mean harm to Roland Coombs, didn’t you? After all, he ran away with Floss while you were off soldiering.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was bitter as bile. “Roland was never nothing but a no-count. He deserved what he got. Floss and I had an understanding that she would wait for me until after the war. But then, while I was overseas, he took advantage of her sweet nature and afterward tossed her away like a piece of trash.”
“You must have been mighty surprised, and angry, when you saw Coombs pulling into town not long after you.”
Frank’s toothless mouth contorted into a grimace. “Yeah. Heard about the explosive show and thought, Sounds like fun! Got there just in time to see Roland boasting and preening as if he was still some big man. Talking about his time in the army when he’d never served a day. Every vein in my body swoll up like a balloon set to explode. And my poor little Floss was there in the crowd, listening to his guff. I decided right there I wasn’t going to let him near her ever again.”
“How did you plan to do that?”
“Follow him. Keep him within my sights and clobber him but good if he stepped out of line.”
“But it didn’t quite work out like that, did it?”
“After the explosive show my jalopy wouldn’t start. So I tucked a busted shovel handle that I kept in the car for protection inside my overalls and started marching back to town. Roland passed me in his truck with some young fellows riding in the back.” Frank huffed. “Asked if I wanted a ride.”
“Go on.”
“I couldn’t risk him recognizing me so I turned him down. But I can tell you I hoofed it fast.”
“And when you got there?” Etha prodded.
“When I got there, first place I looked was in the bar. Saw him from a distance and slunk back outside and waited. After a bit he staggered to Mayo’s. I bunked up in the empty stable across the street. The next morning he stepped out, chipper even with a swollen nose some fellow had pasted on him. I followed him to the diner, keeping my hat pulled down, and then on to the movie house. I snuck in after the show started. The ticket taker was bent over a magazine and didn’t even look up.”
“When the duster started up and he slipped out the Jewel’s side door, what did you do?” Temple asked.
Frank glanced at Etha, then at Temple. “I followed him.”
“And then?”
Frank’s head dropped. “Came up behind him. The wind was howling like a freight train. It was so loud I couldn’t think clear anymore. I’d started out just wanting to keep him away from her, but now that wasn’t enough. I had to make him pay. I raised the stick. He went down like a stone. Dropped just that quick. I still couldn’t make out nothing but shapes in all that dust. When I kicked my toe into his side and he didn’t move, I hightailed it out of there.”
“So as far as you knew, he was still alive?”
“Yep. But then I heard that he was kilt. And later when you arrested that poor kid, I felt down as dirt. Kept hoping you’d figure out he didn’t do it. And you did! But then, just now when you said you were chasing down someone else, I figured the time to step up was coming soon. Guess it did.”
Temple stood, slowly tucking the chair in its place at the table. He gestured for Frank to stand. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Roland Coombs.”
Frank pressed his hands into his thighs and pushed himself up, his head bowed in surrender.
Chapter twenty-six
The three rode to town in silence. Dust motes, lit by the setting sun, hung in the air, heavy as embers. At the courthouse, Temple took Frank to the cellblock while Etha put on the coffee pot. The kitchen smelled stale, as if she and Temple had been traveling for weeks rather than two days. Despite the churning dust beyond the panes, she yanked up the windows. Temple shouldered open the door and lugged their suitcase inside.
For a time, they sat silently in the living room, sipping coffee.
Temple said, “Your thinking that the case was rooted in Coombs’s past was right on the mark. You understood that better than me.”
Etha smiled sadly. “I pity Frank. And poor Florence.”
“You gotta remember that Frank took a man’s life.”
“So sad.”
“Sadness all around.”
“What about the primary?”
Temple shrugged.
They looked away from one another, her words falling across the carpets, the lamps, the piano with its fringed shawl, and all that was home. Etha busied herself with stacking their coffee cups, not wanting Temple to see her tears.
“I think I’ll go see if Hinchie is holding down a stool at the Idle Hour.” Temple rose and shook his legs.
“You’ve earned a glass or two.” Etha smiled weakly.
Temple settled his hat on his head, its band still clammy from the day’s sweat. “If that DiNapoli stops by for pie, don’t tell him about Trot’s arrest. I’ll need to officially notify the boy he’s in the clear. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
* * *
A thick cloud of cigarette smoke engulfed Temple as he loped into the bar. All the booths were crammed. A cluster of men and women hovered over a table of card players in the back. Hinchie’s rear was firmly planted on his customary stool. When Temple laid his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, Hinchie turned and grinned. “Saved you a place just in case.” He patted the empty seat beside him.
“You know me well.” Temple threw a leg over and signaled to Ike.
“Did you hear the news?” Hinchie asked.
“What news?”
“That plane Will Rogers and Wiley Post were flying around Alaska?”
“Yep.”
“It went down.”
Temple blanched. “And?”
“Gone.”
“Both?”
Hinchie nodded.
Temple’s face drained of expression.
Hinchie signaled Ike to bring whiskey. The barkeep poured two shots and started to walk away with the bottle. “Leave it,” Hinchie said.
After knocking back three shots, Temple shook his head. “Can’t believe it.”
“Minnie says that you and Etha have been on the road,” Hinchie said after a moment.
Temple studied the ceiling. “Crossed the county line right along with that duster. But I made an arrest.”
Hinchie reared back, a little too far, and grabbed the edge of the bar. “That so? Good for you! Will this one hold up?”
“Got a confession. I’ll fill you in if you swear not to tell Minnie until the Gazetteer comes out tomorrow afternoon.”
Solemnly, Hinchie raised a palm.
“All right, then,” Temple said, launching into a detailed account of the trip to St. Joe, the confrontation in the soddie, Frank’s admission and arrest. “And you could have knocked me over with a feather to find out that Mrs. Hodge was the cause of it all.”
Hinchie shook his head. “I am privy to a lot of misery but Florence has been through the wringer.”
“You told me a couple of days ago you thought John was capable of murd
er. Something else you need to say on that?”
Hinchie stared into his glass. “She’s never admitted it, but I believe John beats the daylights out of her on a regular basis. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve patched her up for household accidents that don’t match up with the damage to her body.”
Temple dropped his head. “Christ.”
Behind them, Doll and his cronies pushed into the narrow saloon, laughing and snorting. A few of the fellows broke off from the herd and shoved up to the bar. One, a store clerk by the name of Smith, spotted Temple and shouted, “Look who it is!”
Temple nodded in acknowledgment and turned toward Hinchie. “My turn to—” he began, but was interrupted by Smith.
“Making the most of your last months as sheriff?”
Temple struggled to keep his tone light: “As far as I know, voting’s not until tomorrow.”
Smith leaned in, but his voice was loud: “You should know that we just came from a rally at the grange hall. Seems that the farmers are none too happy with your performance these past few months. The thinking is you should’ve done more about the bad elements in the county—those that are stealing and begging. And they are wanting a man who has personal relationships with the top officials in the statehouse. Who can get what’s due Jackson County.”
The noisy crowd, sensing a flap, hushed up.
Temple labored to still his face.
Smith poked him in the shoulder. “And without the farmers, your vote count will be mighty low.” The clerk turned and shouted to the crowd, “Right, boys?”
At the rabbit drive, Temple had wanted to swat down Doll’s barbs, but he had pulled back. It wasn’t his way. He had wanted to point out that hiring deputies on commission, like Doll planned, was a bad idea. But between the whiskey and the misery over Will Rogers, there was nothing holding him back. The angry words rose in his throat like a wave. Sure, he wanted to win, but just as much he wanted to set the record straight on the specious ideas that Doll was propagating like bindweed.
Standing, Temple gazed across the faces of the crowd, many toughened by sun and wind, their high cheekbones carved out from months of short rations. Doll leaned against the wall by the door. He raised a glass to the sheriff.
Death of a Rainmaker Page 28