Death of a Rainmaker: A Dust Bowl Mystery

by Laurie Loewenstein Narrated by Emily Sutton-Smith

Overview

When a rainmaker is bludgeoned to death in the pitch-blackness of a colossal dust storm, small-town sheriff Temple Jennings shoulders yet another burden in the hard times of the 1930s Dust Bowl. The killing only magnifies Temple's ongoing troubles: a formidable opponent in the upcoming election, the repugnant burden of enforcing farm foreclosures, and his wife's lingering grief over the loss of their eight-year-old son.

As the sheriff and his young deputy investigate the murder, their suspicions focus on a teenager, Carmine, serving with the Civilian Conservation Corps. The deputy, himself a former CCCer, struggles with remaining loyal to the corps while pursuing his own aspirations as a lawman.

When the investigation closes in on Carmine, Temple's wife, Etha, quickly becomes convinced of his innocence and sets out to prove it. But Etha's own probe soon reveals a darker web of secrets, which imperil Temple's chances of reelection and cause the husband and wife to confront their long-standing differences about the nature of grief.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Marilyn Stasio

Loewenstein's sensitive treatment of these dark days in the Dust Bowl era offers little humor but a whole lot of compassion.

Publishers Weekly

★ 08/13/2018
Set in Vermillion, Okla., in 1935, this superb series launch from Loewenstein (Unmentionables) introduces Sheriff Temple Jennings and his stalwart wife, Etha. Once relatively prosperous, Vermillion’s farmers must contend with the continuing crop-killing dust storms, and when they suffer, so do the merchants. People are willing to turn to charlatans who offer false hope, such as rainmaker Roland Coombs. Strangers, many of them young men from families who couldn’t afford them, fill nearby vagrant camps. Others find refuge in the local Civilian Conservation Corp camp. Cleaning up after a nasty dust storm, theater owner Chester Benton finds Coombs’s body buried in a pile of dirt. Someone apparently bashed in the victim’s head with a board or a pipe, and 19-year-old Carmine DiNapoli, a CCC camper, is arrested for the crime. Etha, convinced of Carmine’s innocence, sets out to prove it to Temple. Loewenstein beautifully captures the devastation of the land and people in the dust bowl. (Oct.)

The Oklahoman

"The plot is compelling, the character development effective and the setting carefully and accurately designed . . . I have lived in the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma; I know about wind and dust . . . Combining a well created plot with an accurate, albeit imagined, setting and characters that ‘speak’ clearly off of the page make Death of a Rainmaker a pleasant adventure in reading.
"

Mystery Scene Magazine

"The plot is solid in Death of a Rainmaker, but what makes Loewenstein’s novel so outstanding is the cast of characters she has assembled . . . Death of a Rainmaker is a superb book, one that sets the reader right down amid some of the hardest times our country has faced, and lets us feel those hopeful farmers’ despair as they witness their dreams turning to dust."

From the Publisher

"Set in Vermillion, Okla., in 1935, this superb series launch from Loewenstein...beautifully captures the devastation of the land and people in the Dust Bowl."
—Publishers Weekly, STARRED review

"This richly detailed historical mystery brings the Dust Bowl to life, with the hardscrabble farms and semirural community barely coping with the losses of farms and local businesses. This evocative first volume in a new series should appeal to readers of Larry D. Sweazy's Marjorie Trumaine mysteries or Donis Casey's Oklahoma-set Alafair Tucker books. Fans of narrative nonfiction, including Timothy Egan's The Worst Hard Time, the book that inspired this work, may also want to give it a try."
—Library Journal, STARRED review

Selected as a Great Group Reads pick for 2019!

Included in the New York Public Library's 12 Days of Bookness/12 New Works of Fiction

"Loewenstein movingly describes the events and the people, from farm eviction auctions and hobo villages to Dish Nights at the movies. She vividly brings to life a town filled with believable characters, from a young woman learning her own worth to the deputy sheriff figuring out where his loyalties lie. This warm and evocative novel captures a time and place, with well-researched details shown through the lives and circumstances of one American town."
—Kirkus Review

"Death of a Rainmaker is far more than a murder mystery set in the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. It is a poignant recollection of the desperation of farmers whose land, livestock, and household are in foreclosure, a stunning description of a dust storm that leaves imaginary specks of dirt on the reader's neck, a sensitive rendering of tough times and their toll on the psyche. Some books have such fine character detail—McCance's choice of a Common Sense Traveler's Notebook, suitable for a professional lawman, not a 'CCC pity case,' for example—and complex, nuanced storyline that the reader naturally slows down to savor the experience. This is one of them."
—Historical Novel Society

"Readers will be completely absorbed in the lives of Loewenstein's characters who epitomize the extraordinary resilience of small-town folks caught in the throes of the Great Depression...Loewenstein manages to connect an enticing murder mystery with riveting historical fiction that places the reader directly in the dusty shoes of her characters."
—Reviewing the Evidence

"Loewenstein is establishing herself as a master of nuanced historical fiction, especially when it comes to the political infighting and swirl of intrigue around small communities in the early half of the 20th century. Loewenstein is a talented researcher with an eye for the historical detail, but also a gifted storyteller capable of breathing life into a wide cast of characters. For historical fiction readers, this is an author to watch."
—CrimeReads

"If you liked The Dry by Jane Harper or love historical mysteries with strong settings, try Death of a Rainmaker: A Dust Bowl Mystery by Laurie Loewenstein."
—Vernon Area Public Library

"This story visits the plains where the wind blows mercilessly and gives old and young dust pneumonia that most don't survive. It's not an easy life here, and finding a murderer isn't easy either...If you like historical mysteries, this will be a good one for you."
—Journey of a Bookseller

"Just like in her first novel, Unmentionables, Laurie Loewenstein offers vivid storytelling and a fine eye for evoking small-town life in America's heartland."
—Reading the Past

"I've always been fascinated with the lives of the little people during the Great Depression and Dustbowl. I understand, I think, how economically our country was driven to this time but I want to peek into the windows of the people who live in their everyday houses in their anywhere towns trying to hold on for one more day that I’m interested in. Laurie Loewenstein has parted the curtains for us in Death of a Rainmaker."
—Denice's Day

"The compassion Etha and Jennings feel for their neighbors and for the young vagrants pushed out by families unable to feed them permeates this excellent series opener."
—Stop, You're Killing Me!

"Laurie Loewenstein's vivid Death of a Rainmaker is at once an engrossing yarn, an elegant inquiry into human desperation, and a portrait of Depression-era America so searingly authentic that the topsoil practically blows off each page."
—Louis Bayard, author of The Pale Blue Eye

"Reading Death of a Rainmaker is like slipping through time right into a 1930s black-and-white movie. Suddenly you live in Jackson County, Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl, and you know what the cinema, hardware store, and courthouse look like. The townspeople are your family, and you care so deeply about what happens to them that you can't tear your eyes from the pages of this book. It's odd for a story about a murder to be gentle and generous, but this one is. I fell in love with everyone in town—except of course those who turned out to be trouble. Laurie Loewenstein has a knack for writing the early twentieth century. I sure hope this is a series, because I'm smitten."
—Robin Oliveira, author of The Winter Sisters

"As if the black blizzards of the Dust Bowl weren't worrisome enough for an Oklahoma sheriff and his spunky wife, in Death of a Rainmaker Laurie Loewenstein piles on even more troubles: a murder victim's corpse buried in a sandstorm, an array of possible perpetrators, a small community already fractured by secrets and swirls of distrust, and a contentious election in which the sheriff's honesty and competence are on the ballot. Like the storms themselves, the plot powers its way across the landscape and seeps into everything it encounters."
—Dayton Duncan, author of The Dust Bowl

"During one of America's most devastating periods, the Depression-era Dust Bowl, a huckster is murdered as a dust storm hurtles toward a small Oklahoma town. What follows is an authentic tale of the drought-stricken southern plains, and a lovingly and eloquently told murder mystery. It is not only the unfolding plot and the metaphorical obscuring of truth by dust, but Loewenstein's masterful prose—with its tender language and skillful resonance—that will captivate readers and keep them enthralled. Death of a Rainmaker is both a gripping tale of murder, and a glimpse into resilience and love in a time of savage loss, scarcity, and fear."
—Leslie Schwartz, author of The Lost Chapters

"When the wind comes sweeping down the plain in Death of a Rainmaker, Laurie Loewenstein takes your breath away. Her haunting and vivid prose deftly describes the opening chords of a dust storm that left families sick with dust pneumonia or dead broke. In this gripping tale of a sheriff searching for a killer in a dying town, Loewenstein rounds up characters with true grit, cunning, and kindness."
—Mary Kay Zuravleff, author of Man Alive!

"Death of a Rainmaker is a jewel of a novel. The scenes and characters are so vivid and alive that you forget that the Internet and interstate roads haven't been around forever. Loewenstein is a born storyteller who writes scholarly based page-turners. Overlaying it all is the rainmaker's story and death. It’s a read you won't forget."
—John Bowers, author of Love in Tennessee

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169922738
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	01/29/2019
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

There is no man more hopeful than a farmer, who wakes each morning to the vagaries of a heifer gone off her feed, seed that doesn't take, a late spring, an early autumn, too much rain, or, worst of all, no rain at all, and still climbs out of bed and pulls up his overalls. And so it would seem that a fellow who swears he can cure this agrarian heartache, who swears he can make it rain, would be clinched to the bosom of every farm family from here to kingdom come.

And that was pretty much the case in the county of Jackson, in the state of Oklahoma, in the bull's-eye of the Dust Bowl, on August 2nd in the heart of the 1930s. As evening fell, farm and townsfolk loaded up their children and climbed into their jalopies. Strung out in a gap-toothed cortege, they motored a ways outside of town. The procession then turned sharply off the road and into a field. This particular field had once been fertile soil, etched into deep furrows. Now it was nothing more than hardpan — as impenetrable and unforgiving as granite. The last speck of loamy topsoil had blown across Oklahoma's borders into Arkansas years back, leaving behind compacted dirt, its individual particles bound together so tightly that even a drop of water couldn't wiggle through. But that made no matter because there was no water. Not an iota of rain had dribbled into the parched mouth of Jackson County for 240 days.

In silent choreography, the folk parked alongside one another and debarked. As they gathered, billowing dust settled wherever it chose. Pastor Coxey stepped into the semicircle to bless the crowd and the rainmaker's efforts. A woman commenced coughing but quieted when a stranger with rolled shirtsleeves stepped into the headlights' silver shafts. Roland Coombs was tall, with an open, easy face. He grinned and a bit of dental work glinted far back. He'd driven into Vermillion, the county seat of Jackson, just that morning with wooden crates of TNT and blasting powder roped down in the back of an open truck. Tucked within the pocket of his store-bought jacket had been a sheaf of testimonials from drought-stricken towns across four states. Vermillion's Commercial Club had hired him on the spot.

Now Roland was studying the ground, cupping his fist to his chest, as if a pitcher contemplating an opening throw. When he spoke, the words sluiced easily over his lips: "Thank you, Reverend. We are surely in need of the good Lord's blessing."

Several amens resonated from the crowd.

"I am here to tell you that He has placed in my hands the tools with which to bring rain to your parched fields. Nothing complicated. Just this little old matchstick and a load of TNT."

A skiff of dirt blew up, skimming the hardpan and whipping against the bare legs of little girls in short dresses. Several of them set to bawling and had to be comforted.

Roland didn't pause. "You see, I was a munitions man during the war. Shoveling shells into howitzers and blowing the Huns to kingdom come. One afternoon it came to me that every time we'd deliver a good old dose of TNT, we'd get a thunderstorm sure as shootin'. Seemed like the explosions would give the skies a healthy kick in the drawers and down came the rain. Blam if I know why, but it happened all the same."

Roland grinned wide. A good number of the crowd chuckled, relaxing into his river of words. Some, mostly farmers and their wives, retained a stiff reserve. Their hearts had been broken too many times. Yet still they wanted to hope.

Roland cocked a finger at the crowd. "But I recognize some doubters out there. And that's for the good. Because seeing is believing. Tonight I'm going to pepper your skies with TNT and see if you don't get rain by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe not a soaker, but at least a shower to prime the pump. How about that for a guarantee? And I'll keep at it for the next three weeks to make sure the heavier rains follow."

He rubbed his hands together. "So, let's get the ball rolling. Mamas, hold your little ones tight." Switching on a heavy flashlight, he trotted to the launch area he'd set up earlier that day. Twenty shells packed with TNT were pointed nose up toward the stars. Roland squatted to inspect the charges, then began delicately linking each fuse to the detonator. He inhaled. Nothing sweeter than the scent of explosives. For this launch, he'd arranged the shells in two concentric circles. The same pattern had produced rain before and it was worth trying again. It was all about the timing and the pattern. If he found the right combination and summoned up a healthy dousing, the whole Oklahoma Panhandle — hell, the entire High Plains — would be his gravy train. He'd had a couple of miffs. Been escorted to several county lines. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that he was close to nailing it down. Striking the match, he studied the blue flame. It jiggled like that girlie show dancer he'd seen in Kansas City, who'd shimmied while he and the rest of the audience panted — thumping away under the newspapers covering their unbuttoned flies. He lit the fuse and hustled back to the gathered crowd.

"Ladies, cover your ears. It's a-coming!" he shouted as the rockets shot upward with high-pitched screams. A series of thudding concussions shook the sky and shot vibrations deep into the hardpan. It was as if the millions of buffalo, slaughtered sixty years back, had risen from the dead and were stampeding again. And with the concussions came explosions of harsh white light. Flashes revealing all, then plunging the spectators into darkness, then stripping them naked again. Over and over. The loose blankets of dust on the road, on the fence posts, on the cars, and on the people, rippled and settled time and again.

Some of the folks, including Reverend Coxey, fled to their vehicles. But most, like Jess Fuller whose farm was scheduled for foreclosure the next day, stayed put, with heads cocked back and hands keeping their hats in place. As each explosion burst, Jess pumped his fist, shouting, "You go, you go!" as if cheering on Dizzy Dean rounding the bases. Despite years of toil in the sun and wind, Jess still had a smooth boyish face. Beneath the brim of his woven hat, his eyes were as blue as penny marbles. Hours before, ever since he'd heard about the rainmaker, Jess's ruminations had spun around one thought: Just one good soaking. Justa one. He figured a single cloudburst could salvage the kitchen garden and the remaining cattle, at least enough to hold off foreclosure. Justa one, Lordie.

His wife Hazel stood alongside him in her old-fashioned hat, under which her thoughts spun in a different direction. She was wrung dry. She couldn't squeeze out any more tears for the plot they'd dreamed about as newlyweds in Indiana, the plot they'd scrimped for and bought and tilled and sweet-talked for the past eight years. For the house, in whose single window she'd hung lace curtains. Tomorrow it was all going on the auction block and good riddance. The sooner they got back to Indiana, the sooner they'd get back on their feet. If this rainmaker brought down just a single drop, she knew that Jess would dig in his heels. He'd take it as a sign that the rains would be back, that the green sea of sprouting wheat would again lap at their doorstep. But she understood that the life they'd had in the good years had withered and blown away. With each explosion, she watched mournfully as Jess's face brightened in the white light. The smell of explosives thickened the air. Hazel felt a sprinkling across her hat and for a second she froze. Rain? Already? But when she held out her hand only grains of dirt, tossed by the explosions, spattered into her palm. She smiled.

Then, as suddenly as the clamor had begun, it broke off, leaving behind only an echoing hum that beat against the eardrums of those gathered like moths. Soon, a few jalopies started up, lights from their headlamps thick with swirling soil.

"Show's over!" Roland shouted. "But I'll be here every night for three weeks, so stop on by. I could use the company."

That got a few laughs.

"And set those washtubs out when you get home. The rain's coming, sure as shooting."

Most of the crowd cleared out. A few lingered, including John Hodge, Vermillion's most prominent attorney, and, trailing two steps behind, his wife Florence.

"Impressive show," Hodge said, extending his palm.

Roland pumped the man's hand. "Glad to meet you."

Hodge continued: "Hope your method does the job. Matter of fact, I'm an amateur chemist myself. I was wondering about the explosive compounds you use."

The rainmaker reached for Florence's hand, bending as if to kiss it. "And this must be your lovely ..." he said, then paused and surveyed her face. He cocked his head to one side, narrowed his eyes. Florence's pasty complexion turned to chalk.

She yanked her hand away.

"Say, you look familiar." Roland slowly shook a finger at her.

Florence quickly pressed a hankie over her nose and mouth.

"Is it all right if I go back to the car? I'm not well," she said to her husband.

"Stay where you be." Then, turning to Roland, Hodge grabbed the man's arm, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. "Don't you ever touch my wife again."

Roland raised his hands in surrender. "No harm intended."

"Just so we're clear on that. Right?"

"Absolutely."

Hodge went on: "I've got some questions about your operation. And keep in mind I kicked in a fifty toward your fee."

Roland smiled tightly. "I appreciate that and I'm glad to give you the low-down on my system."

"That's more like it. What I'm wanting to know is how the materials are packed into the tubes. What goes in first?"

As Roland answered the lawyer's questions, keeping back a couple of trade secrets, his eyes shifted to the thin pale woman half-hidden behind her husband's broad back. When Hodge's inquiry ran out of gas, he gruffly thanked Roland, snatched his wife's arm, and stomped off toward the cluster of parked cars.

Roland watched as the fellow's sedan backed up with a jolt and accelerated toward the road. He dipped his head in thought, then trotted out to the detonation site. The beam of his flashlight illuminated the blackened squibs. As Roland collected the rocket launchers, three teenagers in baggy denim uniforms approached.

"That was the aces," said the shortest kid. He had the clipped accent of a city boy.

Roland studied the youth's wide-legged stance, the brim of his hat rolled back over wavy dark hair. "Where you boys from?"

"CCC camp, just west of town," the kid said.

Roland finger-snapped the patch on the boy's sleeve. "Civilian Conservation Corp. I've heard of that. So FDR's tree army has set up shop in Jackson County?"

The kid nodded. "I'm Carmine. This is Chet and Gordie." He jerked a thumb toward his two sandy-haired companions, who had the gangly appearance of Midwestern farm boys.

"We was thinking it would be swell if you'd come out to the camp one of these days and talk to the fellows about your setup."

"Be glad to."

From across the way came the slow crunch of tires on gravel as the last of the spectators departed.

"How you boys getting back to town?" Roland asked.

Carmine shrugged. "Hoofing it, I guess."

"How about you three help me load my equipment? I'll give you a ride and throw in a round of beers."

"You bet!"

After the crates were loaded under a canvas tarp, the boys scrambled on top. The truck had bumped along a mile or so when its lamps shone on a stooped figure tromping toward town.

"Want a lift?" Roland called out, tugging on the brakes.

The man, wearing a shapeless fedora, wordlessly waved Roland off without lifting his head.

"Suit yourself, old-timer," Roland said, releasing the clutch and applying the gas.

From his perch in the back, Carmine watched the man diminish in size until he was no more than a blurred gray shape before he disappeared altogether. "Nuts to youz, grandpops," he yelled, leaning back against the covered crates and stretching out his legs. "More room for us."

The truck putt-putted toward town, a dark mourning veil of dust in its wake. Shuffling along the berm, the bent traveler coughed and spat. After that, the quiet of the prairie was restored and the only sounds were the creak of his boots, the arid susurrations of the dead stalks, and the prayers of the people.

(Continues…)

---

Excerpted from "Death of a Rainmaker"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Laurie Loewenstein.
Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Videos