The Cantaloupe Thief (11 page)

She called the South Carolina Department of Corrections, and left a message for the public information officer, asking if Billy Shepherd was still in prison. Then she called Liam to ask if he'd gotten any leads on the Resnick case.

“Yes and no,” he said. “I brought it up at this morning's meeting. Sixteen of our guys were there — which is rare. More are usually working third shift and I don't ask them to wake up. Anyway, only six remotely knew what I was talking about. Four remembered the story from news accounts back then. But two — Dontegan and Jess — said they'd heard vague rumors over the years. Let me get my notes.” Branigan heard scratching as Liam searched his desk, then a yelp and a curse.

“Why, Saint Liam, what did you do?”

“Knocked my coffee over.”

“Sorry.”

“I do that at least once a day. Okay, here you go. Jess said that a man named Max Brody — he's a bad alcoholic — got drunk one night and was babbling that ‘this evening's drunk is courtesy of an old lady who had the good taste to get stabbed'.”

“Those were his exact words?” She began scribbling. “‘This evening's drunk is courtesy of an old lady who had the good taste to get stabbed'?”

“Yeah, as well as Jess could remember, anyway.”

“When was this?”

“Don't know.”

“Okay, I'll need to talk to Jess and this Max Brody. What did Dontegan say?”

“Dontegan said he'd heard a woman talking about a lady who got murdered downtown, but the woman was drunk and he couldn't make much sense of it. I pressed him, and he said it was a homeless woman who eats here a lot. Rita.”

Rita again?

“Can you describe her?” Branigan asked.

“Tiny. In her forties, but looks sixty. White, horribly sun-damaged and wrinkled. Washed-out blond hair. She's a prostitute and a bad alcoholic and, from the look of her teeth, a meth addict. She's been impossible for us to reach out to.”

“I've met her.”

“How?”

“I ran into her on Main Street. Pretty drunk. And Davison stayed in her shack under the bridge last night.”

“Not good. No telling what kind of diseases she has.”

“I know. I'm taking him to the farm then the beach with me until he can get into the mission on Monday.”

“Hmm. Are you sure, Brani G?”

“No, not at all.”

He laughed. “As Mom would say, ‘Bless your heart.'”

“Yes, it needs blessing,” she agreed.

 

* * * 

 

She worked for another hour. Before heading to Bea's to pick up Davison, she drove to the Grambling Farmers' Market, an open-air, tin-roofed series of stalls located several blocks off South Main. Operating daily nine months a year, it was the spot to get fresh flowers and vegetables, as well as home-baked breads, jams, milk, eggs, cheese and other goodies from local farmers.

Branigan loved the smell of the place, due primarily to the aromatic cantaloupes in a giant bin next to the watermelons. One August in Detroit, she'd stumbled into a farmers' market. Walking down its concrete-floored aisle, she was suddenly transported to Gran and Pa's farmhouse. Her heart swelled, and she looked around to see what had brought on the wave of homesickness. Sure enough, it was cantaloupes, their heady scent mimicking the smell of Gran's kitchen. After that, she spent many a Saturday wandering the aisles of the giant market, always starting and ending by the melons. More than once, she went back to her apartment and booked a flight home.

Now she enjoyed a sniff, but she had arranged for the same smell to waft through her kitchen window. She selected half a pound of green beans to cook for Davison, then picked up some strawberries as well. She handed a ten-dollar bill to the clerk, a woman with a tight brown perm and fat arms straining at a sleeveless blouse. The woman took the bill, glancing behind Branigan. She felt an unfamiliar prickle on the back of her neck.

She turned, but no one was there.

Turning back to the woman for change, Branigan saw her eyes dart behind her again.

“What?” she asked.

“Them homeless,” the clerk muttered.

Branigan glanced back and saw a couple standing in the shade just inside the shed, telltale knapsacks on their backs. The woman caught Branigan's eye and smiled. Branigan saw the man edge away from his partner, toward the parking lot.

“They gonna ask you for money,” the clerk said. “Can't keep 'em away.”

“I thought you provided leftover produce at the end of the day.”

“We do. They's a crate over there we fill with stuff too ripe to sell. It can get pretty full around 6 o'clock.”

“Maybe that's what they're waiting for.”

The clerk looked at Branigan skeptically. “Yeah, you come tell me that after you get to your car.”

Branigan gathered her produce and purse. She didn't feel like being panhandled, so she walked down the shed's interior, pretending to look at the marigolds and petunias. When she could see her Civic through the open side, she veered and made straight for it.

As she pressed her remote entry button, the homeless woman stepped from the shade, startling her. Branigan looked around for the woman's partner, but didn't see him. She wondered if he was behind her, but she didn't want the woman to catch her looking.

The woman was short, with thin legs and a protruding stomach. She wore a yellow kerchief over dyed black hair. Tattoos ran up both arms. She smiled, revealing a missing eyetooth.

She started right in. “Ma'am, my husband and I just arrived in town for construction jobs, but my cousin, who was supposed to hire us, never picked us up from the bus station, and now we're stranded. Could you give us a few dollars for a motel room tonight? Tomorrow, we'll work day labor and get a room and bus tickets home.”

Branigan listened politely, dread settling in her stomach. It would be easy to give the woman a few dollars, but Liam had convinced her it was the wrong thing to do. Panhandling was the method for getting drugs and alcohol, he said, almost never meals and shelter.

“Have you been to the Salvation Army or the Rescue Mission?” she asked. “They have women's shelters.”

“You have to wait in line,” the woman said smoothly, “and we couldn't, because we were trying to find work.”

“I'm sorry, but no,” Branigan said. “I give to the Rescue Mission and Jericho Road. They're set up to help.”

“We'll go there tomorrow,” the woman said, a whine creeping into her voice, “but we need enough money to eat and get a motel room tonight.”

“Jericho Road is serving dinner,” Branigan said, getting into the Civic and feeling terrible. She shut the car door, but the woman didn't stop talking. Since the window was down an inch, she could hear her continuing monologue.

“We're not asking you to pay the whole $39 for a room, just $5 or $10.” The smile remained fixed on her face, but it was looking more like a grimace. The woman's partner suddenly loomed in Branigan's rearview mirror, blocking her exit. She wanted to lock her doors, but was embarrassed for them to hear the click. “You never know when you might need help yourself.”

Branigan looked up sharply to see the woman's dark eyes boring into hers.
Did she really say that?
Her discomfort rising, she glanced to see if anyone else was around.

At that moment, a farmer came out of the market, carrying a load of unsold corn that he placed in his truck bed. He looked silently from the woman to the man. Without a word, they turned and hurried across the parking lot. The farmer met Branigan's eyes, gave an almost imperceptible nod, and walked back into the market.

Unsettled by the encounter, Branigan drove quickly to Bea's, unsure if she was feeling guilt or menace. She wanted to help people, but didn't want to play into their scams.

She found Davison where she'd left him, at an outdoor table with an iced tea and a
Rambler.
“Ready to go?”

“Ready,” he said, standing to stretch.

“How are you set for clothes?”

“I'd love to chuck everything in this backpack.”

“Want to run by Dad's and get some things?”

“No, I don't think I'm ready for that. Could we go to the Salvation Army store? I have a little money.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“Day labor.”

She drove to the thrift store located a few blocks from Jericho Road. The Salvation Army kept it clean and well ordered so that customers from the Eastside sought it out. Charlie and Chan had put together Halloween costumes here. Davison and Branigan entered the cavernous space. He headed to the men's clothes racks, and she found a table stacked with paperbacks. She rummaged idly until she found a novel by Anita Shreve she hadn't read, and seized it for a dollar. She was searching for another when she heard her name. She jumped, and looked up to see Malachi Martin on the other side of the table. He had come up so quietly she hadn't heard him.

“You still workin' on a story about that hit-and-run?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You know the pitcher I was talkin' about that Vesuvius sold? I found it buried in a trash pile under the bridge.”

“I don't understand.”

“I told you V sol' a paintin' with that black V in the corner, right?” he explained patiently. “He said he sol' it to a homeless dude. This afternoon, I thought I saw a bottle with somethin' still in it stickin' out the trash pile. So I went to pull it out. And under it was that paintin' V sold. I remembered, 'cause it hung in Pastor Liam's lunchroom a long time.”

At that moment, Davison walked up, a pile of shorts, pants and shirts folded over one arm. Malachi eyed the clothes and narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak.

Davison broke the silence. “I'm moving in with my sister for a few nights.”

Malachi simply nodded and walked off.

“Thanks, Malachi,” Branigan called, not knowing what else to say.
What does Vesuvius selling a painting have to do with anything?
she wondered. Still, it was nice of Malachi to tell her. She supposed he wanted to amplify the portrait of Vesuvius as an artist.

Davison paid for his clothes and they left.

Back at the farm, Davison emptied his knapsack into the trash bin in Branigan's garage, then carried his new clothes into the guest bedroom. “I'm going to open that window and listen for the long-haul trucks tonight,” he said with a grin.

“I discovered I can hear them from Gran's bedroom too,” she said. “I listen every night.”

Her brother looked at her oddly. She thought he might be fighting back tears, but it was hard to tell. She didn't really know him any more. “I'd hug you,” he said, “but you might prefer if I get a shower first.”

“Sure thing. You remember where the towels are. My casa is your casa.”

While Davison was showering, Branigan gathered the unopened bottles of Malbec and pinot noir and cabernet sauvignon from her kitchen wine rack and the half-full bottles of vodka and rum from the armoire in the living room. Placing the bottles in two cardboard boxes, she loaded them into the Civic trunk and drove to her closest neighbors.

Uncle Bobby and Aunt Jeanie's farmland was similar to Pa's, but their house was far grander, more coastal antebellum than upcountry farmhouse, thanks to Jeanie's upbringing. Its massive central portion rose two stories, with four giant columns marching across the front of a wide, brick-floored porch. Six whitewashed rocking chairs softened the formality and provided a welcoming touch. To each side of the porch, one-story additions sprawled. On the far side was a sumptuous sunroom; on the driveway side where Branigan pulled in, a large kitchen. A three-car garage was hidden at the back.

The family marveled that Jeanie let roughneck Uncle Bobby inside such a place.

Jeanie had been a beauty queen in her day, a Miss Savannah, but was now “fat and sassy”, as she put it. “Ain't nothing uglier than a skinny old woman,” she'd say when piling her plate at family gatherings.

She came to her kitchen door as her niece drove up, wiping her hands on a dish towel and grabbing Branigan in a fierce hug. “Hey there, stranger,” she said into her hair. “For a next-door neighbor, we sure don't see much of you.”

“And now I'm here to ask a favor. I'm a pretty sorry niece.”

“Name it,” Jeanie said.

Branigan took a deep breath. “Davison is staying with me for a few days. I wanted to get all the alcohol out of the house. Can I leave it with you?”

Jeanie's brown eyes softened. “Of course you can, sweetie. When did this happen?”

“He got to town yesterday, and is going to rehab at the Grambling Rescue Mission. But they can't take him 'til Monday.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah, I told Mom and Dad this morning.”

She eyed Branigan sympathetically. “Honey, you want to come in and open one of those bottles?”

Branigan laughed. “I'd love to, but I'd better get back. I guess I'm going to be on the wagon this week too.”

“All right, but when you get that one straightened out, you and I can have a girls' night.” She winked, and took one of the boxes from the trunk. Branigan followed with the other and they stashed them in Jeanie's laundry room, which was the size of Branigan's entire kitchen.

 

She returned home to find Davison dressed in his newly purchased khakis and T-shirt. He had shaved and was toweling his thick hair dry.

“Tomorrow, a barber,” he announced. “Brani G, you didn't have to get rid of your wine. I'm going to have to learn to be around people who drink.”

“Yeah, but you don't have to learn the first week you're trying to get clean.”

He shrugged.

“I'm going to bake some chicken breasts and potatoes and cook some fresh beans from the farmers' market. Sound good?”