The Cantaloupe Thief (13 page)

Mrs Demarnier came to Grambling after dreaming for three consecutive nights about a stabbing in the deep South. She contacted her friends on the Albuquerque force, who ran a check and discovered the Resnick case. They called Chief Warren, who, by that point, welcomed her.

Mrs Demarnier spent two days in Grambling, walking through the Resnick house, grounds and pool house. “It was someone she knew,” she told detectives. “But I can't see him — or her. All I can see is the old woman, looking up in such surprise. She is so surprised at the attack. The feeling I get is not fear, not fear of a stranger. Just shock that this could be happening right here in her kitchen.”

“Sure, I remember,” Branigan now told Jody.

“Well, Marla Demarnier didn't have any answers. But now the Southeastern Association of Psychics wants a crack at it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently, we aren't the only ones interested in the tenth anniversary. This regional psychic group is holding their annual gathering tonight at the Colonial Inn. They've gotten Heath and Ramsey Resnick to give them some of their mother's personal items to try to get vibes from.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope,” he said, tearing the page from his legal pad. “That was the group's president, asking for coverage. I'm not going to do a live story. You want it?”

“You bet,” she said, grabbing the paper.

 

Branigan made a quick call to Davison to let him know she'd be late. Then she called Liam and asked if he wanted to accompany her. She'd heard him reference the TV show
Medium
in a sermon, so she knew he was familiar with the idea of psychics and police work.

He agreed to meet her at the Colonial Inn, an unpretentious motel a mile from downtown where numerous Grambling civic organizations held meetings.

“It's really okay for you to come?” she asked. “Spooks and spirits not of the holy persuasion?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“What if your congregation finds out?”

He chuckled. “If I worried about what every Christian in this town thought, I wouldn't drink a beer, let gays in the church, or sleep with Liz. I'll be there by eight.”

Branigan arrived at the motel fifteen minutes early and quickly ran through the rooms in use: Albany had an engagement party. Macon had Veterans of Foreign Wars. Athens had optometrists. Valdosta had... well, it was hard to tell what was going on in there, but it had something to do with sci-fi enthusiasts. Sure enough, Augusta had the Southeastern Association of Psychics.

Branigan wasn't sure what she was expecting — perhaps women in gauzy fabrics and headscarves, crystal balls in hand. But it was nothing like that. This crowd could have been the optometrists. Two dozen men and women, remarkable only for looking so unremarkable, sat at one long table in the center of the wallpapered room. At the room's far end, a table was filled with soft drinks and ice. Beside it, another table held bowls of nuts, an urn of coffee and the inn's specialty cranberry muffins.

She waited for a lull in the conversation, then asked for the association president. A thin woman with stylishly cut gray hair and matching coral lipstick and pants suit stood and introduced herself. “You must be from
The Rambler
,” she said. “We're glad you could make it on such short notice. We got our signals mixed on alerting the media. I'm Ethel Manchester.”

“I'm Branigan Powers. I'm working on a tenth anniversary story on Alberta Resnick's murder. Can you tell me what you're doing tonight?”

“Certainly.” Ms Manchester picked up a scarf, framed photo and clip-on earrings from the end of the table. The scarf was silky, navy and green paisley, obviously expensive. The silver-framed photo was of Alberta Resnick in her later years, perhaps for a church directory, her white hair perfectly coiffed, her blue eyes steely. The earrings contained faux rubies. At least, Branigan assumed they were fake. Maybe not.

“The Resnick family provided us with these personal items from their mother. We'll pass them around and see if any of our members register any heat from them.”

“No offense,” Branigan said, “but I'm a little surprised the Resnicks would do that.”

Ms Manchester smiled. “I seriously doubt they are believers,” she agreed, “but they saw no harm in our trying. After all, the poor woman's murder has gone unsolved for ten years.”

“You're right about that.”

Liam walked in at that moment, and Branigan introduced him to Ms Manchester. She didn't ask if Liam worked for
The Rambler,
so the two didn't volunteer further information. He made a beeline for the food table, wolfing down half a muffin before he sat.

“I can't take you anywhere,” Branigan murmured as he slouched in the chair next to her.

Promptly at eight, Ms Manchester called the meeting to order. She introduced Branigan and Liam as newspaper reporters who had worked on the Resnick story ten years earlier. The men and women nodded politely.

She then invited reports from members' work. For the next hour and a half, members told how they had offered assistance in various unsolved cases around the country. Only one sounded as if the psychic had provided information that led to an arrest. The others seemed to think so too, because they plied the woman with questions.

It was past 9:30 and Liam was yawning when Ethel Manchester picked up the scarf that had belonged to Alberta Resnick. “Now for the important work of the evening,” she said. She gave a brief and accurate summary of Mrs Resnick's murder, then turned to Branigan and Liam. “Have I left anything out?”

The two shook their heads.

“All right, then,” Ms Manchester said briskly. “You've all done this before. You know how it works. Feel free to speak out if you get an impression, or save it until all the items have gone around. Either way is fine.”

“Aren't they going to turn off the lights?” Liam whispered.

“Guess not.”

“They're missing out on the creep factor.”

The scarf started around the table, followed by the photo, then the earrings. As individuals took the items, they closed their eyes and held them in both hands. After handling all three, a plump young woman in jeans and black T-shirt grabbed a notepad and pencil from the center of the table and began drawing furiously. Branigan peered surreptitiously over her shoulder and saw a cabin taking shape, surrounded by cedar trees.

The items continued around the table. A man halfway down the far side took the earrings in his palm, and closed his eyes. A moment later, his eyes flew open and he threw the earrings down as if they had burned him. He looked frantically at the woman next to him, who had handed him the baubles. “Did you feel that?” he demanded, rising abruptly from the table. “Did anybody feel that?”

The others looked at him with interest.

“What'd you get, Abe?” asked a man across the table.

“He thought he'd got away with it,” Abe said. “All these years, he thought he'd got away with it. Now he knows he didn't.”

He turned abruptly to Branigan and Liam. “He knows,” he repeated. “And you're in danger.”

Branigan looked at Liam. He was struggling to keep a straight face.

The woman with the drawing spun around and looked at the visitors, then addressed the president. “This is where he's been living,” she said, shoving her pad toward Ethel Manchester. “He's been holed away, isolated. But I think this cabin is empty now.”

Ms Manchester passed the drawing to Branigan. It showed a long, low cabin, with trees closing in on it. An Adirondack chair was turned upside down on the grass out front. Indeed, the place looked abandoned and desolate.

“Take it,” said the young woman, looking from Branigan to Liam. “Maybe it'll help.”

They stayed for another half-hour, but none of the other psychics professed sensations from Mrs Resnick's possessions. Branigan pressed the artist and Abe as to whether the killer was male for sure.

“Not necessarily,” said the artist. “I know I said ‘he'. But that's just because a loner in a cabin seems to indicate a man. But I didn't feel anything that said definitely male.”

Abe agreed. “I guess I said ‘he' because the threat seemed so strong, and I can't imagine a woman being that threatening. But that's my prejudice talking, not my sixth sense.”

Branigan made another run at Abe, but he could add nothing to his original statement. “All I can tell you is this guy has been feeling safe,” he said. “And my sense is that's over.”

At 10:45, Liam and Branigan thanked the group and left them trading more stories in the brightly lit room.

They stood for a moment in the motel parking lot. “This sounds stupid,” Branigan said, “but I guess I haven't thought about the danger before. What if we stir up something and bring this guy into our lives?”

“You don't believe this stuff, do you?” Liam said. “I thought you just wanted color for your story.”

“You're the
Medium
fan,” she protested. “And yeah, I do think some people are sensitive to these things. If police departments ask them for help, there has to be something to it. Did you see that guy when he touched those earrings? He wasn't faking.”

“No,” Liam said slowly. “Not faking exactly. I think they just work themselves into a furor.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Abe's right: the killer thought he'd got away with something, and now we've reawakened him.”

 

Branigan's skin began to crawl as she drove back to the farm. The country road was deserted this time of night, and she found herself glad that both Davison and Cleo were waiting at home.

She'd been thinking of this story as a puzzle, a juicy read. Now she realized that it represented a threat to someone. Chances are the “someone” wasn't even around. But what if they were? What if someone had been watching her through her kitchen window because she'd brought the police files home?

What if her blind slapping at the hornet's nest stirred up more than she could handle?

She saw red eyes in her headlights and screamed.

The opossum turned and fled into the roadside vegetation.

Damn,
she thought, easing her foot off the gas.
Get a grip!

It was past eleven when she pulled into the driveway. Davison had left the side porch light on. Still, she exited the Civic nervously, peering into the inky cotton patch and knowing full well she wouldn't be able to see if someone was hidden there.

She walked swiftly to the door, jamming her key into the deadbolt and stepping inside. Cleo, sleeping on the rug and waiting for her, stood and whined a welcome. She hugged the shepherd's neck and felt herself relax. Only then did she realize how tense she'd been.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was Friday, so St James was serving breakfast. Malachi had been making his rounds for so long he hardly had to think about where the meals were. He was a source of information to Greyhound-riding newcomers from Florida or the Carolinas, or, especially in winter, from points north.

In any decent-sized Southern city, folks didn't want you to go hungry. They might not have jobs or health clinics or mental health care or much of anything else, but they wouldn't let you go hungry.

The dining hall's tables were half filled with Grambling's homeless, along with a smattering of folks from St James. Everyone knew Malachi, and nodded or grunted a greeting. But he had something on his mind, so he took his plate of sausage and eggs and grits, and walked to the only empty table at the far side of the room. He took a seat facing the door.

This Demetrius fellow had been in town all week, and the word under the bridge was that he was a powder keg waiting to blow. Two women, including that crazy Rita sitting two tables over, claimed he'd raped them. Course they were prostitutes, so that could mean he'd refused to pay. Hard to know.

Still, something wasn't right about the guy. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Demetrius slumped through the doorway. As far as Malachi could tell, he wore the same mud-spattered work pants, T-shirt and hoodie he'd come to town in, looking the worse for a week's wear. That meant he wasn't asking for clothes, because the gospel mission, Trinity Episcopal, First Baptist, and even St James had free closets.

Demetrius walked to the cafeteria window and took his plate, eyes locked at floor level, ignoring the server's smiling attempt at conversation. He grabbed a coffee, then raised his eyes long enough to survey the room. Several tables had only two or three people, but he chose the one with just one diner. Malachi's eyes darted to Rita to see if she'd seen Demetrius. Apparently, she had. She was cringing so far down in her seat that her head had all but disappeared. Malachi could see the St James folks on either side of her exchanging baffled glances.

But he couldn't worry about Rita right now. Demetrius was headed his way.

The huge man pulled out a chair at Malachi's table, as far away as he could get. He sat without a word. He crouched over his food as if fearful Malachi might snatch it, and voraciously stuffed the scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Mornin',” Malachi ventured.

Demetrius flicked his eyes to Malachi's face but said nothing.

“Where you from?”

“Goin' to 'Lanta,” Demetrius mumbled.

“Spen' time there myself. Izzat home?”

“Goin' to 'Lanta,” he repeated.

He'd been locked up awhile, Malachi would bet on it. But that wasn't the kind of thing you asked, especially not of someone like Demetrius.

“Okay, man,” Malachi said, rising to get a refill of his coffee. “Good luck wit' that.”

Demetrius couldn't leave for 'Lanta fast enough as far as Malachi was concerned.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Early on Friday morning Branigan roused Davison — and Cleo — from a sound sleep.