The Cantaloupe Thief (29 page)

Despite Branigan's certainty — and guilt — the police were not convinced of a link between Mrs Resnick's murder and the deaths of Rita and Max.

“I hate to sound harsh,” Detective Scovoy said, “but these people die all the time, in all kinds of ways. Traffic. Overdoses. Fights. Assaults. I hear what you're saying, Miss Powers, but I also hear that Max Brody was a first-class jerk. Lots of people hated him. It might be exactly what it looks like — a brawl that went bad.”

Jody came by the station and had information on a more pressing angle of their story: Vesuvius's body had been cremated, but his mangled bike showed traces of paint from the church van's bumper. It looked as though both he and Rita were killed by the Jericho Road van.

“TV doesn't have it yet,” he whispered, “but we'll have to run this. We can't sit on it until Sunday. The police lab has confirmed it, so I'm heading over to see Liam now.”

By the time Branigan left the station, her guilt had turned to numbness.

“Maybe the police are right,” Malachi offered. “Max was a jackass. He's come purty close to gettin' killed before today.”

“Thank you, Malachi,” she said. “And thank you for going with me. Where can I drop you?”

“Jericho Road,” he said. “I want to talk to Pastor Liam about somethin'.”

“Me too,” she said, and turned toward the mission church.

 

It didn't take Malachi or Branigan long to realize they weren't getting in to see Liam. He was in an emergency meeting with his church deacons. A police officer was with them too, apparently informing them that their church van had run over two homeless people in the past two weeks.

Jody waited with Chan and Dontegan in the dining hall, glasses of iced tea untouched in front of them. Jody had his laptop out, typing. Branigan knew he was constructing his story and would have it ready to file as soon as he got comments from Liam and the deacon chair.

“Are you putting Max Brody in the same story?” she asked.

“No. There's nothing to connect them yet,” he said. “I filed six inches on the Max Brody death. It's the hit-and-runs connected to a homeless church that's the zinger.”

“I hope it doesn't shut this place down,” she said.

Chan looked up in alarm. “Could that happen?”

“I would think. Not that anyone from outside would do it. But Liam's deacons might. This is terrible publicity. They might shut down for awhile to show the community they're taking it seriously.”

“But the van is gone,” Chan said. “The police impounded it.”

“The van is gone,” she agreed. “But the driver's not.”

Halfway down the hall, the conference room door opened. Liam came out first, his face strained so that every freckle stood out. He introduced an attractive, middle-aged woman as chair of Jericho Road's deacons, as the other church leaders stepped away.

Liam and the chairwoman pulled out seats across from Jody. Jody read to them from the police report findings about the paint on Vesuvius's bike and from Liam's own information about Rita's deathbed remarks. Then he asked for comment.

“Obviously, we are devastated,” Liam said, reading from a prepared statement. “Everything we have built over the past five years has been designed to provide our homeless parishioners with a safe space and transformational opportunities. We do not understand how or why our van has been used to kill two of those parishioners. We are inviting the Grambling Police Department to set up an office right here at Jericho Road to get to the bottom of this matter. We will cooperate fully with their investigation.”

“Meanwhile,” added the chairwoman, “we, as a church, express our confidence in Pastor Delaney. We have asked him to keep Jericho Road open during the investigation so as not to harm the people its closing would hurt.”

Branigan glanced at Chan. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Jody, you got any more questions?” Liam asked.

Jody double-checked the make, model, year and color of the church van. He asked what it was used for, and who usually drove it. Then he asked who had access to the key.

Liam stood and led him to the reception desk, and pulled out the drawer that held the key. Branigan trailed behind, and saw a frown pass over his face. Jody's head was bent, scribbling, and he missed it.

Liam explained that Dontegan or another staff member or a volunteer oversaw the reception desk from nine to five every day. During that time, volunteers, interns, staff members, board members and shelter residents were in and out. In addition, Jericho Road allowed Grambling's homeless to use its address for mail; thus, street dwellers were frequently in the office as well.

“We try to lock the room when no one's at the desk,” Liam said. “But I can guarantee you there are times when the receptionist is called to the kitchen or to the door for a donation and it doesn't get locked.” He held his hands out. “It's the nature of a place like this. It will never be fully secure.”

Jody looked up, satisfied. “Thanks for your help,” he told Liam. Then turning to Branigan: “I'm so close to the office, I'll go there to file.”

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

Liam looked at her tiredly. “You staying?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I'll wait for you to get all these people out.”

 

It was another forty-five minutes before Liam got his deacons out of the building. They were understandably anxious and wanted to talk to him and each other. Malachi melted into the darkness without Branigan noticing.

She took the opportunity to make three calls to the Resnick heirs, telling them she had more information on their mother's murder and asking them to meet her at Ramsey's drug store the next morning. She reached only Amanda, who agreed to drive over from the lake. She left the brothers voice mails, hoping they'd come as well.

Finally, only Liam, Dontegan, Chan and Branigan were left in the Jericho Road dining hall.

Branigan wanted to know what Liam had seen in the reception office, but didn't know if he could talk in front of Dontegan and Chan. But apparently, it was her presence that made him hesitate.

“Can we go off the record?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

He turned to Dontegan. “The money box is missing.”

Dontegan looked confused. “You took it weeks ago, Pastuh. Don' you 'member?”

“I didn't take it,” Liam said, his mouth tight.

“I come in one mornin' and the box was gone, and they's a note from you, sayin' you moved it to your office. I didn' think nothin' 'bout it.”

“Did you keep the note?” Liam asked.

“No, suh, Pastuh. If I keep every Post-It note you write, wouldn' be no room in our files.”

Liam laughed in spite of himself. “That's true.” He rubbed his eyes.

Branigan jumped in. “So Dontegan, did this note look like Liam's writing?”

“It mus' have. Sometimes they's be three, four notes in one mornin'. It look like the rest of 'em.”

“In other words,” she said, looking at Liam, “it would be easy to forge one of your notes.”

His eyes flicked to Chan, then quickly away.

“Oh, no, Dad, that was just the one time! I learned my lesson.” Chan turned to Branigan and Dontegan. “In ninth grade, I signed his name on my report card. All hel— All heck broke loose at our house. I never did it again.”

“I wasn't accusing you, Chan,” Liam said.

“Tell me about the money box,” Branigan said. “Locked, unlocked? Petty cash? What?”

“Locked,” said Liam. “It was for donations that came in the door. Several times a week, someone drops by with a cash or check donation. We give them a receipt on the spot, but the receptionist can't always bring it to the safe in my office right then. So I bought a lock box to keep money in until Dontegan could get it to me.”

He turned to Dontegan. “That's why you've been shoving envelopes under my door,” he said. “I wondered why you weren't waiting until the end of the week like you used to, but I kept forgetting to ask.”

“Yes, suh,” Dontegan nodded. Branigan could tell he was relieved.

“Is there any way of telling how much money was in the box?” she asked.

“Maybe. I'll give Libby — that's our office manager — the receipt book, and she can compare it against deposits she made. That should tell us what's unaccounted for. Dontegan, do you know how long the box has been gone?”

“Maybe three weeks?”

“So we're looking at a week's worth of receipts sometime in May. There's just no telling. Sometimes people leave fifty dollars, but they've been known to leave thousand-dollar checks or hundreds in cash. And since they already received the receipt for their taxes, they'd have no way of knowing anything was wrong on our end.”

Liam thought for a moment. “I'll need to call the police back,” he said. “Man, when things go south, they really go south.”

“You know, Liam, I hate to say this, but it may be your cost of doing business,” Branigan said. “You're trying to help people most churches won't touch. I've heard Chief Warren say that criminals are mixed in with the homeless. And you don't differentiate. Criminals are as welcome here as anyone else. Occasionally, that's gonna bite you.”

“You're right,” he said, standing. “It doesn't make the betrayal hurt any less.”

“Seems I've heard you preach that.”

She was rewarded with a smile. “Yeah, someone we're quite fond of here was once betrayed, wasn't He?” He sighed heavily. “Let me make that call.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Branigan admitted it: she was afraid to be alone. On one hand, she was consumed by the fear that she had lured a killer back into action. Rita and Max, possibly even Vesuvius, were dead because of her story. On the other hand, she was scared for her own safety.

She drove to the farmhouse. It was well after dark, so she didn't get out of the car, but simply opened the passenger door for Cleo. With the German shepherd's comforting bulk beside her, she swung the Civic around to shine the headlights on the cotton field. Even so, she couldn't see the barn in the blackness. She drove back to town, and pulled into her parents' driveway.

It was after 9 p.m., so she'd missed the chance to speak to Davison. She called anyway, and left a voice message.

Then she called her parents' number. In a moment, the front porch lights flicked on, and her mom, already in T-shirt and pajama pants, threw open the front door. She ran to Branigan's car and was waiting to envelop her daughter in a hug when she stepped out.

“I feel stupid...” Branigan started.

“Don't,” said Mrs Powers. “I'm not sure I'd
ever
stay by myself at that farm with no close neighbors around. Tomorrow, I'll call about a security alarm. But for now, you come in and we'll make up your old room. Hey there, Cleo. Did you come to spend the night with Grandma?”

“I need something to sleep in,” Branigan said.

“I'm sure Dad has a T-shirt he can spare. And I'll reheat the potato soup we had for supper.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She and Cleo gave themselves over to pampering.

 

* * * 

 

A half-hour later, Branigan and her parents sat at their kitchen table over mugs of hot tea. They deserved to know the truth, whether Davison was ready or not. So she told them first about him — how well he'd done last week at the farmhouse, then at the beach. How he was safely checked into the gospel mission's rehab program. She told them it was, in fact, his fifth try at rehab.

Then she told them more details about the Resnick story she was working on for Sunday; about the hit-and-run deaths of Vesuvius Hightower and Rita Mae Jones, and the brutal slaying of Max Brody.

Her mother reacted to Rita Mae's name. “Wait a minute. That woman in yesterday's paper was Rita Mae Jones?” She turned to her husband. “You remember her. Her father was Arthur Jones. He worked with Hugh Resnick years ago, before he and his wife — Peggy, I think her name was — moved to Atlanta. Rita Mae came with them sometimes to Alberta's Fourth of July parties.”

“Right,” Branigan said. “The hit-and-run on Conestee was her.”

Her mom went to get the paper from the recycling pile. “Rita Jones,” she said, scanning the story again. “I didn't make the connection. She was living in Grambling, homeless? That's hard to believe.” She passed the paper to her husband.

“Branigan, this sounds dangerous,” he said.

“That's why I'm here. Cleo went crazy around 5 o'clock this morning. When it got light, we went running. And I found a water bottle in the barn from Jericho Road.”

“You definitely need to stay here until things settle down,” her father said.

“I think I will,” she agreed. “Or at least until you install a security alarm at the farm. Thanks for being willing to do that.”

They talked for awhile longer, then she and Cleo went to her old room. Her mom had replaced the curtains and spread from her teenage lavender period with fashionable Roman shades and a comforter in blue and gold. But the four-poster bed felt exactly as she remembered. She wriggled deep into its embrace and fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

She was walking to the barn at twilight, her hand in Pa's. She was an adult, but glanced over to see a four-year-old Davison holding Pa's other hand. Davison was skipping in excitement.

“Are we gonna see the cows and the chicks, Pa?” he shouted.

“Yes, son,” Pa chuckled. “But we need to be quiet so we don't scare them, okay?”

They heard a low moo. “She knows we're coming, doesn't she?” Pa asked.

Davison answered with a gleeful laugh.

They reached the heavy barn door, and Pa let go of their hands in order to swing it open. She turned to look back toward the farmhouse and was alarmed to see two raggedy people limping toward them. Looking closer, she recognized them: Rita and Max. What were they doing on the farm? She didn't want them here. She turned to tell Pa about the interlopers, but he had already ducked into the barn's dim interior.