The Cantaloupe Thief
Read The Cantaloupe Thief Online
Authors: Deb Richardson-Moore
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“In
The Cantaloupe Thief
Deb Richardson-Moore spices her perfectly paced story with just enough detail to let us see, hear, know, and feel exactly what we need and no more. And she does it with writing that's vibrant, crisp, and real â we're treated to a master storyteller showing us how it's done. Murder may be the plot that drives Richardson-Moore's yank-you-in-from-the-first-sentence yarn, but it's her supple and admirable talent that's to die for.”
John Jeter, author of
The Plunder Room
“Prepare to read Deb Richardson-Moore's
The Cantaloupe Thief
like you're getting ready for a southern snowstorm. Run out and buy your bread and milk, stock the pantry to the brim, and cross everything off your calendar, because once reporter Branigan Powers draws you into her mystery, you'll stick fast to the couch until you turn the last page. Bravo to Deb for creating a captivating novel so full of heart, humour, and suspense. I simply loved it.”
Becky Ramsey, author of
French by Heart
“Fantastically entertaining, this beautifully written, intelligent page-turner gets at both the prejudice and promise of the New South. Our curious heroine, Branigan Powers, has guts and heart. Deb has concocted a winner in this first installment of a great mystery series.”
Matt Matthews, author of
Mercy Creek
“Deb brings the authenticity of her own work with the homeless and extensive background in newspapers to this terrific debut with a twist ending you'll never see coming. I can't wait to see what Branigan Powers takes on next.”
Susan Simmons, Executive Editor,
Greenville Journal
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Deb Richardson-Moore
is a former journalist, and the pastor of the Triune Mercy Center in Greenville, South Carolina. Her first book,
The Weight of Mercy,
is a memoir about her work as a pastor among the homeless. She and her husband, Vince, are the parents of three grown children. To find out more about Deb, you can go to her website: www.debrichardsonmoore.com.
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Text copyright © 2016 Deb Richardson-Moore
This edition copyright © 2016 Lion Hudson
The right of Deb Richardson-Moore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson plc
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 192 6
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 193 3
First edition 2016
Acknowledgments
Scripture quotations taken from The New Revised Standard Version of the Bible copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of Churches in the USA. Used by permission. All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration © Daniel Haskett
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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To the late Vina and Durey Powers,
Georgia farmers.
And to Rick,
Ronald and Lori,
fellow cantaloupe eaters.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my writers' group: Susan Clary Simmons, Wanda Owings, Jeanne Brooks and Allison Greene, who demanded more tension, more menace. If it's not there, it's my fault, not theirs.
Thanks to later readers Elaine Nocks, Michelle McClendon, Lori Bradley, Taylor Moore, Lynne Lucas, Lynn Cusick, Doris Richardson, Rick and Candace Richardson, Madison Moore and Susan Stall.
Thanks to the Triune Mercy Center board and staff for allowing me a writing sabbatical to wrap things up. And a special thank you to the worshipers at Triune, who taught me that there are as many kinds of homeless people as there are housed people.
I appreciate Tony Collins, Jessica Tinker, Jessica Scott and their team at Lion Hudson in England, and their counterparts at Kregel Publications in the USA, including Noelle Pederson and Lori Alberda.
As always, thanks to Vince â for a quiet writing time in Crail and Edinburgh, and for everything else. And to Dustin, Taylor and Madison, who make it all worthwhile.
PROLOGUE
JULY 5, TEN YEARS AGO
Alberta felt every one of her eighty years, felt them deep in the rigid muscles that supported her slender neck. Her Fourth of July party last night was exhausting in a way it hadn't been in previous years. This morning's pancake breakfast with her teenage granddaughters was raucous, at least by her standards. She loved the girls, God knew â loved them with a ferocity that surprised her. Still, their exuberance was wearing.
She eased onto the sagging den sofa, solicitous of her aching hip, and kicked off her ecru pumps. Her chihuahua Dollie hopped up beside her, head cocked, waiting for a pinch of bread crust.
“Dollie, you're my best girl,” she said, giving the cinnamon-colored dog a small bite. “Though I don't think poor Amanda wants to compete.”
The tête-à -tête earlier with her only daughter had been as difficult as she'd imagined, disclosing the long-held secret about her younger son, the family rogue. Alberta could tell that Amanda was shocked.
“At least that shut her up about my so-called dementia,” she told Dollie.
Then the doctor's visit with her older son, the stalwart one, the one she trusted. She'd given him a hard time over the years, she knew. But he'd remained steadfast.
Now all she wanted was to curl up on the end of this worn sofa with her sandwich and potato chips and a glass of Tabitha's sweet iced tea. Her maid brewed tea better than the maids of anyone in her bridge club. Everyone said so.
This den off the kitchen was a sanctuary of shabbiness and warmth, unlike the high-gloss rooms with their hardwoods and brocade draperies and gleaming piano. She enjoyed those rooms, of course, enjoyed their cool elegance. That's where she entertained her book club and bridge club and music club. Though she'd had about enough of those music club biddies tut-tutting over the homeless man who'd shambled into her parlor last month and sat down at the piano.
“My lands, Alberta!” she mimicked in a high-pitched voice for Dollie's enjoyment. “That man could have killed you for yoah wedding silvah.”
Alberta had no use for fear or flightiness.
She fed Dollie a broken chip, then punched the remote control for her soap opera, sighing at the simple pleasure of this break in her day. She took a bite of sandwich â banana and crunchy peanut butter on white bread, a combination she'd enjoyed since girlhood yet hid from those same music club friends. With them, she'd choose chicken salad. “Or cucumber, God forbid,” she said aloud. “Dollie, whoever invented the cucumber sandwich should be shot. Now banana â I understand that's what Elvis ate. So don't tell anyone.”
She savored the combination of peanut crunch and firm banana. She was reaching for a chip when she heard a knock on the kitchen door. Her heart sank. Probably Amanda, early for their trip to the lawyer's office. She wasn't ready to see her daughter yet.
No, wait, Amanda had a key. It wouldn't be her. The knock came again.
Sighing, Alberta rose and slipped her pumps back on. A Southern lady never answered the door, even the back door, without shoes.
Dollie followed, nails click-clicking on the linoleum. Alberta opened the door, puzzled, surprised, though not entirely displeased to see her visitor. After a few words, though, she was more than displeased. She was outraged. Dollie picked up on her fury and yapped ferociously, threatening to trip Alberta by skittering around her feet. Alberta slammed the door.
She pivoted to return to the den, to her lunch, shaken, but certain she'd settled things. That's how she lived her life: always certain, always settling things properly.
Only now she heard a crash, and turned in disbelief to see a rock land on the kitchen floor, accompanied by a rain of shattered glass. She cried out in anger â red-hot, shocked anger that turned to fear only in the last moment of her life.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
Branigan Powers rushed into the newsroom, its silence still disconcerting though the layoffs had been steady for years now. It was 9 a.m. and the remaining
Metro
and
Style
writers were filing into the conference room for their weekly meeting, led by Julie in a hot pink sheath, pink-tinted hose, and shoes of improbably colored pink leather.
