The Cantaloupe Thief (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cleo bounded out of the car. Branigan knew she'd stay on the property, so she didn't bother with the leash. She carried an overnight bag in one hand, a bag of groceries in the other and climbed the steps to the small front porch. Her parents didn't want to waste money on this side of the house. It was the beach side that had the expansive, multilevel decking.

Her mom rented the house out occasionally during the winter, so it no longer had that closed-up, musty smell it'd had during their childhood. Her mother had been down herself a few weeks earlier, so everything was clean.

She and Davison stepped into the kitchen, and put the groceries on the new granite-topped island, added during a 2010 upgrade. “Wow!” he said. “Nice.”

The house's pine-paneled living room — the decorating choice of every beach house built in the 1950s and 60s — remained. Branigan knew their mother had considered painting it, but sentimentality got the better of her. Except for its modern kitchen and ever-expanding decks, the look of the house had changed little since the family bought it.

Two bedrooms and a bathroom opened off each side of the main room. Branigan went directly to her old room, still sporting its coral paint. Davison looked lost, so she prompted him. “Want your room? Or Mom and Dad's king bed?”

He swallowed and crossed the main room, taking neither. He threw his Burberry bag into the guest room, streetside and pine paneled. “This one will do,” he said.

Normally at this point, Branigan would have located the blender and mixed up an icy pina colada to carry onto the beach. Instead, she popped open a Diet Pepsi and offered him one. “Want to take a walk?”

“Sure.”

They called Cleo and set off down the weathered gray walkway, through a gazebo, then onto the beach, hours past high tide and luxuriously wide.

“Boy, does this bring back memories,” Davison said.

“Tell me.”

“Well, let's see. Pa, who never walked on the beach in less than long pants, socks and shoes.”

She laughed.

“Aunt Isabel and her brownies,” he continued. “Uncle Rock fishing until dark and making us eat what he caught. The time we brought Liam and Alissa, and stayed at Coconut Joe's past curfew. Not to mention getting in there with fake IDs to begin with. Watching Mom and Dad dance at that beach bar I can never remember the name of.”

“You do have a memory.” She bumped his shoulder, and he put an arm around her.

“And,” he said, “I remember you meeting some Marine on leave when you were seventeen. Mom had a fit.”

She laughed again. “Uh-huh, I remember him
well
.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me back.”

“My pleasure.”

Branigan's cell phone buzzed and she stopped walking to take the call. It was Liam.

“I'm glad I caught you,” he said. “I heard something at supper I wanted to warn you about.”

“I'm listening.”

“It's Rita again. At dinner just now, she wouldn't tell me anything. But Malachi Martin, one of our guys...”

“Yeah, I know Malachi,” she interrupted.

“Well, I wrote down what he said so I could remember it for you. He said he and Vesuvius were in his tent under the bridge last winter. Rita came in drunk, talking about how she might get rich if she told what she knew about some old lady getting stabbed. She said the rich-ass family would pay to keep it quiet. But then Malachi said she passed out, and he and Vesuvius didn't think any more about it.”

“If she knew someone rich did it, that doesn't fit our theory,” Branigan said. “How would Rita know something like that?”

“I have no idea. I just wanted to warn you, as you're going into Resnick territory.”

“Yeah, they certainly fit the rich part, don't they?”

“And Branigan? One more thing. Do you remember that Billy fellow who was living in Mrs Resnick's pool house?”

“Of course.”

“I think he came to Jericho Road tonight.”

“What?!”

“I could be wrong. He said his name was Demetrius. I saw Billy just once when the police were interviewing him. But I think it's the same guy.”

“Billy Shepherd was released from prison four weeks ago,” she said.

“He wasn't talkative,” Liam added. “He had that missing-a-beat rhythm people get when their meds aren't quite right. From the look of him, he's on the street.”

“Try to find out where he's staying, and I'll talk to him next week.”

“Will do. Meantime, you be careful. Like our voodoo friends said, you may be poking someone who thought he was safe.”

She clicked off. Davison was watching her.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Enough. Brani, I didn't realize this story was dangerous. I'm going to these interviews with you.”

“You can't do that. I'd feel like I was bringing a babysitter.”

“Well, that's exactly what you'll be doing. You are
not
going into these people's houses alone. That's all there is to it.”

She looked at him quizzically. “The girls I'm interviewing were thirteen when their grandmother was killed. I seriously doubt it was them.”

“Still. Look, I know I haven't been much of a brother, but I'm here now, and you are not going to see these people alone.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

 

The next morning Branigan got up quietly, showered and dressed in her favorite taupe fitted slacks and a sleeveless teal blouse. She had intended to leave before Davison woke, but she emerged from her bedroom to find him sitting at the island, drinking coffee.

“I was afraid to drink it on the deck,” he said, holding up his mug. “Afraid you'd sneak past me.”

“All right. All right. Let me have some fruit and we'll go.”

She washed some blueberries and grapes, and cut up strawberries, placing them in a bowl the color of orange sherbet. She poured coffee into a tall mug sporting a cartoon skyline of Grambling.

She took her breakfast to the covered deck. The ocean was striped in blues, greens and grays, calm with mini-waves breaking far down the beach. Low tide. A perfect beach day. She was sorry she had real-life interviews on a murder instead of a paperback mystery and a comfortable beach chair. She promised herself she would get back here as soon as she had wrapped up this story.

 

They left Cleo in the house and drove the short distance to the home of Caroline Resnick Mason, the only child of Heath and Serena Resnick. Caroline, Branigan had discovered, had married during her senior year at the University of South Carolina. Her husband was somewhat older —
but not old enough to have bought this house,
she thought as they pulled in. It was across Palm Boulevard from the beach, a peach-colored mansion that rose four stories with an infinity pool on the second. If twenty-somethings were living here, it must be family money.

“Now do you see why I came?” Davison's voice brought her out of her momentary envy.

“What?”

He nodded at the black Range Rover parked in front, Georgia license plates clearly visible.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “I wonder if Mama Bear Serena is visiting.”

But it wasn't Serena who loomed over Caroline's shoulder when she answered the door. It was her father, Heath.

Caroline wore a sundress of lavender and navy plaid, with matching flat sandals of lavender. Her auburn hair hung thick and shiny over her shoulders.

She greeted Branigan politely. “Miss Powers? I'm sure you know my father, Heath Resnick. He wanted to sit in.”

“Of course,” she said. “I wasn't expecting you, Mr Resnick.”

“I know,” Heath said heartily. “But I had some business on the coast and decided to drop by and see if you or Caroline needed any help.” He looked at Davison and held out his hand. “And this is?”

“My brother Davison.”

A wary look came over Heath's face. “Of course. Davison. It's been a long time since I've seen you, son.”

Davison reached back into his teens and called up the manners their dad had instilled. He shook Heath's hand firmly. “It's good to see you, sir.”

Caroline ushered them into a large, rather formal living room, with a wool rug and upholstered furniture and plantation shutters, topped by upholstered valences. It wasn't Branigan's idea of a beach house.
But this isn't a beach house,
she reminded herself.
It's her full-time residence.

A coffee tray held three delicate cups, a silver urn, creamer and sugar bowl. Caroline poured the three cups and handed them around, not taking one herself. Davison's presence had muddled her careful staging.

“So?” Caroline asked. “You said on the phone you're doing a story on Grandmother's murder? Do you really think you can solve it after all this time?”

“I don't know about solving it,” Branigan admitted. “It's more looking at how it could have gone
unsolved
for ten years. But sometimes when you shake things, people remember something they hadn't before. Or alliances have shifted. The police say there is no such thing as an unsolvable case. There is always someone who knows something. Always.” She looked squarely at Heath Resnick, whose tanned face remained composed.

“Okay, then,” Caroline said. “Ask whatever you need to.”

Branigan heard once more about Tabitha's blueberry pancakes with faces. She heard about Aunt Amanda dropping Caroline and cousin Ashley at the country club pool.

“Can you tell me anything about your Aunt Amanda's demeanor that morning? Did she and your grandmother talk at breakfast?”

Heath leaned forward, and Davison tensed in response to his interest.

Caroline didn't seem to notice. “Yes, but they weren't saying much. You know that feeling you get when adults aren't saying things until you leave the room? It felt like that. Not that Ashley and I cared very much. But Grandmother took Aunt Amanda to her bedroom while we got ready for the pool.”

“No idea what she wanted to talk about?”

Caroline looked at her guilelessly. “No.”

Branigan couldn't help but wonder if her father had coached her before their arrival. “Go on.”

“Well, Ashley and I were ready and waiting for a good while before Aunt Amanda came down. I remember because we were fooling around on the piano. I was the only one Grandmother let play her piano because Mom made me take lessons. I was showing Ashley the lame song I'd been practicing.” She glanced at Heath. “Also, Uncle Ramsey was stomping around a good bit. He said Grandmother was going to be late for her doctor's appointment.”

Branigan knew the police had checked out the appointment, confirming that Mrs Resnick and Ramsey had been in the doctor's office from 11 a.m. until 12:25 p.m.

Caroline tucked her hair behind an ear and continued. “We didn't even get to the club until nearly lunchtime and stayed a long time. It was Friday of a holiday weekend, so it was crowded. By 4 or 4:15, we were starving. We'd skipped lunch because of those pancakes. So we tied our towels around our waists and walked to Grandmother's.”

The police had walked the distance from Peach Orchard Country Club to Mrs Resnick's house, and the girls' twenty-minute walk checked out.

Caroline hesitated a moment, her confidence wavering. Branigan looked up, but didn't speak.

Heath spoke first. “You have to realize, Branigan, that Caroline — and Ashley too — were quite traumatized by what they saw. We had the girls in therapy for some time afterward. They had nightmares, maybe even PTSD.”

“I'm really sorry to bring it up again,” Branigan said.

Caroline barely nodded. “It was just so awful.”

“Can you tell me about the kitchen door?”

Heath and Davison looked at her.

“The top panes were broken,” Caroline said promptly. “We noticed it right away, but didn't really think about a break-in, you know? Ashley and I talked later about why we weren't scared at that point. But we just weren't thinking along those lines.

“We pushed the door open because it was unlocked. Unlatched even. There was shattered glass and a rock on the kitchen floor. And there was Grandmother, with Dollie sitting beside her, whining. And blood. So much blood.” She drew in a fractured breath.

“Ashley screamed. And we both just turned and ran. Mr Carnes was cutting his grass next door. You know how Grandmother's front yard was. . . exposed at the street, but secluded on the sides and back. But we could hear the lawn-mower through the hedges. We ran into the street, then into his yard.

“We'd seen Mr Carnes the night before — at the party. We both jumped all over him, climbing up his body just about. He hustled us in his side door, practically shoving us at his wife. And he ran to Grandmother's.”

“When you say you noticed the broken panes right away,” Branigan said, “was there glass on the outside? Or only the inside?”

Caroline closed her eyes, as if recreating the scene in her mind. “Outside too,” she said. “I remember my flip-flops crunching on some before we ever pushed the door.”

“Why do you ask that?” said Heath.

Branigan stared at him evenly. “Because a rock thrown from outside would leave glass only inside. Glass on the outside could mean the crime scene was staged to look like a break-in.”

Heath's mouth tightened, but Caroline's widened in horror. “But... but... that would mean...”

“It would mean that your grandmother was killed by someone she knew.”

Heath's eyes narrowed. “Are we through, Branigan?”

“Did you want to talk here?” she asked. “Or make an appointment back in Grambling?”

He glanced at his daughter. “Call my office,” he said. “I think Caroline has had enough for one day.”

Davison and Branigan said awkward goodbyes. Davison remained silent until they rounded the curve at the Methodist church.