The Cantaloupe Thief (20 page)

“Sure.” Flipping her notebook open, she added, “I need to talk to Jess, Max Brody, Dontegan, Malachi, Rita and Demetrius. Will they be around?”

“Maybe Jess and Dontegan. The others don't live here. I can give you a schedule of the week's meals where you might find them.”

“Okay. See you in awhile.”

Branigan spent much of the morning answering phone calls and emails about the story on Vesuvius and his father that had run Sunday. Tanenbaum Grambling stopped by her desk to tell her it was Sunday's most-read story, and that
The Rambler
's website had logged forty-two comments.

“That answers our question about interest in homelessness,” he said. “Pitch me your ideas for where you want to head next.”

She left the office at 11:15, hoping to catch Jess and Dontegan before meeting Liam for lunch. She was surprised to find the Jericho Road parking lot filled, then remembered that Monday morning was the mission's grocery distribution day. Liam had arranged pick-ups of dented and otherwise unsalable canned goods from three grocery chains. Families, urban and rural, could come once a month and shop in the free “grocery store” set up on one long wall behind the dining room. Many of Liam's homeless residents volunteered to serve coffee and load car trunks. But many of these cars belonged to community volunteers who wanted to be part of the ministry as well. Liam's staff had trained them as intake workers, shopping assistants, prayer counselors, and appointment takers for the nurses and attorneys who volunteered their time. In addition, Jericho Road's mental health worker and social worker took walk-ins on Monday mornings.

“People come for groceries,” she'd heard Liam say in speeches. “But they're met with transformational help.”

She spotted Dontegan as soon as she parked; he rolled two boxes of groceries in a red metal wagon, then hoisted them into the trunk of a rusting car with no hubcaps. Two Hispanic women and at least six children piled into the car.

Sometimes, she supposed, groceries were enough.

Dontegan greeted her with a wave. “Pastuh told me to take a break when you come,” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “Gotta say I'm glad you here.”

Dontegan led her through the dining hall, where she was surprised to see Ramsey Resnick seated at one of the tables along the back wall.

“Is Mr Resnick a volunteer?” she asked.

Dontegan followed her gaze. “Oh, yeah, Mr Ramsey. He teach a finance class. And he pray with people.”

Dontegan ushered her into a small office furnished with two armchairs and a battered end table. He waited expectantly.

“I think Pastor Liam already mentioned the story I'm working on,” she started. “It's about an old woman who was stabbed to death in her home, downtown, ten years ago this summer. As you know, very few murders in Grambling go unsolved. But this one has flat-out stumped the police. So much so that Chief Warren didn't even mind us looking into it — which is saying something.”

Dontegan gave every sign of listening intently.

“Of course, we covered the investigation for months at the time,” she continued. “The police were thorough. They interviewed every family member, every service worker, every neighbor, every conceivable person who had a connection to Alberta Resnick. That was the lady's name. But there was one detail that never made sense. The killer took Mrs Resnick's car and abandoned it right outside in your parking lot.”

Dontegan's eyes widened. “Our church parkin' lot?”

“Yes, but it wasn't a church back then. It was an empty building. But if you remember, there were homeless people living in it.”

“Oh, yeah. I slept here sometimes.”

“You did? Did the police question you?”

He shook his head.

“Must have been a different time frame then. The police always thought there was a possibility that the crime was random, a burglary gone wrong. And they thought it possible that it was committed by a transient who left Grambling immediately. They looked hard at the three homeless people they found camping in here. But there was nothing as far as evidence, nothing at all. And the killer would have been blood-spattered. Plus, those three passed lie detector tests. Police speculated that if it was a transient, he left the car, hopped on a bus or train, and never went back inside the building.”

Dontegan was nodding. “But Miz Branigan, they's another way to look at that car business.”

“And what's that?”

“That someone
wanted
the po-lice to think it was a homeless dude.”

She paused for a minute. “You're right. That is one possibility. But what I wanted to ask you is what you told Pastor Liam about a woman named Rita. Could you tell me that story?”

“You know Rita?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well, she a mean one. Real bad temper. Always yellin' about why no womens sleep here. I know bein' on the streets is hard on womens, harder than on mens even, but it's not like I can change the rules and give her a bed.” He spread his hands apologetically.

“Of course not.”

“Anyway, before Pastuh opened beds at Jericho Road, I had me a tent under the bridge where I stay. Late one night, Rita came under there, all staggerin' and cryin'. I felt bad for her, so I told her she could stay in my tent and I'd move my sleepin' bag outside.”

“That was nice of you.”

“It was a warm night,” he said, grinning. “Cooler outside the tent than in it. Anyway, she say okay, but she kept cryin' and kinda crashin' around inside the tent. I be a little scared she gonna knock it down.

“Then she came out with a can of malt likker and sat out where I be tryin' to sleep. Finally she kinda run down and was mutterin' before she pass out. That's when she say it.”

Branigan waited.

“She say, ‘I don' need your stinkin' tent. I could be rich if I wanna be.' I kinda laughed. That made her mad enough to wake up. She say, ‘I tell about Ol' High and Mighty gettin' her nasty self stab, I be off these streets and on Easy Street.'”

“That's a colorful way of putting it,” Branigan said.

“Yes, ma'am. I think that's why I remember it so long.”

“When was this, Dontegan? Do you remember?”

“Nah. I know it was a year or two before Pastuh opened Jericho. I was the first one to move in. I helped with all the work.”

She nodded, preoccupied with the thought that Rita might actually know something. She needed to find her. Today.

 

* * * 

 

Dontegan and Branigan walked back into the dining hall, where grocery boxes were dwindling. Only a few stragglers were left, waiting for their names to be called to see an intake worker.

Branigan asked Dontegan to point out Jess. He pointed to a neatly dressed white man who was wheeling a large coffee urn into the kitchen. She'd mistaken him for one of the partner church volunteers. She introduced herself and asked Jess if she could ask him questions while he worked.

“Sure,” he said, closing the kitchen door to give them privacy. “Pastor Liam told me you were coming.”

“First, if you don't mind my asking, do you live here in the shelter?”

“You're thinking I don't look like it?” he said, smiling.

“Or sound like it.”

“Believe me, Miss Powers, addiction is no respecter of race or education or anything else. I grew up in Oklahoma. Had a good family. Went to college. But when I insisted on smoking marijuana instead of going to class, my father stopped paying. I don't blame him.”

“Smoking marijuana in college is a long way from living in a homeless shelter.”

He shrugged. “Not as long as you might think. Once I dropped out, I started working in restaurants and hanging out with people who were doing harder stuff. Coke. Heroin. Then when I got laid off, some of the cheaper stuff. Crack mostly. It doesn't take long to start smoking up the rent money.”

“What brought you to Georgia?”

“Work. Everything dried up in the Midwest during the recession, so I joined a carnival. First night we pulled into Grambling, I was helping put up a tent. My buddy dropped one of those huge poles on my foot. Broke eight bones. I couldn't work, the carnival moved on, and I was stuck. I'm trying to get disability.”

“From what I've heard about Max Brody, you don't sound like you'd be hanging around him.”

Jess laughed. “You got that right. We're
not
friends. But I still have a beer from time to time. I'm trying to stay away from the hard stuff, but I can handle my alcohol.”

She knew Liam disagreed with this line of thinking, but she wasn't Jess's counselor. Or his pastor. She remained silent.

“Anyway, this was on the first night of that Thursday outdoor music series last month. You know what I'm talking about?”

She nodded. The city closed off half of Main Street on Thursdays, starting in mid-May. Bands played on a stage set up in front of the courthouse, and beer vendors sold beer and wine from trucks.

“I'd worked day labor that day, so I had fifty bucks in my pocket. That beer truck was calling my name. Apparently, Max saw me pay for one, and he came over, already drunk. I thought, ‘Uh-oh, he's going to ask for money.' But instead, he pulled out a pretty thick wad of cash and bought his own.

“I didn't know anybody else there, so we sort of stood together, listening to the band. Max got another beer, then another one. I wasn't sure how long he could stay upright. I was still working on my first one when he got his third. He held it up, as if he were toasting, and said something like, ‘This evening's drunk is courtesy of an ol' lady who had the good sense to get stabbed.' Or ‘good taste to get stabbed'. Something like that.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Or maybe, ‘What?' But he didn't say anything else; just kind of swayed, then plopped down on the curb. He was wasted. I honestly didn't think any more about it until Pastor Liam told us about that unsolved murder. When he said ‘old lady' and ‘stabbing', I was like ‘Whoa! What are the odds that could be a coincidence?'”

“Where can I find Max Brody?”

Jess shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Here when we're serving breakfast or dinner. St James during breakfast. Covenant Methodist sometimes at dinner. Library. Bridge. Main Street. Day labor places.”

“If you see him, will you tell him I'm looking for him?”

“Sure thing.”

 

Liam needed to make a pickup after lunch, so he and Branigan planned to take the Jericho Road van to Marshall's, the diner beside Resnick Drugs on Main Street. As they got in the old van, Branigan smelled the distinctive odor of bleach.

“Do you bleach the inside after you bring in groceries?” she asked.

“Heck no,” Liam said. “What
is
that? My eyes are watering.”

He climbed out and walked in a circle around the van. “The smell is stronger up here around the front bumper. It's got some more dings in it too. I guess one of the staff hit something and was trying to fix it before I saw it.”

“But why would they bleach it?” she asked. “That's weird.”

“Haven't a clue.”

They opened the windows for the short ride to Marshall's. After they were seated and had Marshall's meat loaf, macaroni and cheese, green beans and fried squash in front of them, they compared notes. Malachi and Dontegan's nearly identical stories of a drunken Rita talking about a rich lady who was murdered were promising. So was Jess's story about Max Brody saying something very similar.

“I gotta tell you,” Branigan said, “I thought this whole idea of a transient killing Mrs Resnick was a shot in the dark. Now I'm almost wondering if Rita could've killed her.”

Liam was startled enough to stop mid-bite. “Not really?”

“Well, she certainly sounds familiar with everything, doesn't she? Maybe she did it, and the guilt drove her crazy. Or maybe she's doing drugs to ease the guilt.”

“I think you're veering into fiction,” Liam said.

“Either way, I've
got
to find her this afternoon. I'll try the bridge and the library. If she's not at one of those, Covenant Methodist has supper at 5 o'clock. Right?”

“Plus, you could try the bus station,” Liam suggested. “Sometimes she panhandles there. But if you really suspect her, Brani G, you need to make sure you talk to her out in the open.”

“Nah, I don't really. The police said the stab wounds were made by a person taller than Mrs Resnick. She was at least five seven. So little Rita couldn't have done it unless she was standing on a stool.”

Liam drank from his sweet tea. “There's something else that's bothering me,” he said. “What you said about Max having a wad of cash. Where did that come from?”

“Day labor?”

“That would never be a ‘wad' unless it was in dollar bills. And who pays in dollar bills? What if it wasn't a transient who did the murder? What if it was a transient who
saw
the murder?”

She mused. “And someone else, someone with money, is trying to buy silence?”

They thought for a few minutes.

“You know,” she said, “now that you mention it, there was another story about money showing up unexpectedly. Malachi told me that Vesuvius had a little windfall from selling a painting. But then the same painting showed up in a trash pile under the bridge. And Vesuvius ended up dead.”

“You're confusing me,” Liam said. “Back to Rita. There are two ways to look at what she said. She could think she'd ‘get rich' or live ‘on Easy Street' by solving the case. You know, get a reward from the Resnicks. The other way is to blackmail them. How did Malachi put it? She thought the ‘rich-ass family would pay to keep it quiet'.”

“That puts us back to square one. The family.”