The Cantaloupe Thief (35 page)

As she left the police station, she had another thought — one that explained the switch from vehicular homicide to Max's cutting death. What if Heath had paid Max to kill his mother, then run down Vesuvius and Rita? Then the two conspirators could have got into an argument that ended in Max's murder. She wished she had more time before the story ran.

But waiting, she reminded herself, hadn't worked so far.

 

Branigan drove to the newsroom and spent a couple of hours putting the final touches on the anniversary story. She gave it to Tan to read, with the understanding she might make changes as she got more information from Detective Scovoy.

A lot of the story was color and rehashing. Unlike Branigan, readers hadn't been thinking of this murder every moment for the last few weeks. They needed to be brought up to speed on the players and the places. The facts alone made a compelling read, whether reporters had anything new or not. Add the reopening of the investigation, Amanda's tampering with the crime scene and the possible ancillary murders of three homeless people, and it became a real news piece.

Normally at this point in a big story, Branigan felt exhilaration. Now there was none, and she knew why. Her nosing around might have led to important new information, but it had also led to the deaths of two people, possibly three.

She abruptly left the office. It was almost time for Rita's memorial service.

 

Branigan slipped quietly into a back row in Jericho Road's dining hall, rearranged for a funeral service. About eighty people were present, the majority of them homeless, but others drawn because of the newspaper coverage. An older man, two women and three children in the front row appeared to be Jones family members, presumably from Atlanta. Detective Scovoy and two other homicide detectives were intentionally scattered among the crowd, undoubtedly to see if they could glean anything new on the murder.

A robed gospel quartet opened with an a cappella version of “I'll Fly Away”, followed by “May the Circle Be Unbroken”. Branigan recognized the singers from Jericho Road's Sunday services, their voices sweet and clear.

The woman she assumed was Rita's sister read next from the fourteenth chapter of John's Gospel. Then Liam stood and launched his remarks from that passage: “In My Father's house there are many dwelling places... I go to prepare a place for you.”

Liam spoke for awhile about the Christian understanding of death as the beginning of a new time with the Lord. He read from Romans that “neither death nor life nor angels nor rulers nor things present nor things to come... will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus”.

Then he paused. “I hardly know how to continue,” he said finally. “This is one of those situations when an earthly life was filled with unbearable pain. And while I truly believe that Rita is in a better place now, I also carry a burden that this church failed her while she lived, that we were unable to ease that pain.”

Branigan heard several “amens”. The older woman in the first row began to cry into a handkerchief.

“The fact is Rita had a monkey on her back,” Liam said. “I know we don't always like to talk about addiction at a memorial service, but to deny it is ludicrous. Her body and mind were racked with this disease of addiction. But even that is no explanation for the fact that she was killed by a van from this church. This church charged with living out the gospel somehow failed to do that. That is the nature of things on this side of the cross.

“And so I urge any of you who have information about Rita's death to please share that information with police officers who have set up an office here. We want justice for our friend. We want to honor her in death in a way we failed to do during her life.”

The quartet rose and, singing “Amazing Grace”, led mourners from the dining hall.

 

After the service, Branigan drove to an inner-city park built around a waterfall. It was a small place, bursting with day lilies and hostas and waterside ferns. For awhile, she simply sat on the grass, images crowding her mind — how confused Vesuvius must have felt when headlights bore down on him. What Rita's frightened face must have looked like in her last moments. What Max must have felt as the life drained from him.

She knew she needed to get back to the newsroom, but her stomach was clinched and her throat sore from unshed tears. She sat another few minutes, then rose on leaden legs.

In the newsroom, she looked over Tan's questions and comments, expanding some sections, shifting and tightening others as he suggested. She planned to return Saturday morning to deal with any final edits.

She then took a look at Jody's story, which was basically a recounting of the investigation into the hit-and-runs of Vesuvius and Rita by the Jericho Road van. Detective Scovoy had assigned two detectives to conduct interviews at the shelter, while he delved into the reopened Resnick case. Tips from the public were also streaming in to the police hotline. Branigan offered Jody a paragraph on Rita's memorial service, and he wove it into his story.

Then she read Marjorie's story, which was an insightful piece on homelessness in Grambling. She touched on the deaths of Vesuvius, Rita and Max, but talked more about the people no one else was talking about — the people still living under the Garner Bridge, in abandoned Randall Mill houses, in Eastside encampments. The impression the story gave was of disposable lives. You wouldn't expect it in the United States, but here it was. Every society, Branigan supposed, had its throwaways.

She stared for awhile at the photographs that would accompany their articles, including one of Rita's shack on the ledge under the Michael Garner Bridge.

She remembered finding her brother there, and shuddered to think of the things he'd seen during twelve years of homelessness.
But all that's over,
she told herself.
He's getting sober. He'll meet Chan tomorrow. Maybe he'll stay at the farm for awhile after rehab. Maybe we'll go back to the beach before summer's over.

She pushed Marjorie's story from her mind, and drove toward home.

 

On an impulse, she turned into Uncle Bobby and Aunt Jeanie's driveway. Visitors were rare in the country, so Jeanie heard the car and was waiting at her kitchen door.

“Where've you been?” she greeted Branigan. “Your mama said Davison left on Monday.”

“He did, but I've been too busy to get by. Let me get my wine out of your way.”

Jeanie helped load one box into the trunk, and Branigan realized she didn't feel like going home. “Aunt Jeanie, would you like to have a glass of wine?”

“Hon, I'd love to, but your uncle and I are going to the Grambling Little Theatre tonight. You have no idea how long it took me to talk him into it.”

Branigan laughed. “Oh yes, I do. Next time, invite me. I love live theater.”

“You better believe I will. Bobby will be whining to leave at intermission.”

Branigan packed the second box of wine and liquor into the Civic trunk and pulled out of the driveway. A quarter-mile down the road, she turned into her own.

For one of the few times since she'd moved back to the farm, she felt lonely. A long Friday evening stretched before her. She'd always loved these long days, the march to the summer solstice. But with no one to share them with, they were just that: long days.

At the sound of the car, Cleo ambled from the back porch, undoubtedly having been sleeping in its shade. That gave Branigan an idea.

After bringing in the boxes, she pulled on her running clothes and tied her hair into a ponytail. But instead of running, she retrieved an old CD/radio/cassette player out of the guest room closet. This boom box had traveled with her from Grambling to Athens to Detroit and back. She rifled through a canvas tote filled with CDs, and came up with the beach music she and Davison had heard last weekend at the Isle of Palms: The Tams, Drifters, Chairmen of the Board.

Carrying them to the back porch, she plugged the player in and turned it up loud. No one to disturb out here.

She'd thought to pour a glass of pinot noir, but at the sight of her newly returned rum, she had a better idea. She rummaged through the freezer and found a can of pina colada mix she'd purchased as soon as the weather warmed in April. She located her well-used blender and added the mix, rum and crushed ice from the freezer door. The final touch was a straw and a paper umbrella in pink and yellow and green. Soon she was sitting on the porch, feet up, listening to “Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy” and gazing across the cotton field, the pasture, the lakes — her favorite view in the world.

She was doing her best to release the ache in her chest.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

The Delaneys were gathered in their funky black and white tiled kitchen with the red appliances and cabinet pulls. The 1930s feel ran throughout the house, but this room had been the most fun for Liz. Visitors often requested that she recreate the color scheme in their homes.

Remnants of salad, spaghetti and garlic bread littered the table. Liam had left Dontegan in charge of the church's pizza night.

“I'm only sorry,” Liz was telling her son again, “that you went through this alone for the past month. We never intended that.”

“If family is nothing else,” Liam added, “we're the people who have your back. Always.”

“I know,” said Chan. “That's why these past few weeks have been hard. It was exciting to meet Davison, but it didn't feel right — you not knowing. Charlie convinced me of that.”

“I wonder why he didn't want us to know,” Liz said. “Do you think he was worried about being ganged up on? I mean, with all four of us staring at him?”

“I think he wanted some clean time behind him,” Chan answered. “He wanted you to know he was serious.”

“Could be.” Liam shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the whole thing will be easier now. I'll call him to set up a time for tomorrow.”

“I have his cell number, if you need it,” said Chan.

“Branigan said he can only answer between eight and nine at night,” Liam said. “But I know the director and counselors at the mission. They may let me talk to him.”

Liam scanned his cell phone directory. He nodded to Chan when the assistant director came on the line. He explained that he needed to talk to a client in the rehab program, or at least to leave a message: for Davison Powers.

“Liam, we don't have a Davison Powers,” said his colleague.

“His sister, Branigan Powers, checked him in Monday morning.”

“Hold on. I can look at Monday's check-ins.”

He was back in less than a minute. “You're right. We did check a Davison Powers in Monday at 8 a.m. But he walked out before lunch the same day.”

 

Liam put his phone down on the table. “He's not in the mission,” he said tonelessly.

“Sure he is,” Chan said. “I talked to him every night this week.”

“On his cell?”

“Oh,” Chan said, the color draining from his face. “Yeah.”

“You mean, he didn't even try?” asked Charlie, looking from Chan to her father. “He didn't even try to get sober?”

Liz shot a look at her daughter.

“No, it's okay, Mom,” said Chan, though the look on his face belied it. “He lied about getting clean.”

He shook his head, trying to understand this new information, trying to understand how everything he'd learned over the past few weeks was shifting beneath his feet. “He lied about getting clean,” he repeated.

He drew in a ragged breath. “There's one more thing I need to tell you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Two strong pina coladas later, Branigan was feeling fine. She didn't want to run, but the thought of Cleo pacing through the night, unexercised, persuaded her.

“Okay, girl, let's do it,” she said. “Though I'm not sure why you can't run during the day without me.”

Cleo thumped her tail.

They set off down the path through the cotton field, avoiding the barn and rolling under the barbed wire and into the pasture, vacant now of Uncle Bobby's cattle. Branigan guessed he'd moved them onto his adjoining land. She never could keep up with their coming and going, and suspected there wasn't a lot of science behind it. Maybe more to do with keeping out of Aunt Jeanie's hair.

She giggled. They trotted past the lake and woods where she and Jason Hornay had enjoyed more than one wine-soaked picnic and make-out session, back when her grandparents were living here. She turned maudlin. “Hey, Jason!” she yelled. “Whatever happened to you? I hope it was worth losing me!”

Cleo stopped and looked at her mistress, cocking her head. “That's right, Cleo! You heard me!”

She finally stopped her chortling and began to run. The pina coladas sloshed in her empty stomach, but the fresh air sobered her up a bit. They ran about three-quarters of their regular course, which was all Branigan could manage. On the way back, they passed the barn. That's when she got the idea.

At the house, she ate a bagel and shredded cheese, as much to convince herself she was sober as because she was hungry. She didn't bother showering, but did change clothes — into a black T-shirt, black sweat pants and gray tennis shoes. After a few moments in front of a mirror, she covered her blond hair with a navy scarf.

She saw a message from Liam on her phone, but didn't take the time to return it. She'd be back in plenty of time to call him tonight.

 

Branigan's only moment of doubt came when she turned on the outside lights and left the house — locking Cleo inside. The dog didn't like that one bit. Her indignant bark followed Branigan halfway through the cotton patch before dissolving into the dusk. She slipped into the barn, which was already fully dark inside, and used a flashlight to locate the ladder at the far end. This took her to a broad shelf that provided a ceiling for the cattle stalls. It was Uncle Bobby's area for hay storage, and there was plenty of it up here. She shifted several bales around until she could see through the cracks to the floor below while remaining unseen.