The Cantaloupe Thief

by Deb Richardson-Moore

  Rita Mae counted Ben Jr’s trips to the bars, matching him drink for drink. But four hardly affected her; at thirty-two she had built up considerably more tolerance.

  When Ben took drink number five and stumbled down the porch steps, she followed, around the side yard, across the parking area and onto the overgrown path leading to the pool. She heard him drop his drink and curse. She covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  She remained in the shadows while Ben Jr crashed through a bathroom window in the rear of the pool house, giggling again at his ungainly head-first entrance while his butt and legs dangled outside. Through the open window, she could hear him opening and shutting drawers, bumping into furniture, mumbling to himself. Then she was startled by a sharp rap on the front door. Though she was far out of sight behind the pool house, she crouched instinctively.

  She couldn’t make out the conversation between Ben and another man, but it didn’t last long. The other man left. Rita Mae sidled around the house to find Ben stretched out on a lounge chair at the pool’s edge.

  “Hi,” she said brightly. He didn’t even startle, but opened one eye lazily. “Well, hi,” he said, openly taking in her tight capris, halter top and tanned shoulders. “Were you — are you — at the party?” he asked, sitting up.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Well, things are looking up,” he said. “I’m Ben.”

  “And I’m Rita Mae. You got anything stronger than your grandma’s bourbon?”

  He blinked. “As a matter of fact, I do. You ever smoke crack?”

  “No-o-o,” she said slowly. “I prefer powder.”

  “I saw something,” he said, and stood. She followed him through the dim interior of a recreation room and into a bedroom. He pulled open a bureau drawer and extracted a crack pipe and a cloth bag. She had never tried cocaine in crack form, but she’d seen it smoked a few times.

  “Got a lighter?” she asked. Ben scrambled further in the drawer and found a cheap one, encased in blue plastic. He thrust his hand into the far corner and came up with a tarnished spoon.

  “Well, you’ve got everything we need,” she said, gathering the paraphernalia and walking back to the pool, her hips swinging a little more than necessary. She placed a rock in the spoon and lit a flame under it. “Get ready to fly, big boy.”

  The high was incredible, intense and warm and multicolored. It was the best twenty minutes of Rita Mae’s life. When she came down, dreamy and satisfied, she saw that Ben Jr had fallen asleep on the lounger.

  Big party man, indeed. There are more rocks in that drawer, I do believe, she thought, so she walked back through the pool house and opened the bureau. She placed the cloth bag in her pocket for later, took out a single rock and fired up again.

  This time she didn’t bother going back to the pool, but simply lay back on the bed. Perhaps this one was a bit short of the first high, but it was still darned good. She closed her eyes and drifted away.

  * * *

  Ben woke with a start, his brother Drew shaking him, and his rat cousins Caroline and Ashley dancing around like idiots. Two more kids he’d never seen were with them. “Ben’s drunk!” they squealed, laughing uproariously.

  Drew was hardly better. “Get up, man. You don’t want Mom’s wrath tonight.”

  The rat cousins and their friends leaped into the pool, screeching madly. Drew jumped in right behind them, calling for Ben. He got to his feet. Wait a minute. Where was that woman? He’d better hide any evidence of the crack before his loud-mouthed cousins saw it.

  He walked back into the pool house, seeing more clearly because the lights were on. “Rita Mae?” he whispered. In the bedroom, he could see that the old chenille spread was wrinkled. There was a lump where the spread met the floor. He lifted it to find Rita Mae’s strappy sandals. She must have left barefoot. He opened the drawer and saw immediately that she’d taken everything else — the pipe, the cloth bag, even the damn lighter.

  All that was left was the tarnished spoon.

  Ben walked back outside, but made it no further than the flower bed beside the front door before a wave of nausea hit. He threw up a good bit of the evening’s bourbon.

  After five minutes, he felt better and cannonballed into the pool, setting off a cacophony of squeals among the young teens. He hadn’t been in there two minutes when Drew held a brown snake above his head and flung it into the bushes. The ensuing screams from the rat cousins were ear-splitting; that was pretty much it for any further swimming.

  As Ben toweled off and dressed, he peered into the jungle that was his grandmother’s back yard. Where had the lovely and adventurous Rita Mae gone? Was she watching him still?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PRESENT DAY

  At the farmhouse on Monday morning, Branigan woke before the alarm went off. Cleo wasn’t on her pillow beside the bed.

  She padded into the den in bare feet. Davison was dressed and sitting on the couch, the Burberry bag packed on the floor at his feet. Cleo sat with her head in his lap.

  Branigan’s heart pinched, as it had so often over the weekend. He looked like a little boy, anxious about camp.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

  He smiled nervously. “Just ready to get this over with.”

  “We can’t check in until eight,” she said, putting on the coffee. “Want to watch cartoons?”

  That got a laugh out of him.

  She stirred up a pot of grits, which they shared along with coffee, toast and the newspaper. When it was time to leave, he buried his face in Cleo’s neck. Branigan thought he might be crying, but when he raised his face it was dry.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They drove in silence to the Grambling Rescue Mission. He didn’t want her to come inside, so when they pulled into the parking lot, he kissed her on the cheek.

  “Wish me luck,” he said shakily.

  On impulse, she said, “What would you think if I prayed for you? Too weird?”

  He looked at her oddly. “You’ve been around Liam too long.”

  “I know. But it’s something I want to do.” He shrugged, so she started. “God, please watch over my brother. That’s all I ask. Amen.”

  “Don’t quit your day job,” Davison said, but he was smiling. He tossed the Burberry bag over one shoulder and walked into the mission.

  Branigan drove to the newspaper office feeling unsettled. From long experience, she knew work would help. As soon as she sat down, she placed two calls — one to Ben Brissey Jr in New York City, and one to Liam. She left a message for Ben Jr that she needed a phone interview to follow up on something his cousin Ashley had told her. Liam answered his phone.

  “Just calling to confirm lunch,” she said. After hearing Liam’s assent, she paused. “I dropped Davison at the mission this morning. I found him sitting on the couch at sunrise with his clothes all packed. I don’t think he slept at all.”

  “How was it?”

  “Sad. I enjoyed having him at the farm all week. And then the beach trip was good. A little deep at times, but good.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Liam said. “Those guys at the mission know what they’re doing. You know what I always say.”

  “I know. I know. ‘If Charlie or Chan were on drugs, that’s where I’d put them.’ I do listen to you, you know.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier. He’s out of touch for awhile, right?”

  “Right. No visits the first week. But they do allow cell phone calls one hour each night, so we’ll be able to talk. I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

  “It’s the best thing,” Liam repeated. “Want to come here at noon?”

  “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?’”