The Cantaloupe Thief by Deb Richardson-Moore Page A

“As Mom would say, ‘Bless your heart.’”
    â€œYes, it needs blessing,” she agreed.
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    She worked for another hour. Before heading to Bea’s to pick up Davison, she drove to the Grambling Farmers’ Market, an open-air, tin-roofed series of stalls located several blocks off South Main. Operating daily nine months a year, it was the spot to get fresh flowers and vegetables, as well as home-baked breads, jams, milk, eggs, cheese and other goodies from local farmers.
    Branigan loved the smell of the place, due primarily to the aromatic cantaloupes in a giant bin next to the watermelons. One August in Detroit, she’d stumbled into a farmers’ market. Walking down its concrete-floored aisle, she was suddenly transported to Gran and Pa’s farmhouse. Her heart swelled, and she looked around to see what had brought on the wave of homesickness. Sure enough, it was cantaloupes, their heady scent mimicking the smell of Gran’s kitchen. After that, she spent many a Saturday wandering the aisles of the giant market, always starting and ending by the melons. More than once, she went back to her apartment and booked a flight home.
    Now she enjoyed a sniff, but she had arranged for the same smell to waft through her kitchen window. She selected half a pound of green beans to cook for Davison, then picked up some strawberries as well. She handed a ten-dollar bill to the clerk, a woman with a tight brown perm and fat arms straining at a sleeveless blouse. The woman took the bill, glancing behind Branigan. She felt an unfamiliar prickle on the back of her neck.
    She turned, but no one was there.
    Turning back to the woman for change, Branigan saw her eyes dart behind her again.
    â€œWhat?” she asked.
    â€œThem homeless,” the clerk muttered.
    Branigan glanced back and saw a couple standing in the shade just inside the shed, telltale knapsacks on their backs. The woman caught Branigan’s eye and smiled. Branigan saw the man edge away from his partner, toward the parking lot.
    â€œThey gonna ask you for money,” the clerk said. “Can’t keep ’em away.”
    â€œI thought you provided leftover produce at the end of the day.”
    â€œWe do. They’s a crate over there we fill with stuff too ripe to sell. It can get pretty full around 6 o’clock.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what they’re waiting for.”
    The clerk looked at Branigan skeptically. “Yeah, you come tell me that after you get to your car.”
    Branigan gathered her produce and purse. She didn’t feel like being panhandled, so she walked down the shed’s interior, pretending to look at the marigolds and petunias. When she could see her Civic through the open side, she veered and made straight for it.
    As she pressed her remote entry button, the homeless woman stepped from the shade, startling her. Branigan looked around for the woman’s partner, but didn’t see him. She wondered if he was behind her, but she didn’t want the woman to catch her looking.
    The woman was short, with thin legs and a protruding stomach. She wore a yellow kerchief over dyed black hair. Tattoos ran up both arms. She smiled, revealing a missing eyetooth.
    She started right in. “Ma’am, my husband and I just arrived in town for construction jobs, but my cousin, who was supposed to hire us, never picked us up from the bus station, and now we’re stranded. Could you give us a few dollars for a motel room tonight? Tomorrow, we’ll work day labor and get a room and bus tickets home.”
    Branigan listened politely, dread settling in her stomach. It would be easy to give the woman a few dollars, but Liam had convinced her it was the wrong thing to do. Panhandling was the method for getting drugs and alcohol, he said, almost never meals and shelter.
    â€œHave you been to the Salvation Army or the Rescue Mission?” she asked. “They