The Cantaloupe Thief by Deb Richardson-Moore Page B

have women’s shelters.”
    â€œYou have to wait in line,” the woman said smoothly, “and we couldn’t, because we were trying to find work.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but no,” Branigan said. “I give to the Rescue Mission and Jericho Road. They’re set up to help.”
    â€œWe’ll go there tomorrow,” the woman said, a whine creeping into her voice, “but we need enough money to eat and get a motel room tonight.”
    â€œJericho Road is serving dinner,” Branigan said, getting into the Civic and feeling terrible. She shut the car door, but the woman didn’t stop talking. Since the window was down an inch, she could hear her continuing monologue.
    â€œWe’re not asking you to pay the whole $39 for a room, just $5 or $10.” The smile remained fixed on her face, but it was looking more like a grimace. The woman’s partner suddenly loomed in Branigan’s rearview mirror, blocking her exit. She wanted to lock her doors, but was embarrassed for them to hear the click. “You never know when you might need help yourself.”
    Branigan looked up sharply to see the woman’s dark eyes boring into hers. Did she really say that? Her discomfort rising, she glanced to see if anyone else was around.
    At that moment, a farmer came out of the market, carrying a load of unsold corn that he placed in his truck bed. He looked silently from the woman to the man. Without a word, they turned and hurried across the parking lot. The farmer met Branigan’s eyes, gave an almost imperceptible nod, and walked back into the market.
    Unsettled by the encounter, Branigan drove quickly to Bea’s, unsure if she was feeling guilt or menace. She wanted to help people, but didn’t want to play into their scams.
    She found Davison where she’d left him, at an outdoor table with an iced tea and a Rambler. “Ready to go?”
    â€œReady,” he said, standing to stretch.
    â€œHow are you set for clothes?”
    â€œI’d love to chuck everything in this backpack.”
    â€œWant to run by Dad’s and get some things?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think I’m ready for that. Could we go to the Salvation Army store? I have a little money.”
    â€œWhere’d you get it?”
    â€œDay labor.”
    She drove to the thrift store located a few blocks from Jericho Road. The Salvation Army kept it clean and well ordered so that customers from the Eastside sought it out. Charlie and Chan had put together Halloween costumes here. Davison and Branigan entered the cavernous space. He headed to the men’s clothes racks, and she found a table stacked with paperbacks. She rummaged idly until she found a novel by Anita Shreve she hadn’t read, and seized it for a dollar. She was searching for another when she heard her name. She jumped, and looked up to see Malachi Martin on the other side of the table. He had come up so quietly she hadn’t heard him.
    â€œYou still workin’ on a story about that hit-and-run?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    â€œYou know the pitcher I was talkin’ about that Vesuvius sold? I found it buried in a trash pile under the bridge.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œI told you V sol’ a paintin’ with that black V in the corner, right?” he explained patiently. “He said he sol’ it to a homeless dude. This afternoon, I thought I saw a bottle with somethin’ still in it stickin’ out the trash pile. So I went to pull it out. And under it was that paintin’ V sold. I remembered, ’cause it hung in Pastor Liam’s lunchroom a long time.”
    At that moment, Davison walked up, a pile of shorts, pants and shirts folded over one arm. Malachi eyed the clothes and narrowed his eyes, but didn’t speak.
    Davison broke the silence. “I’m moving in with my sister for a few nights.”
    Malachi simply nodded and walked off.
    â€œThanks,