The Cantaloupe Thief Read Online Free Page A

for the basics, much less mental health care.”
    Branigan knew this was why Liam had been so determined to hire a mental health counselor as soon as he could raise the money.
    â€œDamn,” she said, then repeated a question she’d asked him a dozen times. “Doesn’t this work break your heart?”
    Liam shrugged, held his palms up. “It probably should. But this stuff comes so fast and so often, it mostly washes right over you.” He smiled apologetically. “But I did think the angle of father and son dying the same way was a story that cried out for the Brani G touch. You can talk to Dontegan more if you need to. And anybody else.” He finished his bagel and tossed the wax paper into a trashcan as Dontegan left. “V was well liked,” Liam added. “He ran the laundry room most weekends.”
    â€œOkay,” she said, “I’ll try to flesh it out with your men and the Hightower family, and have it ready to run Sunday.”
    Liam picked up his coffee. “Now, how can I help you?”
    â€œYou remember the Resnick murder?”
    â€œSure.” The entire newsroom had been called in on the first few days of the notorious case in July, nearly ten years ago. Alberta Elliott Grambling Resnick, a cousin of Tan’s father, had been stabbed to death in the kitchen of her lovely shaded mansion, two blocks off North Main Street. The case was strange, start to finish.
    Mrs Resnick was an elderly widow with two sons and a daughter, all of them well known in historic Grambling. Because the murder occurred over a long July 4 weekend, all the children and grandchildren had been gathered. And given Mrs Resnick’s wealth, all were suspects.
    July 4 fell on a Thursday, and the family threw its lavish annual holiday party, followed by the city’s fireworks display, easily seen from the front yard. Around 11 p.m., the party broke up. The older son, the daughter and two thirteen-year-old granddaughters spent the night.
    The next day, July 5, there was still plenty of activity at Mrs Resnick’s house. The family members who’d spent the night had breakfast together. The son then took his mother to a doctor’s appointment. The daughter dropped the two teens, her nieces, at the Peach Orchard Country Club pool, then returned to the hotel where her husband and sons were staying.
    The son dropped Mrs Resnick at home after her doctor’s appointment. She assured him she could fix her own lunch, so he went home. The granddaughters walked back to their grandmother’s house in late afternoon, to find her lying on the kitchen floor, stabbed seven times.
    Hysterical, the teens ran next door and flagged down a neighbor who was cutting grass. When he could make out the girls’ disjointed story, he yelled for his wife to call the police, sent the girls inside his house, and headed over to Mrs Resnick’s. He stayed until the police arrived, blue lights spinning, four minutes later.
    Because of Mrs Resnick’s standing in the community, because she was a Grambling and because she had a large family, the house filled quickly. Police, the coroner, and city council members rushed to the scene. Detectives feared the crime scene was being contaminated, but it was hard for officers to keep out their bosses. Only when the police chief arrived three hours later — summoned from a theme park with his family — did he crack down on unnecessary personnel and send his bosses home. By then it was too late. Detectives were sure their crime scene had been polluted.
    Meanwhile, officers herded family members onto a back porch for interviews. Neighbors brought plates of cookies, and coolers filled with soft drinks. One detective Branigan interviewed called it “Southern hospitality run amok”.
    The Rambler ’s cop reporter, Jody Manson, was one of the first on the scene, but police kept him and the rest of the media at bay in Mrs Resnick’s