The Homewreckers(15)

“Where are you looking?” Cass asked.

“The usual places, Zillow and all the local real estate companies’ websites.”

Zenobia Pelletier looked up from her own computer. “Did you check the list of foreclosures on the county website? Maybe we could find a cute little fixer in Parkside or maybe Live Oak.”

“Yes’m,” Hattie said. “I checked. It’s slim pickings. The only thing that fits our budget are some sixties split-levels on the south side, and some seventies ranch houses way out in the county. Nothing Mo Lopez would consider even remotely historic, or—what’s that word?”

“Telegenic,” Cass said helpfully. “What about Thunderbolt?”

“Are you kidding? My little shrimping village is all of a sudden trendy. As soon as something comes on the market, it gets snatched up. One of my neighbors has this dumpy little circa-1930s cottage—completely unrestored, no central air. He planted a for-sale-by-owner sign in his yard last week and before the end of the day he had six buyers in a bidding war.”

Zenobia removed her red-framed reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was in her early fifties, with short, carefully coifed streaky blond hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her light brown cheeks, and long, perfectly polished acrylic nails.

“What about Tybee?”

“What about it?” her daughter asked. “If we can’t afford something in town, we sure as hell can’t afford a house out at the beach.”

“You know, as I was leaving church Sunday, I heard old Mavis Creedmore ask Father Mike to pray for her, because she and her cousins are fixing to lose their beach house on Chatham Avenue.”

Hattie stopped scrolling through the real estate listings and perked up. “Is that Katie Creedmore’s grandma? She graduated from St. Mary’s a year behind us. And Holland Creedmore played on the Cardinal Mooney football team, a couple of years ahead of us. He was quite the stud, as I remember.”

Cass rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“Mavis never married. I think those must be her brother’s grandkids,” Zenobia said. “There was a whole slew of Creedmores running around town when I was a girl. Anyway, Mavis is the oldest, and I’mma tell you, she rules the roost. Two of her brothers died young, some kind of cancer. She outlived everyone, so now she’s, like, the matriarch.”

“But Chatham Avenue?” Hattie scoffed. “Come on, Zen. Those houses are all on the Back River, with docks and boathouses. Even a shack would be way out of our price range.”

“Maybe not,” Zenobia said. “Hang on. Let me look it up in the county records.” Her long acrylic nails flew across her laptop keyboard, clicking with each keystroke.

“Mhmm. Here it is. Fifteen twenty-three Chatham Avenue. Owners are listed as Mavis Creedmore, Reeves Creedmore, and Holland Farrell Creedmore. This isn’t one of those big ol’ beach houses you’re thinking about, Hattie. Built in 1922. Only eighteen hundred square feet. Okay, two stories, wood frame. Four bedrooms. One bath.”

“Must be some hobbit-sized bedrooms,” Cass observed. “And only one bathroom for four bedrooms?”

“It’s a beach house, baby,” Zenobia said. “Back in my day, when you went to stay at the beach, you stayed on the beach. All you needed in your room was a bed, maybe a nightstand, and some hooks to hang up your clothes.”

“What else does it say about the Creedmores’ house, Zen?” Hattie asked.

“Mmm. I see a tax lien. Oooh. They really are fixing to lose their house. Latest appraisal is $425,000. All the value’s in the lot, not the house. Here’s the survey. Looks like there’s some kind of outbuilding. Maybe a boat shed, something like that?”

Hattie fiddled with a paper clip, bending and twisting it as she thought. “Can’t believe a lot on Tybee isn’t worth way more than just that. Zen, are you friends with Mavis Creedmore?”

Zenobia shrugged. “We’ve served on altar guild together at Blessed Sacrament for a long time. We’re not friends, but we been knowing each other for years.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s in her eighties. Cranky, and opinionated. You know that generation. They always think their way is the only way.”

“Huh,” Cass said, grinning at her mother. “Who does that sound like?”

Zenobia picked up a plastic Kavanaugh & Son promotional flyswatter and flicked it at her daughter. “Remember who writes the paychecks around here, little girl.”

Hattie pushed her chair away from the desk and it made a screeching noise on the worn linoleum tile floor. “Come on, Cass. Let’s take a ride out to Tybee and check it out.”

“But that house isn’t even for sale,” Cass protested.

“Yet,” Hattie said. “Anyway, we can cruise around and check for new listings or for-sale signs that aren’t on the Zillow radar yet.”



* * *



Hattie was quiet on the long drive out to Tybee Island. The tide was out. Traffic was light. It was late spring, and the marsh grasses on either side of US 80 were a brilliant chartreuse green. Cass glanced over at her.

The temperature was mild for Savannah, mid-eighties, but Hattie’s face was pale and beaded with perspiration and she seemed to have a death grip on the steering wheel.