The Homewreckers(44)

“I wonder now too. At the time, I was too self-involved to ask. I guess I thought she was so cool, she must have her own life all figured out.”

Molly nodded and wrote something in her notebook. “Did she talk to you girls about her personal life?”

“She had a picture of her husband and her little girl on her desk. She’d tell us cute stories about the stuff Emma said.”

“What about her husband? The football coach. Did she talk about him a lot?”

Hattie smoothed the plans out with her hands. “Sometimes. I’m guessing you’ve heard those old stories about her having a secret boyfriend? There were all kinds of rumors back then—that she’d run away with another man, that Coach was having an affair and she found out so he killed her and tossed her body in the marsh. You wouldn’t believe all the gruesome stories repressed Catholic schoolgirls came up with.”

“Sure I would. I went to an all-girls parochial school in Baltimore, and then to college at Holy Cross.” Molly chewed on the cap of her pen for a moment. “I practically lettered in sexual repression. Let me ask you this. Did you ever hear any rumors that Lanier was having an affair with a high school kid?”

“What?” Hattie’s hand shot out and knocked over a half-full Styrofoam cup of coffee, spilling the tepid liquid onto the plans. She grabbed a painter’s rag and began mopping up the mess. “Where’d you hear something like that?”

“I did a piece for the paper about the tenth anniversary of the disappearance, back in 2015, which prompted an anonymous call from a woman who claimed that at the time she vanished, Lanier was sleeping with the woman’s high school boyfriend—who was on Frank’s football team.”

“Oh my God,” Hattie said. “That’s just … so gross. I mean, yeah, I guess it was believable that she could have been sleeping with another man—but a high school kid? No. I never got that cougar vibe from Mrs. Ragan. No. Definitely not. Yuck.”

Molly laughed. “Now you really do sound like a Catholic schoolgirl. But stop and think about it for a minute. Lanier Ragan was only twenty-five. If she was having an affair with a high school kid, it wouldn’t have been that big an age difference. Maybe only six or seven years, if the guy was a senior. I’ve done my research. Frank Ragan was ten years older than Lanier. They met and started dating while she was a junior at Ole Miss and he was an athletic trainer.”

“I never knew that,” Hattie admitted. “Back in the day, we all thought he was incredibly hot. They were so cute together.”

“And he was married when they met,” Molly said. “He and Lanier got married the week after she graduated from Ole Miss.”

“So much for Mr. and Mrs. All America,” Hattie said with a sigh. “I don’t know why, but this makes me so incredibly sad all over again.”

“It might not be true,” Molly cautioned. “The caller wouldn’t give me her name, or the boyfriend’s name. I made some cautious inquiries at the time, but nothing ever came of it, which is why I dropped it. But now…”

“Hattie?” Lisa popped her head into the kitchen doorway. “We need you in makeup.”

“Okay. Coming.” She shot the reporter an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I really hope you find out what happened to Lanier Ragan. Selfishly, I really hope it’s not connected to this house.”

“About the house,” Molly said quickly. “I know Holland Creedmore’s family owned it up until a couple weeks ago. And that he played football at Cardinal Mooney for Frank Ragan. Could there be more of a connection?”

“Maybe? Holland was older than me, and he ran in a whole different crowd.”

“What kind of crowd was that?” the reporter asked.

“You know. Rich kids, jocks, stoners.”

“And who did you run with?” Molly asked, smiling.

“Mostly just Cassidy Pelletier—maybe you met her, she works with me, and we’ve been best friends since parochial school. And a few other girls.”

“Hattie!” Mo bellowed from outside the back door. “Now!”

“Gotta go.” Hattie made a quick exit.





22

Up on the Roof




Hattie was sitting in the makeup chair as Lisa fussed over her hair. “I think we should maybe do it in a French braid, or something different. The network honchos saw the video from earlier in the week and they want you to look more feminine.”

“More feminine?” Hattie stared in the mirror. Lisa had already spent thirty minutes spackling, powdering, and contouring her face. She barely recognized herself beneath the thick fringe of extensions Lisa had painstakingly glued to her own stubby lashes. “What next? Do they want to dress me in a tube top and a pair of Daisy Dukes?”

Jodi, the wardrobe assistant, bustled in just then with a garment bag draped over her arm. “Not quite.” She laughed, unzipping the bag and holding up a pair of distressed cut-off overalls and a hot pink sleeveless crop top. “But close.”

“Noooo,” Hattie moaned. “I can’t work in that getup. And it’s not my style. Does Leetha know about this?”

“Don’t know,” Jodi said. “But your call is in five minutes, so we need to get you out of that chair and into your duds before she starts screaming for my hide. And also, I’m supposed to tell you to ditch the work boots.”