The Homewreckers(62)

He rang the doorbell and waited. “Who’s that?” a man’s voice called.

“Holland Creedmore? I’m Detective Makarowicz with the Tybee Police Department, and I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.” He held his badge up to the peephole in the wooden door.

“Shit,” the voice muttered.

The door opened a few inches with the chain lock still engaged. Holland Junior had a high forehead, receding blond hair, and a thick handlebar mustache. “What’s this about?”

“If you’ll let me come in, I’ll tell you,” Mak replied.

Creedmore opened the door and motioned for him to enter. “Okay, but you need to make this short. I’ve got someplace I need to be in thirty minutes.”

“Understood.”

“Sit there.” Holland Jr. motioned toward a black leather recliner that faced a matching black leather sofa.

Creedmore took a seat on the sofa. He was barefoot and wore baggy khaki slacks and a navy T-shirt that did little to hide a roll of fat around his belly.

“I saw in the newspaper that they found Lanier Ragan’s wallet at our old house on Tybee.” Creedmore’s tone was belligerent. “We don’t own it anymore, you know? Those TV people bought it out from under us.”

“I’m aware,” Mak said.

“All kinds of shady business going on out there at Tybee City Hall,” Creedmore said. “You working for the police department, I’m sure you see your share of the corruption.”

“Nope,” Mak said. “But I’ve only been on the force for a few months.”

“Give it time,” Creedmore said. “Those folks are crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mak took out his notebook and pen. “I understand you might have known Lanier Ragan? That schoolteacher who disappeared?”

“I played football at Cardinal Mooney for her husband, Frank Ragan,” Creedmore said. “I saw her at games and stuff like that, but I don’t have any idea how that wallet got there.”

“Do you know if Mrs. Ragan ever visited your family’s beach house?”

“My dad was head of the booster club for years, and my folks used to give parties for the whole football team and their families and the coaches. She could have come to one of those parties with her husband.”

“Right. When was the last time you were in the house?”

“It would have been after the last hurricane. What was that, Irma? So, 2017? We lost part of the roof after Hurricane Matthew in 2016. My dad is only part owner of the house. There’s my dad’s cousin who lives up north, he hadn’t been down here in years, and then his cousin Mavis, who is a giant pain in the ass. We only just barely got the roof repaired when Irma blew it off again. And it turns out, Mavis had let the insurance lapse. My dad and I went out there to see how bad things were. And it was bad. My dad and Mavis had words, and next thing we know, she’s locked us out. Of our own house.”

“So, you’re saying the last time you were physically inside that house would have been sometime in 2017?”

“Check the dates, but I believe it was in September,” Creedmore said.

“Don’t know if you heard, but there was a fire out there last night?” the cop said.

“Saw it on the news. Those dumb fucks almost burned down one of the oldest houses on the island. It’s a crime what they’re doing with that place.”

“So you’ve seen the work they’ve done?”

“I’ve driven by a couple of times. I heard all our old neighbors are raising hell because of the traffic and noise coming from there.”

“Someone reported Hattie Kavanaugh to Tybee’s code enforcement officer. She’s already gotten two citations and had to pay some serious fines,” the detective said.

Creedmore laughed. “Serves her right, the stupid bitch.”

“You know,” Mak said, fixing Creedmore with a deadpan stare, “it kind of looks like someone is deliberately harassing her. And that dumpster fire looks like arson.”

“So that’s what this is about? You think I’m messing with her? Forget it. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Makarowicz abruptly changed tack. “What do you think happened to Lanier Ragan?”

“How should I know?” Creedmore shot back. “I was just a kid. Ask her husband.”

“Oh, I will,” Mak said easily. “Just out of curiosity, when was the last time you saw Lanier Ragan?”

“I think we’re done here. I’ve got an appointment to get to.” Creedmore went to the front door and yanked it open.





33

Twenty Questions




The caller ID screen said “Unknown Caller.” He picked up. “Makarowicz.”

It was a woman’s voice. “Detective Makarowicz? This is Deborah Logenbuhl, you left a private message on my Facebook page, asking me to call? I worked with Lanier Ragan at St. Mary’s Academy.”

“Yes. Thanks for getting back to me,” Mak said.

“I was wondering if someone from the police would contact me,” she said. “I saw on the news that Lanier’s billfold was found in that house out on Tybee. I even thought of calling you myself, but I didn’t want to be one of those crackpots calling the cops with some crazy conspiracy theory.”