The Homewreckers(66)

“Right. They always ate lunch together,” Hattie said. “Have you talked to her?”

“Yeah. She told me that in the fall of 2004 Lanier was busy, tutoring students, helping girls get their grades raised so they could get into the right college. And, she said, Frank Ragan got his wife to tutor some of his football players, too.”

“Ohhh,” Hattie said. “So, you think maybe what Molly Fowlkes heard was true?”

“Could be,” Mak said. “Maybe Lanier was teaching more than adjectives and adverbs.”

“Yeah,” Cass said, “maybe she was helping some dude bone up on sex ed.” Her tone was more bitter than funny, and Hattie did a double take.

“Sorry, not sorry,” Cass muttered, leaving the room.

“Did Mrs. Logenbuhl know which football players Lanier was tutoring?” Hattie asked.

“No. All she knew was that Lanier was preoccupied.”

“Can you get a list of all the guys on the Cardinal Mooney football team that year?”

Makarowicz reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a neatly folded square of papers. “For good or bad, the internet knows all.” He unfolded a printout of an old black-and-white photo and placed it on the sawhorse worktable.

“Frank Ragan’s football team won the state championship in 2004. Got lots of publicity.” He tapped the photo. “I’m thinking one of this crew could have been teacher’s pet.”





34

Old School Ties




When Hattie got home, she took a long, hot shower, put on a pair of boxer shorts and a favorite old T-shirt, and warmed up a bowl of Kraft mac and cheese, which she ate sitting on her favorite chair in the living room.

Her eyes traveled to the rows of paperback mysteries on the bookshelves. After Hank’s death, books, especially mysteries, had become her refuge. She liked the predictability, the unspoken promise that no matter how ugly, violent, or tragic things got in a mystery, by the story’s end there would be some degree of closure. Justice would be meted out.

She was idly leafing through a battered copy of Void Moon, her favorite Michael Connelly novel, when she heard her phone ding to announce an incoming text message. She carefully stepped over Ribsy, who was asleep at her feet, and retrieved the phone from the kitchen. The message was from Davis Hoffman.

Hey. Heard about the fire. You okay?

Hattie sank back down into her armchair.

I’m okay. Just exhausted. And worried.

She watched the little bubbles popping onto the screen to indicate he was typing.

Anything I can do to help?

An image popped into her imagination, of the dignified, almost aristocratic Davis Hoffman rolling up his French cuffs to rip up mildewed carpet, or jackhammering a bathroom full of peachy-pink porcelain tile with those long, elegant fingers, the ones with the monogrammed gold signet ring and the bulky Cardinal Mooney class ring.

Maybe. But not with the house.

More bubbles.

???

Different topic. Didn’t you play football at Mooney? For Frank Ragan?

If being issued a uniform and dressing out for practices count, yes, technically you could say I was on the team. Mostly I played left out.

Can you remember the names of any players Lanier Ragan tutored your senior year?

She scraped together the last bits of bright orange cheese from the side of the bowl and placed it in front of Ribsy’s nose. He stirred, thumped his tail, then enthusiastically attacked the bowl with long, ecstatic licks.

Is this still about that wallet? What’s that got to do with her tutoring jocks?

Ribsy was pushing the bowl across the floor with his nose, desperate to get at the last flecks of cheese. When he looked up, he had an orange spot on his black nose. She smiled and returned to her phone.

Cops are looking into a rumor that maybe Lanier had an affair with someone on the football team. Maybe a guy she was tutoring? Like a senior? Could have something to do with her disappearance.

Minutes passed. She opened Void Moon, losing herself to the story of a female cat burglar prowling through hotel rooms at Vegas casinos.

No idea who she might have been tutoring. Sorry not to be more help.

Hattie went into the bedroom and found the folded-up photo of the long ago Cardinal Mooney football team that Al Makarowicz had given her.

She smoothed the photo and read over the captions. Maybe this was a topic best discussed over the phone instead of text. She tapped Davis’s phone number and he picked up immediately.

“Hey!” He sounded surprised to hear her voice.

“Hi. Is now a good time to talk? About football?”

“Honest to God, Hattie. My senior year, it’s a blur. I was applying to college and working part-time at the store…”

“And dating Elise. I know. But I’ve got an old roster from the team. I was thinking if I read off the names, maybe you could guess whether any of them needed tutoring help.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little to the extreme?” he asked.

Was this his way of telling her to “calm down”? How many times over the years had men, including Hank and Tug, both men she adored, told her to “chill out” or “relax”? Which was really just a semi-polite way of telling women to shut up and smile.

“A week and a half ago, Lanier’s wallet was found at the house I now own,” she said, straining to stay civil. “It’s the only clue the cops have found since the day after she disappeared. And since the news got out, someone has been harassing me. First, siccing the code enforcement guy on me, and now, setting fire to the dumpster behind the house. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”