The Homewreckers(69)

“Owwww,” she moaned, when she was finally standing upright. She rubbed her bony hips and dusted sand from her baggy black knit pants.

“Mavis,” Hattie said. “Why are you here? What are you up to?”

“I was checking on my house,” Mavis Creedmore said, scowling. “No law against that.”

Mo gave a snort of disbelief. “Checking? At one in the morning? In total darkness?” He pointed his flashlight at a wooden baseball bat lying near the spot where he’d tackled her, and picked it up. “With this?”

“I brought that for protection,” she said. “And if I hadn’t been sneak attacked, I by God would have laid it upside your head.”

“This is not your house anymore, and you know it,” Hattie said, her voice stern. “Your family left it to sit here and rot. And you didn’t pay your property taxes, so the city condemned it and I bought it.”

“That’s a damn lie,” Mavis cried. “Creedmores have owned this house for seventy years. My granddaddy left it to me, and I’ll be damned if I let some pissant little girl like you steal it out from under me.” Her lip curled into a sneer as she addressed Hattie.

“Hattie Bowers. You’re a damned thief. You can change your name all you want, but everybody in this town knows who you are and who you come from. You’re as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, just like that thieving daddy of yours.”

Hattie flinched and was silent for a moment, staring down at the old woman’s loosely laced orthopedic shoes.

When she looked up again her voice was low but steady. “Mavis, I know you’re the one who complained to the city about us. Now you need to get back in your car and drive away from here, right this minute, before I change my mind and turn you over to the police.”

“You’re letting her go?” Mo asked, incredulous. “She’s an arsonist. Criminal trespasser and a vandal. She came out here tonight, probably intending to finish the job she started two nights ago.”

“Arsonist?” the old lady sniffed. She poked a bony finger in Mo’s chest. “If I’d a wanted to burn this house down, buddy, you’d best believe there would be nothing left standing out here. I didn’t set no fire, and you can’t prove I did.”

Mavis snatched the bat from his hand and hobbled toward her car. She turned on the high beams, threw the sedan into reverse, backing over a shovel and a plastic bucket, then sped away down the driveway, kicking up a cloud of sand in her wake.

Hattie sighed. “Tug said this house has bad vibes. Cass said it too. I’m beginning to think maybe they were right.”

“Bullshit,” Mo said. He pointed at the sedan’s red taillights. “Do you believe that old crone? Was she lying when she said she didn’t start the fire?”

“I’m not sure what to think,” Hattie admitted.

“Then, who else?” he asked.

Hattie shivered, despite the heat. Deliberately changing the subject, she lightly touched his jaw, which was already darkening with a bruise. “Did she do that to you?”

“Walloped me a good one,” he said, his expression sheepish. “I’m just glad she dropped her bat when I jumped her.”

“Mavis Creedmore didn’t come to play,” Hattie agreed. “Better put some ice on it when you get back to town.”





36

Like Father, Like Son




The woman who answered the door at the gracious redbrick Georgian Revival on East Forty-Fifth Street peered at Makarowicz through the glass storm door.

Her silver-blond hair was slightly askew and her pale pink lipstick was smeared, but she wore a colorful pastel cotton dress and a tasteful string of pearls.

“Hello,” she said, blinking and looking past him toward the street. “I wasn’t expecting the Instacart delivery this soon. Can you bring it around to the kitchen?”

“I would if I were your Instacart shopper, but unfortunately I’m not,” Mak said. He held out his badge. “I’m Detective Al Makarowicz with the Tybee police. I was hoping to have a few words with you and your husband.”

She took a half step backward. “Oh. Well, um.”

“Are you Mrs. Creedmore?” Mak asked.

“That’s me. Dorcas. Holl isn’t … I mean … right at this moment, he’s not at home.” She flashed an apologetic smile. “But I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

A pair of identical late-model silver Buicks were parked in the driveway. Both had Cardinal Mooney alumni stickers on the back window. The trunk of the car parked closest to the street was open, and a set of golf clubs was leaning against the bumper.

“Isn’t that your husband’s car parked right there?”

She opened the door and stepped onto the concrete stoop to get a look.

“Oh. I guess he must have just gotten home. Sometimes he goes straight out to the carriage house, where he, uh, has his office, without coming inside the house first.”

“Good. Maybe you can let him know I’m here?”

A voice echoed from inside the house. “Dorcas? Who’s that at the door? I swear to God, if you don’t stop ordering crap off Amazon…”

She stepped back inside. “Holl! It’s a policeman from Tybee. He wants to talk to us.”