The Homewreckers(70)

“What about?” the senior Creedmore appeared in the foyer. The resemblance to his son was uncanny. Same high forehead and receding hairline, jowly face, florid complexion, although the older man’s posture was somewhat stooped, and the hair was completely gray.

“I’d like to discuss the home your family owns on Chatham Avenue,” Mak said.

“Owned. The city sold it out from under us. Biggest land grab of the century,” Creedmore said with a growl.

Mak was pretty sure the Native American nation might argue that point.

“Right,” he said. “But the new owner’s doing some work on the house, and they’ve discovered a billfold that belonged to Lanier Ragan, the schoolteacher who…”

“I know who Lanier Ragan was,” Creedmore snapped. “Is. For all we know, she’s dyed her hair black and is alive and well and living in L.A. I don’t see what that’s got to do with us.”

“If you’d give me a few minutes of your time, I’d be happy to explain that,” Mak said. “You’d probably be more comfortable talking to me here than all the way out at Tybee. We do have a new station house, but it’s a long ride, and I hate to inconvenience you like that.”

Dorcas Creedmore opened the door. “I’ll make coffee.”

“No!” Big Holl placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, you won’t. This isn’t bridge club.”



* * *



The living room was large and high-ceilinged. Prominently displayed over the fireplace mantel was a gilt-framed portrait of a young boy of seven or eight, dressed in a sailor suit with short pants. Little Holland back when he really was little, Makarowicz thought.

Dorcas Creedmore and her husband were seated as far apart from each other as humanly possible, she on the edge of an ornate French-looking chair, he on the far side of a tufted green silk sofa. Makarowicz took a wing chair near the fireplace.

“I’ll just get right to it,” Mak said. “The discovery of that billfold, after all these years, makes me wonder what connection Lanier Ragan might have to that house, and the family who owned it right up until a couple weeks ago.”

“Connection?” Big Holland frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you accusing us of something? Should I call my attorney?”

“Yes!” Dorcas piped up. “That’s a good idea, Holl. We should call Web Carver.”

Big Holl rolled his eyes. “Web Carver sold his practice and moved to Highlands three years ago, Dorcas.”

“Right. I forgot.”

“The only possible connection that young woman had to our family, or our house at Tybee, was that she was married to Frank Ragan, who was our son’s football coach at Cardinal Mooney,” Creedmore said. “As president of the alumni association and the football booster club, I entertained the whole team multiple times over the years. There’s a chance she accompanied Frank to some of those affairs, but I couldn’t say for certain.”

“Oyster roasts,” Dorcas said. “We had an oyster roast the Sunday after Thanksgiving every year for the whole team and their families.”

Mak scribbled a few nonsensical words in his notebook. He wondered if it was just his imagination, or whether Dorcas Creedmore was a little bit glassy-eyed. A little bit stoned.

“What difference does it make? This is all ancient history.” The husband drummed his fingers on a spindly-legged glass-topped end table.

“It makes a difference because we’ve heard rumors that Lanier Ragan was sleeping with one of the members of Frank Ragan’s football team.”

Dorcas gasped and her husband shot her a dirty look.

“Rumors don’t mean a damn thing,” Creedmore said. “Cardinal Mooney usually dresses out about seventy boys every year. Are you tracking down all their parents and asking them these kinds of insulting questions?”

“I will if I have to,” Mak said. “Naturally, I’m wondering how Mrs. Ragan would have gotten to know one of these teenaged boys that intimately. It’s my understanding that Lanier Ragan tutored your son during his senior year.”

“I don’t remember that,” Creedmore said.

“I hired her to tutor Little Holl,” Dorcas said meekly. “Senior year, his grades had dropped a little. It was Coach Ragan’s idea. She tutored a few of the other players too.”

Creedmore shot her an annoyed look. “Nothing sinister about that,” he said.

“Maybe not. I’m wondering, were you two aware of the parties your son used to have at the house on Chatham Avenue?”

Creedmore waved his hand dismissively. “Old news. They were high school kids. Didn’t you ever have a few beers when you were in high school?”

“Oh, sure,” Mak said. “But none of my friends’ parents had a swell beach house like yours.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Dorcas said. “These were all good boys from good families. They wouldn’t have anything to do with this tragedy.”

“What I’m getting at, Mrs. Creedmore,” Mak said pointedly, “is that Lanier Ragan was last seen by her husband sometime before midnight on February sixth, 2005. Seemingly vanished into thin air. Her car was found, stripped, in a shopping center parking lot in a high-crime area of Savannah a few days later. Nobody was ever arrested. Now, all these years later, we find her billfold in the walls of an old house on Tybee. A home that was, until very recently, owned by your family. A home that you’ve already said Mrs. Ragan possibly visited more than once. And, as you yourself confirmed, Lanier Ragan did private tutoring for your son, who was a member of Frank Ragan’s football team.”