The Homewreckers(93)

“As soon as we found out, we put our foot down. We had a talk with Holland, let him know we were disappointed, and that it had to stop,” Creedmore said. “We changed the locks on the house, and we assumed that put an end to things.”

“But you assumed wrong,” Mak said. “Did you know Holland was in a relationship with Lanier Ragan?”

Dorcas grew agitated. “We should have had her arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor! Who do you suppose bought the booze? She was an adult in a position of authority. Holland was a minor. What she did was criminal.”

“I understand he was nineteen at the time the relationship was initiated,” Makarowicz said, “so technically, he wasn’t a minor. You still haven’t actually answered my question. When did you find out they were in a sexual relationship? And what did you do about that?”

“I found a roll of condoms in the pocket of his jeans,” Dorcas said reluctantly. “I didn’t know who the girl was.”

“We were just glad he was taking precautions,” Holland Sr. said. “Another boy we knew, the son of a family friend, he got a girl pregnant his sophomore year of college. He dropped out of school and married the girl. Holland knew the boy. We talked about what a mess he’d made of his life. My wife was upset when she found the condoms, but I told her I thought he was just doing the responsible thing.”

Makarowicz was having a hard time keeping his temper in check. “Again. When and how did you find out your son was sleeping with Lanier Ragan?”

Holland Sr. glanced at his wife. “Dorcas saw some text messages. On his phone.”

“Mrs. Creedmore?”

“That whore! I couldn’t believe the filthy things she was texting him. I wanted to call the school and have her fired, but Holl wouldn’t let me.”

“When did you find the texts?”

“Thanksgiving weekend,” she said. “We were out at the beach house. For the oyster roast. Holland went out for a run and left his phone in his room. I knew something was going on, and I suspected that it had to do with a girl, so while he was gone, I went into his room and got the phone and went through the text messages. When I read what she wrote, I wanted to vomit. What kind of a woman sends those kinds of filthy messages to a teenaged boy?”

“Did you confront him?” Makarowicz asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She pointed an accusatory finger at her husband. “His father wouldn’t let me. I said we should put our foot down, do whatever it takes, but Holland absolutely forbid me to speak to our son about her.”

Makarowicz blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Look. Frank Ragan did everything in his power to help our boy get recruited and signed to a Division One school,” Holland Sr. said. “He took him to the right showcases, worked out a summer conditioning program for Holland. Stayed on him about his grades. He sent game films to every major school on the East Coast, at his own expense. He was responsible for getting Holland signed to play at Wake Forest. How would it have looked if word got out that Holland was messing around with Frank Ragan’s wife?”

“So you did nothing?”

Creedmore shrugged. “We agreed that was the best plan. Holland never kept the same girlfriend for very long. We thought the affair would burn itself out.”

“We agreed on nothing,” Dorcas said with a withering sideways glance at her husband. “I told you that woman was trouble. I told you she would ruin his chances, ruin his life, but, oh no, the great and wise Holland Creedmore knew better.”

“Dorcas?” Holland Sr.’s tone held a warning. “The detective isn’t interested in hearing all this ancient history.”

“Actually, what I’m interested in is knowing who killed Lanier Ragan,” Makarowicz said. “And right now, unless I hear something different, your son is my prime suspect. He’s already admitted he was at the house on Chatham Avenue the night she disappeared.”

“He told you that?” Creedmore asked.

“Yes. He said Lanier texted him the day of the Super Bowl and wanted to meet up. Because she was pregnant.”

Dorcas Creedmore’s body sagged in the chair. She clamped a hand over her mouth and let out an agonized wail.

“Dorcas!” Holland Sr. said. “Control yourself.”

She shook her head. “I c-c-can’t. Enough. Enough, Holland! We have to tell what happened. We have to.”

Makarowicz took his cell phone from his pocket, placed it on the small tea table beside him, and pressed record.

“You saw that text message, didn’t you, Mrs. Creedmore?”

She nodded. “We had friends over. Everyone was watching the game. But I was watching my son. He kept texting someone, right as the game was starting. I knew it was her.”

“Lanier Ragan?”

“Yes.”

“Dorcas!” Creedmore said. “Not another word until I call our lawyer.”

Makarowicz looked over at Holland Sr. “Mr. Creedmore, I’m speaking to your wife, here at your home, strictly as a courtesy. If you prefer, I can transport her out to the Tybee police station, and she and I can talk there, in private.”

“You can’t do that,” Creedmore blustered.

“Actually, I can,” the detective said calmly. “Your presence seems to be upsetting your wife. I’d suggest you find something else to do, in another room of the house, while we talk.”