Page 43 of The Homewreckers
“Not personally. I’ve only been at the paper twelve years.”
“Only,” he said pointedly.
“In Savannah, that makes me a newcomer,” she said. “You know how it is, if you’re not a native Savannahian,” she said, making quote marks with her fingers, “you’re an outsider. But I’ve had an obsession with that story ever since I got here. So don’t keep me in suspense. What’s the news?”
“We found Lanier Ragan’s wallet this week.”
She leaned across the table, her eyes wide with excitement. “Where?”
“In an old house that’s being renovated, out on Tybee. The contractors found it behind the old plaster walls, stuck in between the wall studs.”
“Any idea how it got there?”
He shook his head. “They said there was an old razor blade slot in the wall, the kind people used to dispose of used blades, and they think somebody shoved it in there.”
“Oh. My. God.” She was scribbling in a steno pad she’d whipped out of her purse. “Who’re the people who found the wallet?”
“The woman’s name is Hattie Kavanaugh. She just bought the house last week, and they’re filming some kind of do-it-yourself television show there. One of her crew members found it. This girl, well, she’s probably in her early thirties, so not really a girl. This woman, she graduated from St. Mary’s Academy. She actually had Lanier Ragan for an English class.”
“Interesting,” Molly Fowlkes said. “Tell me about this television show. They’re filming out at Tybee? That’s kind of weird in itself.”
“I don’t know that much about it,” Mak admitted. “They said it’s calledHomewreckers.My wife used to watch all those shows.” He smiled slightly. “And she never missed your column.”
“Past tense?” Molly asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Sorry. So.Homewreckers.What’s that about?”
He shrugged, and his whole body went into the effort. “Fixing up an old house. Here’s another coincidence for you. The family thatused to own the house, for like, the last sixty years? The son played football at Cardinal Mooney for Lanier Ragan’s husband.”
“Frank Ragan,” Molly said promptly. “What a douche. He was so heartbroken by his wife’s disappearance he started shacking up with one of his neighbors less than a year later.”
“Really? How do you come to know something like that?”
She twirled the beer can on the tabletop. “Told you I was obsessed. What else do you want to know? Last I heard, Frank was selling real estate in Orlando. He and the neighbor lady broke up awhile ago.”
“And the daughter?”
“Emma. Now that’s a sad story. She dropped out of high school, went to rehab. Last time I checked, she was working in a local tattoo parlor.”
“She didn’t move to Florida with her dad? What’s up with that?”
“Don’t know. She won’t talk. I’ve reached out a couple times, but no luck.”
“Do you have the name of the tattoo place?” Now it was Makarowicz’s turn to pull out a steno pad.
“Inkstains,” Molly said. “Want me to text you the number?”
“Yeah, that’d be good. What else do you know?”
She gave him a look. “That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to tell me stuff so I can write a great column. Maybe win a Pulitzer, or at least get a raise.”
“Honest to God. There’s nothing else to tell. The wallet was found. Eventually it’ll be sent to the state crime lab, but after sitting in a moldy wall for all these years, you can imagine how much help that’ll be.”
Her pen was poised above her notepad. “What’s the name of the son who played football for Frank Ragan?”
He considered holding it back, but relented. “Holland Creedmore. I think he does something in sales.”
