Page 70 of The Homewreckers
“Do you know if Mrs. Ragan ever visited your family’s beach house?”
“My dad was head of the booster club for years, and my folks used to give parties for the whole football team and their families and the coaches. She could have come to one of those parties with her husband.”
“Right. When was the last time you were in the house?”
“It would have been after the last hurricane. What was that, Irma? So, 2017? We lost part of the roof after Hurricane Matthew in 2016. My dad is only part owner of the house. There’s my dad’s cousin who lives up north, he hadn’t been down here in years, and then his cousin Mavis, who is a giant pain in the ass. We only just barely got the roof repaired when Irma blew it off again. And it turns out, Mavis had let the insurance lapse. My dad and I went out there to seehow bad things were. And it was bad. My dad and Mavis had words, and next thing we know, she’s locked us out. Of our own house.”
“So, you’re saying the last time you were physically inside that house would have been sometime in 2017?”
“Check the dates, but I believe it was in September,” Creedmore said.
“Don’t know if you heard, but there was a fire out there last night?” the cop said.
“Saw it on the news. Those dumb fucks almost burned down one of the oldest houses on the island. It’s a crime what they’re doing with that place.”
“So you’ve seen the work they’ve done?”
“I’ve driven by a couple of times. I heard all our old neighbors are raising hell because of the traffic and noise coming from there.”
“Someone reported Hattie Kavanaugh to Tybee’s code enforcement officer. She’s already gotten two citations and had to pay some serious fines,” the detective said.
Creedmore laughed. “Serves her right, the stupid bitch.”
“You know,” Mak said, fixing Creedmore with a deadpan stare, “it kind of looks like someone is deliberately harassing her. And that dumpster fire looks like arson.”
“So that’s what this is about? You think I’m messing with her? Forget it. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
Makarowicz abruptly changed tack. “What do you think happened to Lanier Ragan?”
“How should I know?” Creedmore shot back. “I was just a kid. Ask her husband.”
“Oh, I will,” Mak said easily. “Just out of curiosity, when was the last time you saw Lanier Ragan?”
“I think we’re done here. I’ve got an appointment to get to.” Creedmore went to the front door and yanked it open.
33Twenty Questions
The caller ID screen said “Unknown Caller.” He picked up. “Makarowicz.”
It was a woman’s voice. “Detective Makarowicz? This is Deborah Logenbuhl, you left a private message on my Facebook page, asking me to call? I worked with Lanier Ragan at St. Mary’s Academy.”
“Yes. Thanks for getting back to me,” Mak said.
“I was wondering if someone from the police would contact me,” she said. “I saw on the news that Lanier’s billfold was found in that house out on Tybee. I even thought of calling you myself, but I didn’t want to be one of those crackpots calling the cops with some crazy conspiracy theory.”
“Okay if I record our conversation?”
“Yes, I guess that would be all right.”
He tapped the record button on the phone.
“I understand you were close with Lanier Ragan?”
“We were dear friends,” she said. “Her classroom was next to mine. Lanier was a bright light. It was a huge shock when she disappeared. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over it.”
“At the time, what did you think happened to her? Did she ever discuss the idea of leaving her husband? Or going away?”
“Going away? No,” Deborah said.
