Page 46 of The Homewreckers
“Is this house haunted?” another reporter called out.
“What? No,” she shot back. “There’s nothing sinister going on here. It’s an old house, and we’re trying to restore it. Families lived here once, people laughed and danced and watched the sunset and blew out the candles on birthday cakes. Babies took their first steps on the beach back there, and couples fell in love and got engaged. For almost a hundred years.”
“But what about Lanier Ragan?” Aaron something persisted. “Could something bad have happened to her here? Why else would her wallet be here, hidden in that wall all these years?”
“I can’t answer that,” Hattie said, shaking her head. “But I hope the police find some answers. I’m sure her family wants that too.”
“Did you know Lanier Ragan?” This time the question came froma petite Black woman with cascading braids whom Hattie recognized as Nya Davies, from WSAV, the local NBC affiliate.
Hattie felt herself flush. “Yes, Mrs. Ragan was my favorite teacher at St. Mary’s Academy. She was amazing. All the girls loved her.”
Mo clapped his hands and elbowed his way through the crowd of reporters. “Okay, folks, we need to wrap this up. The police are investigating, and we, of course, are giving them our full cooperation. We want this mystery solved, too, but in the meantime, we’ve got a very short deadline to finish work on this house.Homewreckerswill debut this fall, on HPTV.”
He put a hand on the small of Hattie’s back and steered her firmly, and quickly, away from the reporters who were still calling out questions for her. He unlocked the front door of the house and they stepped inside.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice shaking. “That was… intense.”
“You handled it just great,” he said. “Like a seasoned pro.” His voice echoed in the empty, high-ceilinged room. “You gave ’em as much as you had, and you were convincing.”
“Are the bosses at the network… like Rebecca… are they worried about this wallet thing?” Hattie asked. “I guess it’s bad publicity, huh?”
“You don’t know much about the entertainment business, do you? The newspaper story mentionedHomewreckersand the network. It’s gone viral. All publicity is good publicity as far as HPTV is concerned.”
“That’s pretty heartless,” Hattie said flatly.
“It’s a pretty heartless business,” Mo agreed. “By the way, the reporter from the newspaper wants to talk to you.”
“I hope you told her no. I literally have already said everything I know about that wallet.” Hattie gestured at the scaffolding she and Cass had erected in the hallway leading to the bedroom. “We’ve got to get the new staircase roughed in today. And I thought you wanted to shoot me with Trae, discussing paint colors.”
“The camera crew is heading to town with Trae to shoot his paint-shopping expedition. He’ll bring back samples, you’ll paint swatcheson the back porch, and we’ll film that. In the meantime, I promised the reporter you’d give her ten minutes of your valuable time.”
“When’s that supposed to happen?”
“No time like the present,” Mo said. He pointed toward the back of the house. “She’s waiting for you in the kitchen. Be nice, okay?”
21Twenty Questions
She found the reporter kneeling down against the back kitchen wall, running her fingertips over the newly taped and mudded wallboard, almost as though she was trying to divine what was hidden beneath that surface.
“Hattie Kavanaugh, meet Molly Fowlkes,” Mo said, backing out of the room. “I’ll, uh, leave you two alone, but Hattie, we’re gonna need you in makeup in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” Hattie said.
Molly tapped the wall. “Is this where you found the wallet?”
“Approximately,” Hattie said. “It was stuck down there between the studs.”
“Okay if I take a photo?” The reporter didn’t wait for permission. She pulled a bulky black camera from her shoulder bag and started clicking frames. “Could you stand over by the wall?”
Mindful of Mo’s admonition to play nice, Hattie shrugged, ran her fingers through her hair, and dutifully posed.
“Tell me about Lanier Ragan,” Molly said. “What was she like?”
Hattie stalled, walking over to the makeshift worktable, unrolling a set of plans that had been left out and bending over to examine them, while she mentally composed a response.
“You know how it is in high school—you always think your teachers are really old, even though now, I look back and realize they were mostly in their thirties and forties. But Mrs. Ragan was different. She was likeus.”
“How so?”
