Page 69 of The Homewreckers
“When can we have that ruined dumpster hauled away?” Leetha asked, helping herself to a muffin. “That thing is an eyesore.”
“Not until the fire marshal comes back,” Cass said. “Which should be this morning.”
“I’ve left two messages for that Tybee cop,” Hattie said. “I wanthim to hear what Jorge and Tomas told us about that missing bucket of rags and the mineral spirits.”
“Who’d want to burn down this place, y’all?” Leetha asked. “Who’d you piss off?”
“Leave it to the cops to figure that out. We need to start filming,” Mo said, crumpling his paper coffee cup. “With or without your new squeeze.”
The film crew was set up in the hallway outside the kitchen.
Just as the cameras were beginning to roll, Trae arrived on the set. “Sorry,” he said to Mo, who pointedly glanced at his wristwatch. “The valet guys at the hotel couldn’t find my car, and then there was a train blocking the railroad tracks. For fifteen damn minutes.”
Mo shook his head and turned his attention back to Hattie. “As soon as you’re done here, we’ll get Trae to talk about the cabinet situation. If he’s not too busy.”
Trae stood a few inches from Mo’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not interested in lame excuses,” Mo retorted.
“Okay, you two,” Leetha said, pushing herself between the men. “That’s enough butt sniffin’. Can we go to work now?”
32Suspicious Minds
Makarowicz parked his city cruiser at the curb in front of the address he’d found on the internet. The house wasn’t what he expected of a man who was supposedly the scion of a wealthy old Savannah family.
It was the shabbiest house on East Forty-Eighth Street. A brick cottage with fading pale green paint with a scraggly yard and overgrown shrubs that obscured the front windows. But the pickup truck parked in the driveway looked fairly new and shiny.
He rang the doorbell and waited. “Who’s that?” a man’s voice called.
“Holland Creedmore? I’m Detective Makarowicz with the Tybee Police Department, and I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.” He held his badge up to the peephole in the wooden door.
“Shit,” the voice muttered.
The door opened a few inches with the chain lock still engaged. Holland Junior had a high forehead, receding blond hair, and a thick handlebar mustache. “What’s this about?”
“If you’ll let me come in, I’ll tell you,” Mak replied.
Creedmore opened the door and motioned for him to enter. “Okay, but you need to make this short. I’ve got someplace I need to be in thirty minutes.”
“Understood.”
“Sit there.” Holland Jr. motioned toward a black leather recliner that faced a matching black leather sofa.
Creedmore took a seat on the sofa. He was barefoot and wore baggy khaki slacks and a navy T-shirt that did little to hide a roll of fat around his belly.
“I saw in the newspaper that they found Lanier Ragan’s wallet at our old house on Tybee.” Creedmore’s tone was belligerent. “We don’t own it anymore, you know? Those TV people bought it out from under us.”
“I’m aware,” Mak said.
“All kinds of shady business going on out there at Tybee City Hall,” Creedmore said. “You working for the police department, I’m sure you see your share of the corruption.”
“Nope,” Mak said. “But I’ve only been on the force for a few months.”
“Give it time,” Creedmore said. “Those folks are crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mak took out his notebook and pen. “I understand you might have known Lanier Ragan? That schoolteacher who disappeared?”
“I played football at Cardinal Mooney for her husband, Frank Ragan,” Creedmore said. “I saw her at games and stuff like that, but I don’t have any idea how that wallet got there.”
