Page 74 of The Homewreckers
“Not a total disaster,” Makarowicz said.
“Bad enough,” Cass said. “We can’t afford to lose these cabinets. If the smoke damage can’t be mitigated, we’ll have to order new ones. We really can’t afford the delay.”
“Damn shame,” Makarowicz said.
“Have you found anything new about Lanier Ragan?” Hattie asked.
“Did you know a St. Mary’s teacher named Deborah Logenbuhl?”
“Mrs. Logenbuhl,” Hattie exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten about her? The flaming red hair and the wacky glasses and colorful outfits? She was like an exotic bird in a flock of gray pigeons.”
“We talked on the phone,” the detective said. “She was apparently good friends with Lanier.”
“Right. They always ate lunch together,” Hattie said. “Have you talked to her?”
“Yeah. She told me that in the fall of 2004 Lanier was busy, tutoring students, helping girls get their grades raised so they could get into the right college. And, she said, Frank Ragan got his wife to tutor some of his football players, too.”
“Ohhh,” Hattie said. “So, you think maybe what Molly Fowlkes heard was true?”
“Could be,” Mak said. “Maybe Lanier was teaching more than adjectives and adverbs.”
“Yeah,” Cass said, “maybe she was helping some dude bone upon sex ed.” Her tone was more bitter than funny, and Hattie did a double take.
“Sorry, not sorry,” Cass muttered, leaving the room.
“Did Mrs. Logenbuhl know which football players Lanier was tutoring?” Hattie asked.
“No. All she knew was that Lanier was preoccupied.”
“Can you get a list of all the guys on the Cardinal Mooney football team that year?”
Makarowicz reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a neatly folded square of papers. “For good or bad, the internet knows all.” He unfolded a printout of an old black-and-white photo and placed it on the sawhorse worktable.
“Frank Ragan’s football team won the state championship in 2004. Got lots of publicity.” He tapped the photo. “I’m thinking one of this crew could have been teacher’s pet.”
34Old School Ties
When Hattie got home, she took a long, hot shower, put on a pair of boxer shorts and a favorite old T-shirt, and warmed up a bowl of Kraft mac and cheese, which she ate sitting on her favorite chair in the living room.
Her eyes traveled to the rows of paperback mysteries on the bookshelves. After Hank’s death, books, especially mysteries, had become her refuge. She liked the predictability, the unspoken promise that no matter how ugly, violent, or tragic things got in a mystery, by the story’s end there would be some degree of closure. Justice would be meted out.
She was idly leafing through a battered copy ofVoid Moon,her favorite Michael Connelly novel, when she heard her phone ding to announce an incoming text message. She carefully stepped over Ribsy, who was asleep at her feet, and retrieved the phone from the kitchen. The message was from Davis Hoffman.
Hey. Heard about the fire. You okay?
Hattie sank back down into her armchair.
I’m okay. Just exhausted. And worried.
She watched the little bubbles popping onto the screen to indicate he was typing.
Anything I can do to help?
An image popped into her imagination, of the dignified, almost aristocratic Davis Hoffman rolling up his French cuffs to rip up mildewed carpet, or jackhammering a bathroom full of peachy-pinkporcelain tile with those long, elegant fingers, the ones with the monogrammed gold signet ring and the bulky Cardinal Mooney class ring.
Maybe. But not with the house.
More bubbles.
