Page 79 of The Homewreckers
“Are you Mrs. Creedmore?” Mak asked.
“That’s me. Dorcas. Holl isn’t… I mean… right at this moment, he’s not at home.” She flashed an apologetic smile. “But I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
A pair of identical late-model silver Buicks were parked in the driveway. Both had Cardinal Mooney alumni stickers on the back window. The trunk of the car parked closest to the street was open, and a set of golf clubs was leaning against the bumper.
“Isn’t that your husband’s car parked right there?”
She opened the door and stepped onto the concrete stoop to get a look.
“Oh. I guess he must have just gotten home. Sometimes he goes straight out to the carriage house, where he, uh, has his office, without coming inside the house first.”
“Good. Maybe you can let him know I’m here?”
A voice echoed from inside the house. “Dorcas? Who’s that at the door? I swear to God, if you don’t stop ordering crap off Amazon…”
She stepped back inside. “Holl! It’s a policeman from Tybee. He wants to talk to us.”
“What about?” the senior Creedmore appeared in the foyer. The resemblance to his son was uncanny. Same high forehead and receding hairline, jowly face, florid complexion, although the older man’s posture was somewhat stooped, and the hair was completely gray.
“I’d like to discuss the home your family owns on Chatham Avenue,” Mak said.
“Owned. The city sold it out from under us. Biggest land grab of the century,” Creedmore said with a growl.
Mak was pretty sure the Native American nation might argue that point.
“Right,” he said. “But the new owner’s doing some work on the house, and they’ve discovered a billfold that belonged to Lanier Ragan, the schoolteacher who…”
“I know who Lanier Ragan was,” Creedmore snapped. “Is. For all we know, she’s dyed her hair black and is alive and well and living in L.A. I don’t see what that’s got to do with us.”
“If you’d give me a few minutes of your time, I’d be happy to explain that,” Mak said. “You’d probably be more comfortable talking to me here than all the way out at Tybee. We do have a new station house, but it’s a long ride, and I hate to inconvenience you like that.”
Dorcas Creedmore opened the door. “I’ll make coffee.”
“No!” Big Holl placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, you won’t. This isn’t bridge club.”
The living room was large and high-ceilinged. Prominently displayed over the fireplace mantel was a gilt-framed portrait of a young boy of seven or eight, dressed in a sailor suit with short pants. Little Holland back when he really was little, Makarowicz thought.
Dorcas Creedmore and her husband were seated as far apart from each other as humanly possible, she on the edge of an ornate French-looking chair, he on the far side of a tufted green silk sofa. Makarowicz took a wing chair near the fireplace.
“I’ll just get right to it,” Mak said. “The discovery of that billfold, after all these years, makes me wonder what connection Lanier Ragan might have to that house, and the family who owned it right up until a couple weeks ago.”
“Connection?” Big Holland frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you accusing us of something? Should I call my attorney?”
“Yes!” Dorcas piped up. “That’s a good idea, Holl. We should call Web Carver.”
Big Holl rolled his eyes. “Web Carver sold his practice and moved to Highlands three years ago, Dorcas.”
“Right. I forgot.”
“The only possible connection that young woman had to our family, or our house at Tybee, was that she was married to Frank Ragan, who was our son’s football coach at Cardinal Mooney,” Creedmore said. “As president of the alumni association and the football booster club, I entertained the whole team multiple times over the years. There’s a chance she accompanied Frank to some of those affairs, but I couldn’t say for certain.”
“Oyster roasts,” Dorcas said. “We had an oyster roast the Sunday after Thanksgiving every year for the whole team and their families.”
Mak scribbled a few nonsensical words in his notebook. He wondered if it was just his imagination, or whether Dorcas Creedmore was a little bit glassy-eyed. A little bit stoned.
“What difference does it make? This is all ancient history.” The husband drummed his fingers on a spindly-legged glass-topped end table.
“It makes a difference because we’ve heard rumors that Lanier Ragan was sleeping with one of the members of Frank Ragan’s football team.”
