“That oak dining room table probably weighs a ton,” Cass added. “And what about that gross gold shag wall-to-wall carpet? Who’s ripping up all that stuff?”
“Have all the guys already gone home?” Hattie asked, walking out to the porch. “Tug? Are you still here?”
There was no answer. The tech crews were busy loading up their equipment. Trae waved as he got in his rental sedan and drove away.
“Looks like it’s you and me, sis,” Cass said.
“Left with all the heavy lifting. Again. Also, I forgot to tell you. We had a visit from the Tybee code cop earlier. He issued us a ticket for a thousand dollars for cutting down those trees that were blocking the driveway.”
“Seriously? How’d he even know? I had the guys haul a lot of that stuff to the dump.”
“He said he had photos. I think someone must have narced us out.”
“Probably one of the same neighbors who complained to the city about the lot being overgrown,” Cass exclaimed. “Why are people so pissy?”
“Don’t know.” Hattie pulled her cell phone from her pocket.
“You calling College Hunks Hauling Junk?” Cass asked.
“That’s a good idea, but no. I’m calling the cops to tell them about finding Lanier Ragan’s wallet.”
18
Blue Light Special
Hattie was on her third trip to the dumpster when she saw the police patrol car rolling slowly down the driveway, blue lights flashing. She tossed the armload of mildewed and water-swollen books into the trash, dusted her hands on the back of her jeans, and waited.
The cop parked next to her truck. He got out and looked slowly around at his surroundings. He was white, in his midfifties, nearly bald, with the exception of a fringe of graying hair and a matching neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He wore the Tybee police uniform, khaki pants and a navy polo shirt with the city logo. A gold badge was clipped to his belt.
“Hi,” Hattie said, walking over to him. “I’m Hattie Kavanaugh.”
“Al Makarowicz,” the cop said, not removing his aviator-style sunglasses. “You the one who called in about finding the wallet?”
“Yes.”
“Wanna show it to me?”
“It’s inside the house,” she said.
He looked around and shook his head. “How old is this place?”
“It was built in 1922, and remodeled a couple of times.” She started walking toward the house, with the cop matching her stride.
“How long have you owned the place?”
“Just a week. It was condemned, and I bought it from the city. We’re just starting work on it and we’re taping a reality TV show about the renovation.” They were standing just inside the front doorway.
“We got a briefing about that. Hear there’s gonna be a lot of cars in and out here.”
Cass trundled into the living room with a wheelbarrow full of lathe and plaster chunks.
“This is Cass Pelletier. She’s the one who actually found the wallet. Cass, this is Officer Mak…”
“Detective Makarowicz,” he said. “Don’t bother trying to pronounce it. People just call me Mak. Or Al Mak. Or Detective Mak.”
“Hi,” Cass said. “The wallet’s out in the kitchen.”
“It gets worse,” the cop said, following the women into the gutted space. “You really think you can make this place livable?”
“It’s our job,” Hattie assured him. “Rescuing old houses and bringing them back to life.”
“You ask me, this one’s DOA,” Makarowicz said.
“There’s the wallet.” Cass pointed to the sawhorse table.
“How many people have handled it, since you found it?” he asked, donning a thin pair of latex gloves.
“Just me and Hattie,” Cass said.
He picked up the wallet and began examining it. “I understand you knew the woman this belonged to? Lanier Ragan?”
“She was our teacher, at St. Mary’s Academy,” Hattie said. “But she went missing in 2005.”
He plucked the driver’s license from the wallet and studied it. “So young,” he said under his breath. He put the license back, then dropped it into a paper evidence bag.
“Show me where you found the wallet, please,” he said, addressing Cass.
Cass walked to the back wall of the kitchen. She’d tacked a blue tarp to the exterior of the wall.
“This was an old bathroom, which we were demolishing,” she said. “At one time, there was a sink right here, and a medicine cabinet. Beside the medicine cabinet, there was a sort of slot in the wall, where people would put used razor blades. We were knocking out the old plaster and lathe when we found the wallet, sitting back here, between the wall studs.”