“Still seems like a pretty big stretch to me,” Davis said.
“I’ve got an old photo of the team from that year,” Hattie went on. “How about if I read you the names and you just tell me if you think there’s a chance they were being tutored?”
“This is dumb,” Davis protested. “I haven’t thought of any of these guys in years.”
“You don’t go to any of the class reunions? Or alum nights at the football games?”
“No.”
“Humor me.”
She ran a finger down the photo caption and called out their names.
“Larry Albritton. Tommy Boylan. André Coates. Holland Creedmore, Matt Ellis…”
“Definitely not Ellis. He was a brainiac. I think he’s a judge up in DC now.”
Hattie continued with the roll call. “Braydon Jackson.”
“Not exactly a rocket scientist,” Davis said, chuckling. “He looked like he was thirty at fourteen, so he was always the guy we sent to Chu’s to buy beer.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe,” Hattie said. “Tyler Minshew?”
“Shew was a real straight arrow. Went to West Point. He was killed in action in Iraq.”
“Anthony Sapenza?”
“Probably not Tony. He went into the seminary right out of high school.”
Hattie looked back over the photo. She’d crossed through the names Davis had excluded. “What about Holland Creedmore?”
“I don’t know, Hattie. I’m telling you, I hardly remember that year. What about good old Coach Ragan? Did the police ever clear him?”
Hattie looked down at the photo. Frank Ragan stood in the middle of the ranks of his team. He was tall, broad-chested, with chiseled features and a straight-ahead stare. “I’m not sure whether he was ever a suspect,” she said.
“I get that you’re curious, but if the cops haven’t solved her disappearance after all these years, I find it hard to believe that any of this means anything.”
“I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one,” Hattie said, yawning.
“While I’ve got you on the phone, have you given any thought to my dinner invitation? Or are you too busy with your new costar? Looks like things have gotten pretty friendly between the two of you.”
Her temper flared. “Don’t believe everything you see on the internet, okay?”
“Whoops. Just kidding,” he said hastily.
“Good night, Davis,” she said.
On a whim, she decided to try one more name on that football roster.
She picked up her phone and scrolled through her list of contacts until she found his name.
André Coates had been a standout at Mooney and an All-Pro for the Atlanta Falcons, but after retirement, he’d returned home to Savannah and opened a successful car dealership. Two years earlier, tapping into what locals referred to as the “Mooney Mafia,” otherwise known as old school ties, André hired Kavanaugh and Son to rehab his parents’ home.
André’s voice boomed. “Hattie, girl, what up?”
“Hi, André. How’re your folks?”
“Real good. They’re loving the house, thanks to you.”
“I’m glad. Give them a hug for me. Hey, André, have you been following this stuff about Lanier Ragan?”
“Oh yeah. That’s crazy, you finding that wallet in the Creedmores’ beach house. What’s happening with all that?”
“The cops are investigating. Got a quick question for you. Did Frank Ragan get Lanier to tutor you or any of the other guys on the team your senior year?”
“Sure did.” He chuckled. “Coach wanted to make sure we did okay on our SATs. I have dyslexia, so reading comprehension was always a struggle. Ms. Lanier really helped me with that.”
“Okay. Did she tutor any other guys?”
“For sure Tommy Boylan, and yeah, Holland Creedmore. Saturday mornings, she’d have us meet up at school to take practice SAT tests. Why?”
“Uh, well, a rumor has surfaced that Lanier was having a thing with one of Frank’s football players, and maybe that had something to do with her disappearance.”
“Ohhhh shit,” André said. “Guess my mama knew what was up after all.”
“How so?”
“She was real particular about me having my tutoring sessions with Lanier at the public library. You know, she didn’t ever want anybody getting any ideas about what some Black kid was doing being alone with this pretty little blond schoolteacher.”