The Homewreckers(102)

Mo nearly spit out the mouthful of bourbon he’d been sipping. “Jesus, Rebecca. How ghoulish can you get?”

“Don’t take yourself so seriously, Mo,” she said, laughing. “What’s happened to your sense of humor? You said yourself, the woman’s been dead for seventeen years.”

He mopped up the bourbon that had spattered all over the keyboard of his laptop. “I’ll try to keep that in mind as I race to finish this damn house in the entirely too tight deadline you’ve given me.”

“I’m going to rush those Homewreckers T-shirts into production and have them shipped down there to you,” Rebecca said. “Maybe hand them out to the local cops and firefighters on that island of yours. See if we can get Homewreckers trending on social media.”

“Fine, whatever,” he said wearily. “Anything else?”

“How’s the romance between our two stars? Any new developments?”

Mo’s eyelid twitched. He took another gulp of bourbon, then pushed the glass away because the thought of Hattie with Trae Bartholomew made him nauseous.

“You mean, have they hit the sack yet? Is there a timeline for that, too?”

“You really are in a mood tonight,” Rebecca said. “I’m only thinking about the show and your career, you know. If it’s a hit, that could go a long way with Tony.”

“Right,” Mo said. “I’ll keep you posted. About all of it.”



* * *



He went back to the endless emails on his computer, sorting, prioritizing, and deleting. It was nearly midnight, and his eyes were burning from staring at the screen for hours. But there was still more to do. He went to the small table near the kitchen door, where he’d made a habit of dropping his keys, sunglasses, and most important, his notebook.

He’d been using small, leather-bound Moleskine notebooks for years, to keep up with the notes, sketches, and doodles he produced over the stretch of every show he’d ever created. Mo wrote in the notebooks every day; to-do lists, reminders, ideas, even shopping lists. They were a time capsule of his television career.

But his notebook wasn’t there. He went back to the dining room, searched the kitchen counters, went into the bedroom and checked the pockets of the shorts he’d changed out of after arriving home. No go. He fetched his car keys and went out to his rental, which was parked in the allotted slot in the lane behind the carriage house.

He searched the floor of the front and back seats, under the seats, even the glove box, although he knew he hadn’t stashed the notebook there. For a moment, he sat motionless in the front seat, trying to visualize the last place he could remember taking notes.

He snapped his fingers. The beach house. The back porch just outside the kitchen door. He was sure it was there. And he was just as sure he couldn’t risk leaving the notebook out in the damp ocean air.

He retrieved his billfold from the bedroom dresser and headed out into the night. Back to Tybee.



* * *



Thunder rumbled off to the east, and lightning zigzagged through the overheated cloud cover. Rain was in the air. He could smell it, almost taste it in the hot, moisture-laden air, and he sped up, hoping to reach the house—and the notebook—before the downpour began.

As he drove he mentally rewound the call with Rebecca. He knew she wouldn’t let up pressing him to exploit the tragedy that had apparently played out at the Creedmore house, or the possibility of a made-for-TV romance between Hattie and Trae. At some point, he’d have to find a way to push back on her alternately ghoulish and voyeuristic instincts—without jeopardizing the show’s chances at success.

There was no traffic this late; it was nearly midnight, and he reached Tybee in a record-for-him twenty minutes. The island was quiet.

The Tybee cop who was still posted at the entrance to the driveway nodded in recognition as he pulled off the street and into the drive. He’d only driven a few yards from the street when a series of high-pitched screams pierced the night air.

Mo floored the accelerator and sped toward the house. The house was dark, but he spotted Hattie’s parked truck. He pulled in beside it, slammed on the brakes, and grabbed his flashlight.

His heart in his throat, he pounded up the porch steps and flung the front door open.

“Hattie! Are you okay?”

He played the flashlight around the room, its beam finally settling on Trae Bartholomew, who seemed to have Hattie pinned against the wall near the fireplace.

Hattie hurriedly straightened her clothes and gently pushed away from Trae.

“Christ,” Trae growled, covering his eyes. “Turn that thing off.”

Mo flicked on the overhead light. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “I heard screams clear up by the road. I thought someone else was being murdered.”

Hattie could feel her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “It’s fine. We’ve been sanding floors all night. Guess we got a little punchy. We were goofing around, and, uh, Trae fell.”

“Why are you here?” Trae asked, dusting the sawdust off his clothes.

“I came back for my notebook,” Mo said. He glared back at Trae. “I could ask the same of you, because I know you weren’t sanding any of these floors.”

“He was helping me,” Hattie said lamely. Her jeans and shirt, even her hair, were flecked with sawdust.