The Homewreckers(116)

“You’re probably right,” Hattie said. “But what if it wasn’t them? What if Holland and his parents really are telling the truth? What if someone else was out there that night? And what if that someone also had a thing for Lanier Ragan?”

“That’s a lot of what-ifs,” Cass said.

Hattie leaned across the table. “You wanted to know why I was so creeped out this afternoon? I’ll tell you. I went walking down the seawall, just to see if the Creedmores’ dock house was visible from the Hoffmans’ house. And Davis was there. Mowing the grass.”

“So? What’s creepy about that?”

“He had a big bandage wrapped around his right hand, and I could see a place on his chest that was blistered. He said he’d had a grilling accident. But Cass, I think he was lying. I think he got burned when he started that fire in our dumpster.”



* * *



Cass opened the bottle of Chardonnay she’d stashed in the fridge and poured a glass for herself. She gestured with the bottle toward Hattie. “Hair of the dog?”

“God, no.”

Cass sat back down opposite her friend. “Why would Davis set that dumpster fire?”

“To scare us off or make us abandon the project. As long as the Creedmores owned the house, he probably thought his secret was safe. No chance they’d go poking around back there, and if they did somehow discover Lanier’s body, they’d never broadcast that fact because they were complicit in her death. And it could be tied back to Holland.”

Cass sipped her wine. “That’s a huge supposition you’re making.”

“Not really. Davis has called me twice—out of the blue—to ask about our progress on the house. He as much as offered to buy it from me and said if he’d known it was going on the market, he’d have bought it himself. And he’s asked me to dinner twice. Why? After all these years?”

“Face it, kid, when you’re hot, you’re hot.”

Hattie snorted, pointing at her damp, unruly hair and the outfit that was one step away from the rag bag. “Riiight.”

“Okay, suppose Davis did set the fire and suppose he did kill Lanier. How did he hide the body in that septic tank? How did he even know about it?”

“That’s what Makarowicz needs to figure out,” Hattie said. “He told me he’s going to ask the district attorney to take the case to a grand jury.”

“I hope they indict the whole family,” Cass said. “Including that old witch Mavis.”

“I’m sick of thinking about them,” Hattie said. “Let’s go in the den and eat junk food and watch some trashy TV.”

Slowly, a mischievous smile spread across Cass’s face.

“Hey. Did you know you can still watch all the old episodes of Trae’s last show? They’re streaming online. My favorite part is the finale, when he loses.”

“Brilliant!” Hattie said. “We can hate-watch Design Minds while we figure out how to get this damned house finished and sold in a little more than a week.”





61

The Clock Is Ticking




The next morning, Trae stopped Cass as she was walking through the dining room toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Hattie’s giving me the cold shoulder, and I think it has something to do with you. I bet you tattled to her about those goddamn kitchen lights.”

Cass pried his fingers loose. “Your relationship with Hattie is none of my business, but this house—and the quality of the work being done here—is my business. Now I’ve gotta worry about what else we didn’t catch before our final inspection.”

“No worries there,” Trae said. “I took care of things.”

Cass took a step backward. “Are you saying you bribed the inspector?”

“That’s how stuff gets done,” Trae said. “You grease some palms and suddenly you don’t have to order more kitchen cabinets and wait for them to be installed. You don’t have to tear down light fixtures and wait for some idiot to run into town to buy junction boxes. You need to wise up, Cass. It’s done all the time.”

She shook her head emphatically. “It’s not how we do things. One bad wiring job, this whole house—which is made of hundred-year-old heart pine, which is essentially kindling—could go up in flames. What if someone was here when the fire started? It’s our reputation on the line, not yours. And what happens when that sleazeball inspector decides the only way he’ll pass our next inspection is if we pay him off? Again and again?”

“Not my problem,” Trae said. “My job is to make this place look fabulous, despite all the fuckups by you and your lamebrain crew.”

He started to walk away, but the door to the hall bathroom opened, and Hattie walked out, wiping damp hands on the back of her jeans.

Her face was still, but her voice crackled with barely suppressed anger. “It is your problem, Trae. Now I’m going to have to get Erik’s guys to pull down every single light fixture you had them hang and do it over the right way.”

“No! That’ll totally screw up everything,” Trae protested. “We’ve got the walk-through in less than forty-eight hours. You take those fixtures down, every ceiling will have to be patched and repainted. I’ve got furniture being delivered, window treatments to install, and art to hang. I can’t have electricians on ladders in the middle of all that.”