The Homewreckers(26)

“In development,” Mo had said. “Has any network said yes?”

“Not in so many words,” she’d admitted.

“In the meantime, I’ve got a sure thing. A signed contract with HPTV, and a crew, and we’re ready to start filming as soon as you get your sassy ass down here.”

“No. Nuh-uh,” Taleetha had said. “Not even for you.”

“I’m gonna email you the talent reel I shot. You’ll love Hattie. Drives a pickup truck, runs the construction company with her father-in-law. She’s the real deal.”

“The answer is still no, Mo. But what’s the big rush with this new show?”

“I finally got a lucky break,” he’d said. “Krystee from Going Coastal is pregnant with twins and she’s on strict bed rest, which means the show is on hiatus for at least six months.”

“And that Wednesday night slot is up for grabs. Temporarily,” Taleetha had said thoughtfully.

Mo had seen an opening and jumped on it. “You know you want to do this show with me, Taleetha. You miss me. You miss us.”

She hadn’t denied it. “What about Becky the Bitch? What’s she gonna have to say about you hiring me?”

“Leave her to me,” Mo had said. “How soon can you get here?”

“To Savannah? I’m not even sure I know where that is.”

“You fly to Atlanta, then you get on a flight to Savannah. I’ll book your flight tonight. You can be here by Friday.”

She had let out a long sigh. “Okay, send me that talent reel and everything else you’ve got.”



* * *



The phone buzzed again, like an angry fly trapped against a window screen. Mo sighed.

Dealing with a workaholic like Becca sucked up all the oxygen in the room.

His phone buzzed again.

WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY HAVEN’T YOU ANSWERED ME?

He yawned and typed.

It’s only 3 A.M. here. All good with the show. Talk tomorrow.

He lifted one hip and shoved the phone under the sofa cushion and fell instantly back to sleep.





13

Winner Takes All




“Uh, hi. I’m here for the Creedmore house?”

A heavy plate-glass window separated her from the clerk who sat at a desk in the lobby of the Tybee City Hall. He was an older man, wearing a white polo shirt and a sour attitude. He looked up at Hattie over black-rimmed half-moon glasses that perched on the tip of his nose.

“What’s that?”

Hattie raised her voice. “The Creedmore house!” Two people who’d been loitering nearby, studying the notices on a large bulletin board, looked up, startled.

“What about it?”

“The city condemned that house, and I placed a sealed bid to buy it this morning. I was told that the bids would be unsealed at noon,” Hattie said.

“Back there. In the conference room.” He pointed to a door at the far end of the hall.

As Hattie started down the hall she noticed that both the people who’d been standing in the lobby were following her. One was a powerfully built man, late-thirties, she guessed, with blond, slicked-back hair and a thick mustache. He wore jeans and a light blue, rumpled oxford-cloth dress shirt, and he walked with a slight limp. The other man was much older, dressed in the same kind of work clothes Hattie wore on the job, a faded T-shirt, tan Carhartts, and steel-toed work boots.

Today, though, Hattie was dressed in black capris, and a black-and-white-striped blouse. She was even wearing lipstick. She wanted to make a good impression, as if to show city officials that she would be a good caretaker of that crumbling house a few blocks away.

The younger guy hurried past her, reached the door to the conference room, and went inside. Hattie pushed through the door and the older man followed suit.

A woman in her fifties sat in a padded swivel chair, with a pile of envelopes and a clipboard on the conference table in front of her. Were all of those bids on the Creedmore house? Hattie’s heart sank.

“Sit anywhere,” the woman said, without looking up from a file folder she was leafing through. Hattie chose a chair at the end of the right side of the table. The blond man was seated directly across from her, and the other stranger sat closer to the clerk.

“Okay,” the woman said, glancing down at her phone. “I’m Carol Branch. It’s noon, and I’m going to go ahead and unseal these bids.” She nodded at the three people in the room. “I’m assuming all of you are here because you’ve placed bids?”

“That’s right,” the blond said.

“Yeah,” the older man responded.

The clerk took a letter opener and slowly slit a manila mailing envelope, removed a piece of paper, nodded, wrote something on her clipboard, and reached for the next bid.

By the time the clerk was done, Hattie counted eight bids. The clerk’s expression never changed. When she’d opened the last envelope, she took her pencil and ran it down the list on her clipboard.

The waiting was agony. The blond man drummed his fingertips on the tabletop until Hattie thought she’d lose her mind. The older man stared up at the ceiling, seemingly fascinated with the beauty and symmetry of acoustic tile.

Hattie’s phone buzzed with an incoming text from Cass.