The Homewreckers(33)

“That’s it,” Hattie huffed. “Mo, you can show him the rest of the house. You two don’t need me.”



* * *



She was picking at a salad in the craft services tent when one of the carpenters appeared at her side. “Hey, Hattie, there’s a guy here from the city who wants to see you.”

“What about?”

Joey, the carpenter, pointed toward the front of the house. “I think he’s a code cop.”

“Shit.”

She hurried out of the tent. Sure enough, an older white man was pacing back and forth in front of the front porch, a clipboard tucked under one arm, visibly agitated.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Hattie, the owner of this property. Is there some kind of issue?”

“Howard Rice, Tybee Island code enforcement.” He tapped the badge pinned to the front of his starched uniform shirt. He had one of those tiny Charlie Chaplin mustaches. “Yes, there’s a problem. Who’s responsible for cutting down all those old-growth trees out here?”

“Old growth? They were palmettos and scrub pines and a couple of scrawny magnolias and half-dead crape myrtles.”

“No. I saw for myself. I saw the photos before you people hauled away the evidence, plus you left the stumps. There were at least three protected tree species that you people cut down. In clear violation of the city’s tree ordinance.”

“We didn’t haul away any ‘evidence,’” Hattie protested. “We didn’t even know the city had a tree ordinance. The whole driveway was blocked with a bunch of trash trees. We had to cut our way through just to reach the house.”

“Ignorance is no excuse,” he said, shaking a finger in her face. “The city’s tree ordinance is posted on the Tybee Island website. I suggest you familiarize yourself with it, before I issue you another citation.”

He ripped a piece of paper from the clipboard and thrust it at her. “That’s a thousand-dollar fine. Payable by cash, cashier’s check, or credit card at city hall.”

“What!” Hattie stared down at the citation. “That’s insane. You people condemned the property because neighbors complained that it was overgrown. Now you wanna penalize me for cutting down the overgrowth?”

“Those were mature trees,” he repeated. “I saw the photos. I saw the tree stumps and measured them for myself. And you should know, if I find another code violation like this one, I won’t hesitate to issue a stop-work order. Television show or no television show.”





16

Hammer Time




Hattie stood in front of the downstairs bathroom wall, a sledgehammer resting on her shoulder, waiting for direction from Mo.

“Okay, now look at Trae, offer him the sledgehammer, then take a step back.”

“Hold on,” Trae protested. The cameraman glanced over at Mo, who motioned for him to stop filming.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Trae said. “I’m a designer, not a construction worker. Nobody’s going to believe I’d ever actually wield a sledgehammer.”

“Then make a joke about that,” Mo said sharply. “It’s called banter, for God’s sake. Deliver the line, hit the wall, and let’s move on.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve only got another hour of daylight, and I need that wall down so Hattie’s people can get started with the insulation and wallboard.”

“The point is, me pretending to use a sledgehammer makes me look ludicrous,” Trae said. “And I’m tired of being the punch line to your lame jokes.” He yanked off the Kavanaugh & Son hardhat he’d been wearing and threw it aside, nearly hitting the gaffer with it. “Screw it. I’m done for today.” He stalked out of the kitchen, scattering the small knot of crew members who’d been standing around, waiting for the actual action to begin.

Hattie rolled her eyes. “Hey, Mo? This sledgehammer ain’t getting any lighter here.”

Mo turned back to her. “Go ahead and give it a whack. Pretend it’s Trae’s skull.” He pointed at the cameraman. “Okay, let’s roll.”

Hattie swung the sledgehammer, slamming it into the wall with all the pent-up frustration of a day spent sitting around waiting for something to happen, sending plaster and lathe flying.

She glanced at Mo, who silently signaled her to repeat. She did, relishing the sound of splintering wood.

When she finally lowered the sledgehammer, she’d managed to take out a roughly four-foot-square patch of wall. With her gloved hands, she pried away more of the lathe.

“Oh crap,” she muttered, poking a finger in one of the exposed wall studs. The wood crumbled into dust, like stale cake. “This isn’t good.” She pulled away more of the plaster and lathe and pointed. “Termites.”

Mo motioned for the cameraman to zoom in for a closer shot.

“Now explain why this is such bad news,” he told Hattie.

She pulled a screwdriver from her toolbelt and stuck it into the damaged stud. “This two-by-four is like Swiss cheese. There’s a high probability that the rest of the studs are in the same condition.” She pointed toward the point where the wall met the ceiling line. “See how it sags like that? I was hoping maybe this was just a matter of an old house settling, but that was me being optimistic. We’ll have to reframe this whole exterior wall. And because it’s termite damage, we’ll have to tear up at least part of the floor here, because it could mean that we have foundation issues, too.”