The Homewreckers(4)

“Not eavesdropping,” Mo insisted. “Minding my own business, having breakfast. Not my fault that you talk so loud everyone in the place could hear you.”

“Hmm. And then you show up here less than an hour later. At this house we were just discussing. Obviously a coincidence.”

Mo made another snap decision.

“Okay, not a coincidence,” he said. “I did overhear you and—your dad?—talking at that café. And I was intrigued.” He reached into his hip pocket and brought out a slim leather case. He plucked a business card from the case and handed it to her.

Hattie’s eyebrows drew together as she read the card. “Mauricio Lopez. President, executive producer, Toolbox Productions.” She handed the card to Cass. “This doesn’t tell me why you followed me over here, and then trespassed on my work site.”

“Toolbox is a television production company. I create original reality shows, currently for the Home Place Television Network. While I was biking around the historic district this morning, I got an idea for what I think could, potentially, be a new reality show. So, what, you and your dad are flipping this house? And I gather it’s not going well.” He looked pointedly around at the gutted kitchen, then down at the man-size hole in the subfloor.

Cass and Hattie exchanged a look.

Hattie flicked the card back in the direction of Mo’s chest and it fluttered to the floor. “First off, Tug is my father-in-law, not my dad. Secondly, not that it’s any of your frickin’ business, but the house is coming along just fine.”

Mo shrugged. “So you’re not over budget? The banks actually do want to loan you enough money to finish? And you were crawling around under this house just for shits and grins when this rotted floor collapsed beneath me?”

Hattie’s face blushed a dull red. “You should go now, before you really piss me off.”

“Do not piss her off,” Cass warned. “Seriously, dude, just go.”

“Don’t you even want to hear my idea?” Mo countered. “An original, unscripted show. You and your crew would be the stars. Rehabbing an old house as a flip.”

“Oooh!” Cass deadpanned, nudging Hattie with her elbow. “He wants to put us in the movies. Hollywood, here we come.”

“Not the movies. Television. And not Hollywood,” Mo said. “That’s the point. Savannah is the perfect setting for a reality show. All this history, these old houses. Plus, labor and material costs have gotta be way cheaper down here. What did you have to pay for this place, anyway?”

“None of your business,” Hattie said.

“Eighty-two thousand,” Cass volunteered. “Squatters were living here. It was a bank foreclosure. So, what? You’d buy this house for the show?”

“Cass!” Hattie shot her a warning look.

“No. That’s not how it works. You invest your own money in the real estate, and you earn all the profits off the house when it sells. Of course, we negotiate a standard performance fee for you and your crew and line up some sponsors to trade their product in return for exposure on the show. Just how much have you sunk into this money pit already?” he asked.

“We’re done here,” Hattie said. She pointed toward the back door. “Go. Away. Now.”

Mo shook his head in disbelief. “You know how many people would sell their soul for an opportunity like this? To star in a new network reality show? I passed half a dozen historic houses being rehabbed while I was riding over here.”

“Go trespass on their job sites then,” Hattie said. “Fall through their floors.” She took his elbow and gave him a not-gentle shove. “Move along.”



* * *



When he reached his bike, Mauricio Lopez turned, whipped out his cell phone, aimed, and clicked off a series of photos. The two women stood in the driveway watching him speed away on the fat-tired bike. “You think that guy’s for real?” Cass asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Hattie said. She unzipped her coveralls, stepped out of them, and reached for her cell phone. “I gotta make nice with Ronnie, apologize, and get him back over here to start replacing all those cast-iron pipes.”

Hattie gazed up at the house. She’d been so thrilled when she’d seen the address on the county tax assessor’s list of foreclosures. She’d been watching this street for two years, riding past this particular house on an almost daily basis, stalking it like a jealous lover.

Her secret name for the house was Gertrude, after Gertrude Showalter, an elderly woman who’d lived across the street from Hattie’s family when she was growing up.

She’d seen the busted-out windows, the piles of empty liquor bottles and trash strewn around Gertrude’s porch, watched with dismay as a summer storm sent a huge tree branch crashing through the roof, knowing that the rain pouring in would further deteriorate the structure.

When the foreclosure listing was finally published, she’d been the first to show up on the courthouse steps, two hours before the bidding started, determined to win at any cost, to save this elegant old girl, polish her up, and sell her for a handsome profit.

Tug tried to warn her about buying a house without ever stepping foot inside, but she’d been determined to prove him wrong.

She’d driven directly from the courthouse to her new old house on Tattnall Street with the key clutched tightly in her fist.