The Homewreckers(57)

“I’m the contractor,” Hattie said. “And I’ll definitely speak to my crew about that.”

She heard the crunch of tires on the drive and turned to see a red SUV rolling toward them. “That’s our chief,” the firefighter said, taking one last gulp of Gatorade. “He’s gonna need to talk to you for his report.”



* * *



Hattie was still giving the fire chief her contact information when the Tybee police cruiser came bumping down the drive.

The chief waved and the police car pulled alongside them. The window of the cruiser lowered and she recognized the driver. It was Makarowicz, the detective she’d met the previous week, after they’d discovered Lanier Ragan’s wallet in the wall.

“We meet again,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Dumpster fire,” the fire chief said. “My guys are about ready to roll out.” He nodded at Hattie. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else from you. I’ll send an investigator out tomorrow, just as a formality.”



* * *



“Want to take a look?” the cop asked.

“I do, but I’m dreading what I’ll find,” Hattie admitted.

“We got company,” Makarowicz said, shielding his eyes from the headlights of an approaching car.

“Trae,” she exclaimed. “I completely forgot he was still here.”

The white Lexus came to a stop a few yards away. She reached the car just as he was getting out.

“How’s the house?” Trae asked. “I was starting to get worried.”

“See for yourself,” Hattie said, pointing toward the house. “Still standing. The firemen said the blaze was mostly contained in the dumpster. Sorry. The fire chief needed my info for his report, and then Detective Makarowicz, from last week, just got here and wants to talk to me.”

Trae shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“You should go ahead and head back to town,” Hattie urged. “There’s nothing you can do here tonight.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Sorry to end the night on such a sour note. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.” He leaned in and his lips grazed her cheek.



* * *



The acrid smell of charred wood and chemicals grew stronger as Hattie and Makarowicz approached the rear of the house.

“That your boyfriend?” Mak asked.

“Trae? No. He’s, uh, he’s the designer on the show. We had dinner earlier, and he was bringing me back here to pick up my truck when I smelled the smoke from the fire.”

Makarowicz played the beam of his flashlight over the back of the container, which was now a blackened, hulking chunk of steel. The front hatch had been unlocked and a mound of unrecognizable cinders spilled onto the scorched ground around it.

“So that’s where the fire originated?” the cop asked, walking closer. His steps made a sloshing sound in the puddles of water left from the fire hoses. He swept the light toward the house, and Hattie gasped softly.

A patch of the wooden siding nearest the house, roughly six feet by twelve feet, bore greasy black scorch marks, but the porch columns and planking looked untouched.

She walked up to the porch to get a closer look, and the cop’s flashlight beam followed her. “It doesn’t look too bad,” she reported. “But I’m afraid to open the house to see if there’s any water damage.”

“Let it wait ’til morning,” Mak advised. “Nothing you can do tonight.”

“Guess not,” she agreed.

He slapped at a mosquito on his arm and regarded her solemnly. “This might not be a coincidence, you know.”

The thought had occurred to her as soon as she saw the knot of gawkers standing on the street in front of the house, but she hadn’t wanted to voice the idea, for fear of giving it oxygen.

“You think somebody might have set this fire—intentionally?” she asked. “Could it have something to do with Lanier Ragan?”

“I’m not an arson investigator. It’s been all over the news about the investigation into her disappearance being reopened. Maybe someone doesn’t want you messing around with this house.”

“Do you know Howard Rice? The city’s code enforcement officer? He’s issued us two different citations for code violations. Someone reported us to the city for cutting down what he says were mature trees. They weren’t. Just a bunch of stunted scrub pines, palmettos, and weeds. That was a thousand-dollar fine. A couple days later, he came by to slap me with a two-hundred-dollar fine for violating the city’s noise ordinance. He said neighbors had been complaining. But nobody’s voiced any complaints to me.”

“Don’t know this Rice guy,” Mak said.

“You don’t want to. I’m just wondering if whoever ratted us out to Inspector Gadget might have gotten mad enough to set fire to the dumpster.”

“You mean, as a warning?” Mak asked.

“They could have been trying to burn down the whole house. That firefighter told me if we hadn’t seen the smoke when we did, this house would’ve burnt to the ground.”

The cop was silent for a moment. “Who’d want to do something like that? And why?”