The Homewreckers(61)

The front of the house was untouched by the fire.

“The firemen cut power to the house last night,” Hattie said.

“I found the main breaker and turned it back on when I got here,” Mo said.

She heard voices coming from the kitchen. “The painters,” Cass said. “Jorge and his guys feel awful. They heard about the fire on the radio and got here about the same time I did.”

“But we don’t know that it was their fault,” Hattie cautioned.

“One thing we do know. It’s a mess,” Mo said.

Hattie’s heart sank when she saw the pool of water seeping into the hallway.

Jorge and his son Tomas were inside the kitchen, using push brooms to sweep an inch of standing water toward the propped-open back door. A huge industrial fan was set up on the makeshift sawhorse worktable, and Jorge’s nephew Eddie was dragging in a wet-dry shop vacuum. The whole back wall of the kitchen was coated with a fine, greasy black film, and all the cabinets, which had not yet been installed, were coated in the same soot.

Jorge looked up at her with mournful eyes.

“So sorry,” he said. “We were careful, Hattie. Tomas says he had all the paint rags in a ten-gallon sealed bucket. It was on the back porch, but it’s gone now.”

Tomas nodded. “The can of mineral spirits we were using to clean brushes is gone too.”

“Holy shit,” Hattie whispered. “Someone really did set that fire on purpose.”



* * *



“What happens now?” Hattie asked. “Will we have to shut down? Will the network give us more time to finish the house?”

They were standing on the front porch, sipping coffee, while the camera crews were busy documenting the fire damage for the insurance company.

“No, and no,” Mo said calmly. “Rebecca called me as soon as I got off the phone with you. She was adamant. Nothing changes. We make the fire drama part of the story. Who doesn’t love a good catastrophe—as long as it happens to someone else. Right?”

“That’s crazy,” Hattie objected. “That water in the kitchen was standing all night. There’s a good chance those old wooden floors will have warped. And the back porch is a mess. I’m worried those columns might have more than just smoke damage.”

“We’ll have to figure a work-around. Trae can design something that looks close to or better. Where is he, by the way? It’s almost nine.”

“I don’t know,” Hattie said. “He texted me early this morning, but I haven’t had time to text him back or call.”

“Ooh, girl,” Leetha said. “After I saw those photos of you two on TMZ I figured maybe the two of you would be strolling in here together this morning, looking all afterglowy.”

Hattie let out a long, exasperated sigh. “How many times do I have to say it—it wasn’t like that. We are not a couple. Okay? Are we clear?”

“Whatever you say,” Leetha murmured.



* * *



Cass walked up, holding a paper plate loaded with fruit and muffins from craft services.

“Mom called the insurance company, and an adjuster should be here today.”

“When can we have that ruined dumpster hauled away?” Leetha asked, helping herself to a muffin. “That thing is an eyesore.”

“Not until the fire marshal comes back,” Cass said. “Which should be this morning.”

“I’ve left two messages for that Tybee cop,” Hattie said. “I want him to hear what Jorge and Tomas told us about that missing bucket of rags and the mineral spirits.”

“Who’d want to burn down this place, y’all?” Leetha asked. “Who’d you piss off?”

“Leave it to the cops to figure that out. We need to start filming,” Mo said, crumpling his paper coffee cup. “With or without your new squeeze.”



* * *



The film crew was set up in the hallway outside the kitchen.

Just as the cameras were beginning to roll, Trae arrived on the set. “Sorry,” he said to Mo, who pointedly glanced at his wristwatch. “The valet guys at the hotel couldn’t find my car, and then there was a train blocking the railroad tracks. For fifteen damn minutes.”

Mo shook his head and turned his attention back to Hattie. “As soon as you’re done here, we’ll get Trae to talk about the cabinet situation. If he’s not too busy.”

Trae stood a few inches from Mo’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not interested in lame excuses,” Mo retorted.

“Okay, you two,” Leetha said, pushing herself between the men. “That’s enough butt sniffin’. Can we go to work now?”





32

Suspicious Minds




Makarowicz parked his city cruiser at the curb in front of the address he’d found on the internet. The house wasn’t what he expected of a man who was supposedly the scion of a wealthy old Savannah family.

It was the shabbiest house on East Forty-Eighth Street. A brick cottage with fading pale green paint with a scraggly yard and overgrown shrubs that obscured the front windows. But the pickup truck parked in the driveway looked fairly new and shiny.