The Homewreckers(65)

“First, we are going to carefully clean up as much of this black soot as we can. We use a commercial degreasing product. Then, when we see how bad the damage is, we will figure out which part of the wall might need to be replaced.”

Hattie ran the flat of her hand over the wall near the kitchen door and held her greasy palm up to the camera. “Yuck. Jorge, how long will it take your crew to clean up all this mess?”

“Four guys, we start this afternoon, work late. Maybe two, three days.”

“In the meantime,” Hattie said, sighing, “there’s still plenty of work to do. The carpenters need to finish framing out the new stairway inside, and the plumbers are already working on roughing in the new half bath in the hallway.”

Trae stepped easily into the frame. “Let’s take folks inside and show them the progress we’ve made on the new downstairs master suite.”



* * *



The claims adjuster was writing up his report in the kitchen when Hattie and Trae finished shooting at the front of the house. He was in his fifties, with silver hair and pale blue eyes behind silver-framed spectacles.

“And how soon can we get a settlement check?” Cass asked. “As you can see, we’re on a tight deadline here.”

“I need to get back to the office and check some numbers, but I think it should be early next week,” the adjuster said. He glanced over at Trae, and then back down at his report, and then back again at Trae with a sheepish expression. “You’re Trae Bartholomew, right? You probably get tired of hearing this, but my wife is a big fan. Huge fan. Loved that last show you did.”

“Thanks,” Trae said. “I never get tired of hearing from my fans. What’s your wife’s name?”

“Dani. Well, Danielle.” He produced a sheet of paper from the back of his notepad and held it out to Trae. “Would you mind? I mean, if it’s not too big an imposition?”

“Not at all. Tell your wife to be sure and watch The Homewreckers. That’s the show we’re filming here right now. It’ll air in September.”

“I’ll do that,” the inspector said. “The Homewreckers. Got it.” He looked at Hattie. “You should be hearing something from me about your settlement by early next week.” He headed for the door and was about to leave, but then he doubled back. “Might as well get your autograph, too, young lady,” he said, handing the paper to Hattie. “Who knows? Someday you might be famous, too, and this will be worth something.”



* * *



The fire marshal’s name was Steven Parkman. He was short and round and had a full, luxurious white beard and wore a black baseball cap with the Tybee city insignia on it. He and Makarowicz had been circling the dumpster, poking at it with a shovel, and snapping photos while Hattie was occupied inside with the claims adjuster.

“Hattie, this is Steve Parkman,” Mak said, when she joined them outside.

“Mr. Parkman,” Hattie said. “Thank you for coming.” She noticed that both men were wearing thin, disposable latex gloves.

“Sparky,” Parkman said. “Everyone calls me Sparky.”

“Fire department humor,” Mak said, not cracking a smile. He pointed at a misshapen lump that the two men had separated from the contents of the dumpster. “Your painter assured me that his son was storing oily rags in a bucket that was on the porch back here. We found what’s left of it. In the dumpster.”

With the toe of his boot, Sparky nudged a blackened rectangular object. “And here’s your accelerant. A gallon can of paint thinner.”

“We were right. The fire was deliberately set,” Hattie said.

“Arson,” Sparky said. “I’ve seen the photo of the fire taken by our anonymous ‘concerned citizen.’ I’ll speak to Howard Rice to see if he has any more information, but I’m guessing that’s a dead end.”

“What happens now?” Hattie asked.

The jovial-looking fire marshal’s tone was grave. “We’re going to find out who set this fire. And why.”



* * *



After Sparky left, Makarowicz looked up at the painters, who were already scrubbing down the rear wall of the house. “How bad was the inside?”

“Come see for yourself,” Hattie said. She and Cass led him into the kitchen. Two large industrial fans were aimed at the wooden floors, and one of Jorge’s crew members was wiping down the new kitchen cabinets with a strong-smelling degreaser.

“Not a total disaster,” Makarowicz said.

“Bad enough,” Cass said. “We can’t afford to lose these cabinets. If the smoke damage can’t be mitigated, we’ll have to order new ones. We really can’t afford the delay.”

“Damn shame,” Makarowicz said.

“Have you found anything new about Lanier Ragan?” Hattie asked.

“Did you know a St. Mary’s teacher named Deborah Logenbuhl?”

“Mrs. Logenbuhl,” Hattie exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten about her? The flaming red hair and the wacky glasses and colorful outfits? She was like an exotic bird in a flock of gray pigeons.”

“We talked on the phone,” the detective said. “She was apparently good friends with Lanier.”