“I brought us dinner,” Mo said, holding out a foil-wrapped cylinder.
Hattie regarded the package with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Hot dogs. Courtesy of Chu’s convenience store. Hope you like mustard.”
“Love it.” She unwrapped the still-warm foil and bit into the hot dog with such obvious enthusiasm it made Mo laugh.
“What? Do I have mustard on my face?” She swiped at her chin with a napkin.
“No. I guess I really didn’t expect you to eat a convenience store roller dog. Not too many women I know in L.A. would stoop so low.”
“I’m not from L.A.,” Hattie said. “In case you haven’t noticed.” She took another bite and chewed. “And I missed lunch, so yeah, I’m starved.”
Mo demolished his own hot dog in three neat bites.
“What’s going on out there now?” Hattie asked, pointing in the direction of the grave site, where yellow tape encircled the pit. Crime scene technicians were still busy photographing and taking measurements under the glare of floodlights.
“They’re about to remove the body.”
Suddenly queasy, she pushed away the foil wrapper with the half-eaten hot dog.
“I can’t stop thinking about her daughter, Emma. How she’ll feel when she hears her mother’s been found. After all these years.”
“Maybe it will be a relief,” Mo said.
“Unless she finds out her mother’s disappearance had something to do with her father, or that her mother really was sleeping with a high school kid, and then that opens up another whole can of worms. Invariably, her family is going to get dragged through the mud.” She made a sour face. “I know how that feels.”
“That witch Mavis Creedmore said some pretty nasty stuff about your dad,” Mo said. “Do you want to talk about it, or is it still too raw?”
Hattie fiddled with something on the tiny tabletop. “I still can’t believe it’s been almost twenty years.”
She took a deep breath. “My dad was vice president of Integrity Bank. Ironic, right? Especially when you consider that he was also treasurer of the Community Chest, which is kind of like the United Way. Basically, Dad got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He embezzled almost $1.2 million over the course of six years, until a new chairman—an outsider, no less—took over running the Community Chest. The new guy took one look at the accounting books and ordered an audit.”
“And then what?”
“The board wanted my dad to quietly reimburse the money, because it must have been a ‘misunderstanding’ because my dad’s family has been in Savannah forever, like, really, founding member of this and president of that. But the new guy didn’t give a shit about my dad’s pedigree and refused to sweep it all under the rug.”
“And?”
“He was offered a plea deal. But he wouldn’t accept because he was that sure he’d get away with it. He went to trial and all his dirty laundry got hung out to dry in public. It wasn’t like he really needed the money. He and my mom always drove new cars. We lived in a nice house and I always went to private school. He stole money from orphans and widows and kids with cancer to pay for his mistress’s new car, and ‘business trips’ to Bermuda and Napa and Palm Beach.”
Mo offered a half smile. “How old were you when this happened?”
“Not quite fifteen. It doesn’t compare to having your mom disappear when you’re only four, but it rocked my world. During sentencing his lawyer got some quack to testify that my dad had schizophrenia, which is why he had this whole double life.”
“Did you understand any of this while it was going on? I mean, it must have been a lot for a kid that age, even a smart kid like you.”
“My mom told me nothing,” Hattie said, her tone bitter. “Just that Dad was ‘in trouble’ and they were getting a divorce. Most of what I found out I overheard in the bathroom at school.”
“Kids that age are brutal,” Mo observed.
“Yeah. Private-school girls are absolutely lethal. Except for Cass. Anytime she thought I was being picked on she’d go into what she called ‘demon mode.’ Lanier Ragan helped too. She was genuinely compassionate. I can understand how maybe she took that too far.”
“And what happened to your dad?”
“He did three years in federal prison. As soon as the divorce papers were filed, my mom changed our legal names to her maiden name and moved to Sarasota.”
Mo got up and opened the RV’s door. It was getting dark, and the chorus of cicadas outside was nearly deafening. “The ambulance is just leaving.” He turned to address her. “You were having a tough time in school, so how come you didn’t go with your mom? New name, new school, new life?”
Hattie got up and peered over his shoulder, just as the ambulance glided silently up the drive toward the street, bearing what was left of Lanier Ragan. She hadn’t been inside a church since Hank’s funeral, but now she sketched a quick sign of the cross.
“I was pissed at my mom. Always a daddy’s girl. I was convinced she must have done something to drive him away from us. And for a fourteen-year-old, I guess, the hell you know is preferable to the heaven you don’t. Cass went to her parents and begged them to let me stay with them, at least until school was out in May. Zenobia talks a tough game, but she’s got the biggest heart. She never would have turned me away. May came, and I just … stayed.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“Around. He lives at my grandfather’s fishing camp, out on the Little Ogeechee River. He day-trades and spends his days worrying about his old enemies catching up to him.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Almost never. But I went to see him after I lost most of my investment in the house on Tattnall Street, and no bank in town would make me a loan. I borrowed fifty thousand from him, so I’d have enough cash to fix up this house.” She took a deep breath. “Cass doesn’t know. You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“Why is it a secret? He’s your father, right?”
“Taking money from him, even a loan, feels … dirty.”
Mo was intensely aware of how close they were standing together. So close he could smell the scent of her perfume. Close enough to put his arm around her shoulder and offer some kind of belated comfort. He wanted to do that, but he would not.
Hattie was still staring out the open door of the RV. Glowing fireflies flitted through the darkened treetops. The world was perfectly still, with the exception of the thrumming of the cicadas. Was she holding her breath?
“I should go home,” she said finally. She gave a short, sharp whistle and Ribsy lifted his head from the bench where he’d been napping most of the day.
“Me too. You go on, I’ll walk through the house and lock up. I want to get an idea of where we need to start in the morning. Assuming the cops don’t shut us down.”
Hattie’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t think about that right now.”
“Go!” Mo said, pointing at the door. “Are you, uh, seeing Trae tonight?”
“No. Why?”
“I found his iPad when I was scrounging around craft services for food a little while ago. I just thought if you were seeing him…”
“I’m not. I’m going to go home and run a hot shower and wash off this stink.”
Mo made a show of sniffing the air around her. “You don’t stink. You smell like rainbows and … joint compound.”
She smiled. “You know, Mo, you’re not nearly as big an asshole as I thought you were when we met.”
“Don’t try to soften me up with all those cute flowery southern phrases, Kavanaugh. Tell me what you really think.”
She patted his arm, then, on impulse, planted a quick peck on his cheek as she and Ribsy headed for her truck.
He cursed himself as he watched her go.
Mo’s nerves seemed to crackle with pent-up energy. He went home to his carriage house, showered, and rummaged around in the fridge for something more substantial than a roller dog, but his erratic shooting schedule meant that his choices were limited to a wilting brown bag of salad and a rock-hard two-day-old bagel.
Savannah was full of great restaurants, he knew, so maybe, despite the late hour, he’d go get himself a decent dinner. He spotted Trae’s iPad on the kitchen counter, and decided, on impulse, that he’d walk the six or seven blocks to The Whitaker, the pricey hotel where his Homewreckers budget was paying for his star to stay. He could hand off the tablet and grab a bite in the lobby restaurant.
He’d underestimated the heat and humidity of a summer night in Savannah. By the time he reached The Whitaker his hair was plastered to his head and his shirt was sticking to his back. He stood just inside the hyper-chilled lobby doors and looked around. He’d thought about calling Trae to tell him he was downstairs, but decided he’d really had enough of the pampered punk for one day.
Instead, he went to the reception desk and handed the iPad to the desk clerk, along with the request that it be delivered to Mr. Bartholomew.
Then, as a reward for his sweaty trek, he took himself to the lobby lounge, which was suitably dark and clubby-feeling, with leather booths and candlelit tables. He sat at the bar and ordered a New York strip, rare, with béarnaise sauce, pommes frites, and an eight-ounce pour of a Cabernet that the bartender promised was life-altering.
He was attacking the basket of warm bread when he heard a woman’s familiar laugh echoing in the high-ceilinged hotel lobby.
Mo swiveled his barstool slowly around and momentarily froze. The earthy laugh was familiar because it was coming from the Headline Hollywood reporter who’d interviewed him, hours earlier, at the Chatham Avenue house. She wasn’t alone. In fact, she was arm in arm with Trae Bartholomew.
He quickly spun his stool around before Trae could spot him spying. But he watched in the mirrored bar back as the two strolled to the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside, their bodies pressed closely together in an embrace so intimate Mo closed his eyes and took a slug of his Cab.
That pampered punk, he thought, would mess with Hattie’s mind. Maybe break her heart. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.