“What are we going to do about the body?”
Mo squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with both hands. He had Rebecca on the speaker on his phone, and she’d been pounding him with questions about the latest development at the house.
“We are not doing anything about the remains,” Mo said. “The police are handling it. I spoke to the police detective, and the family has tentatively identified the body as the missing school-teacher. I understand they’ll give some kind of press conference tomorrow.”
Rebecca jumped on the mention of the press. “Will they mention Homewreckers?”
“I don’t know. It’s a homicide investigation, not a media junket. Anyway, do you actually imagine that the discovery of a body is good press for the show?”
“It’s fabulous publicity,” Rebecca said. “Everyone in the country has been following this story since that wallet was discovered. It’s a real whodunnit. People are going to want to see the house where everything happened. In fact, I’m thinking we should move ahead with Homewreckers merch for the website.”
“What kind of merch?”
“The usual. Branded coffee mugs, wine tumblers, hoodies, T-shirts, baby onesies, car magnets. Oooh. I know. Wallets. And tiny Homewreckers shovels.”
Mo nearly spit out the mouthful of bourbon he’d been sipping. “Jesus, Rebecca. How ghoulish can you get?”
“Don’t take yourself so seriously, Mo,” she said, laughing. “What’s happened to your sense of humor? You said yourself, the woman’s been dead for seventeen years.”
He mopped up the bourbon that had spattered all over the keyboard of his laptop. “I’ll try to keep that in mind as I race to finish this damn house in the entirely too tight deadline you’ve given me.”
“I’m going to rush those Homewreckers T-shirts into production and have them shipped down there to you,” Rebecca said. “Maybe hand them out to the local cops and firefighters on that island of yours. See if we can get Homewreckers trending on social media.”
“Fine, whatever,” he said wearily. “Anything else?”
“How’s the romance between our two stars? Any new developments?”
Mo’s eyelid twitched. He took another gulp of bourbon, then pushed the glass away because the thought of Hattie with Trae Bartholomew made him nauseous.
“You mean, have they hit the sack yet? Is there a timeline for that, too?”
“You really are in a mood tonight,” Rebecca said. “I’m only thinking about the show and your career, you know. If it’s a hit, that could go a long way with Tony.”
“Right,” Mo said. “I’ll keep you posted. About all of it.”
He went back to the endless emails on his computer, sorting, prioritizing, and deleting. It was nearly midnight, and his eyes were burning from staring at the screen for hours. But there was still more to do. He went to the small table near the kitchen door, where he’d made a habit of dropping his keys, sunglasses, and most important, his notebook.
He’d been using small, leather-bound Moleskine notebooks for years, to keep up with the notes, sketches, and doodles he produced over the stretch of every show he’d ever created. Mo wrote in the notebooks every day; to-do lists, reminders, ideas, even shopping lists. They were a time capsule of his television career.
But his notebook wasn’t there. He went back to the dining room, searched the kitchen counters, went into the bedroom and checked the pockets of the shorts he’d changed out of after arriving home. No go. He fetched his car keys and went out to his rental, which was parked in the allotted slot in the lane behind the carriage house.
He searched the floor of the front and back seats, under the seats, even the glove box, although he knew he hadn’t stashed the notebook there. For a moment, he sat motionless in the front seat, trying to visualize the last place he could remember taking notes.
He snapped his fingers. The beach house. The back porch just outside the kitchen door. He was sure it was there. And he was just as sure he couldn’t risk leaving the notebook out in the damp ocean air.
He retrieved his billfold from the bedroom dresser and headed out into the night. Back to Tybee.
Thunder rumbled off to the east, and lightning zigzagged through the overheated cloud cover. Rain was in the air. He could smell it, almost taste it in the hot, moisture-laden air, and he sped up, hoping to reach the house—and the notebook—before the downpour began.
As he drove he mentally rewound the call with Rebecca. He knew she wouldn’t let up pressing him to exploit the tragedy that had apparently played out at the Creedmore house, or the possibility of a made-for-TV romance between Hattie and Trae. At some point, he’d have to find a way to push back on her alternately ghoulish and voyeuristic instincts—without jeopardizing the show’s chances at success.
There was no traffic this late; it was nearly midnight, and he reached Tybee in a record-for-him twenty minutes. The island was quiet.
The Tybee cop who was still posted at the entrance to the driveway nodded in recognition as he pulled off the street and into the drive. He’d only driven a few yards from the street when a series of high-pitched screams pierced the night air.
Mo floored the accelerator and sped toward the house. The house was dark, but he spotted Hattie’s parked truck. He pulled in beside it, slammed on the brakes, and grabbed his flashlight.
His heart in his throat, he pounded up the porch steps and flung the front door open.
“Hattie! Are you okay?”
He played the flashlight around the room, its beam finally settling on Trae Bartholomew, who seemed to have Hattie pinned against the wall near the fireplace.
Hattie hurriedly straightened her clothes and gently pushed away from Trae.
“Christ,” Trae growled, covering his eyes. “Turn that thing off.”
Mo flicked on the overhead light. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “I heard screams clear up by the road. I thought someone else was being murdered.”
Hattie could feel her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. “It’s fine. We’ve been sanding floors all night. Guess we got a little punchy. We were goofing around, and, uh, Trae fell.”
“Why are you here?” Trae asked, dusting the sawdust off his clothes.
“I came back for my notebook,” Mo said. He glared back at Trae. “I could ask the same of you, because I know you weren’t sanding any of these floors.”
“He was helping me,” Hattie said lamely. Her jeans and shirt, even her hair, were flecked with sawdust.
Mo’s eyes traveled from Hattie’s disheveled clothes to her crimson face. “Uh-huh.”
“What are you, her chaperone?” Trae looked over at Hattie. “I don’t need this shit. I’m heading to town. See you in the morning.”
As he passed Mo on the way out the front door, he added softly, “Fuck you.”
Hattie sagged a little against the wall. “I need to get home too,” she said, avoiding Mo’s questioning gaze, which settled on the pizza box and empty champagne bottle.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m fine.” She looked around the room. “I just need to find my keys and my phone. And my dog.”
“Ribsy? You didn’t bring him to work today, did you?”
“Ohhh. Right. I gave Ribsy the day off. Lucky dog.” She started to giggle, which turned into a hiccup. She walked somewhat unsteadily toward the kitchen and Mo followed her, switching on lights as he went.
“Here you are!” she said triumphantly, scooping her car keys and phone from the counter, then promptly dropping them onto the floor. “Whoops!”
Mo walked out to the back porch and found his Moleskine precisely where he remembered having seen it last. He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.
“Hey,” he said, touching Hattie’s arm. “I think you should let me give you a ride home. It’s late, and I get the impression you’ve maybe had a little too much champagne.”
“Noooo,” she started, and then sighed. “Okay. You’re right.”
He pulled alongside the cop, who was standing outside his cruiser, sipping from a foam cup.
“Thanks, Officer,” he said. “The house is locked up tight, and nobody else should need to go back there tonight.”
The cop nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
Hattie sat in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead.
“I’m a grown woman, you know,” she said abruptly. “What Trae and I do with our personal lives is none of your business.”
“You were screaming bloody murder,” he protested. “What was I supposed to think? The house was dark, I saw your truck parked outside. I thought someone was trying to maim you. Excuse me for being concerned for your safety.”
“At first. And then you jumped to conclusions and got all weird,” Hattie said. “Admit it. You hate the idea of me being with Trae.”
Mo gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles cracked. “It is none of my business,” he said finally. “I have no opinion whatsoever about your private life.”
“Good,” she said, yawning. “Glad we got that straight.”
Mo kept his eyes on the road, but after a few moments, he glanced over to see that Hattie’s chin was resting on her chest. She was asleep, softly snoring.
Luckily, he remembered how to get to her house in Thunderbolt. He parked in the driveway, then walked around to the passenger side and tapped her on the shoulder. “Hattie. Wake up. You’re home.”
Her eyelashes fluttered open. She looked around and yawned. “Huh?”
“Give me your keys.”
She handed them over and Mo took her arm and helped her out of the car.
“I can manage,” she said, scowling and jerking her arm away. “I’m fine now.”
“Well, I’m gonna walk you to your door, because that’s what good guys do,” Mo said.
“Fine.” She took one step and stumbled on a crack in the concrete sidewalk. He caught her before she could fall.
“Just how much champagne did you have?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not drunk.” She yawned again. “Just so, so tired. Long day.”
When they reached her front door they could hear frantic barking from inside.
“Ribsy!” Hattie exclaimed. “Oh my God. The poor guy.”
Mo unlocked the door and she stepped inside. The dog jumped on Hattie, nearly knocking her over, barking and wagging his tail and licking her face.
“Ribsy. Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She sank to the floor and gathered him into her arms. “Did you think I ran away from home and abandoned you?”
He ran circles around her, barking, and then stopping to lick her face.
Mo looked around the darkened living room. “Has he been inside all day?”
“No! There’s a doggie door. But he gets separation anxiety. Plus, he wants his dinner.”
“Where do you keep the dog food?” Mo asked. “I’ll feed him.” He walked into the kitchen and looked around. A plastic mat near the back door held Ribsy’s water and empty food bowl, and on the floor nearby, a ripped-open bag of dog food. Bits of kibble were scattered all over the floor.
“Looks like he found what he needed,” Mo muttered, picking up the now-empty bag. “Hey, Hattie. Where do you keep the broom?”
No answer. He walked into the living room and found Ribsy’s mistress asleep on the floor, with the dog curled up beside her.
“I should leave you right where you are,” he said. Instead, he leaned down and scooped her into his arms and deposited her on the nearby sofa. He went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and walked back into the living room.
Stepping over the dog, he knelt down and gently dabbed the cloth on her face, wiping away the traces of sawdust and dried sweat from her face and bare arms. “You’re a mess,” he said quietly.
Hattie stirred but didn’t open her eyes. “Huh?”
He untied her work boots and slid them off her feet.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “Sooo tired.”
He went back to the kitchen, and found the broom closet. Mo swept up the dog food, depositing some of it in Ribsy’s bowl, which he placed on the counter. He went back to the living room where Hattie was snoring again. He leaned over and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“He’s not good enough for you,” he said softly. “He should have driven you home himself, the chickenshit. He got you drunk and he should have made sure you were okay. I would never do you that way.”
Hattie stirred slightly and turned her face toward his. “Kiss me,” she mumbled. He hesitated, then dropped a kiss on her slightly parted lips.
“Mmm. Nice,” she said with a sigh.
Mo lingered for a moment, studying Hattie’s face, flushed with sleep, eyelashes still flecked with sawdust. He wondered what it would be like to wake up, every morning, to that lovely face.
Pushing the thought aside, he let himself out of the house, locking the door and depositing Hattie’s keys in a planter of ferns on the porch.
She heard the click of the key in the lock and the departing footsteps. She touched her lips. Had she dreamed that kiss? She yawned and fell back asleep.