“We’re going to salvage the base cabinets and paint them, so it’s just the wall units we’ve got coming. The delivery guys texted me this morning, the cabinets should be here by noon. We’ll get ’em installed, slap on the countertops and the sink and faucets today, then slide in the appliances tomorrow. Backsplashes get tiled tomorrow. Easy peasy.”
“It’s only easy if we don’t hit any speed bumps,” Cass pointed out.
Trae sat up and smirked at her. “They’re your subs. I’m guessing you can push them to get it done on time.”
“Let’s wait ’til we know it’s ready before we call for inspection,” Cass said, her tone signaling what Hattie recognized as her code-red irritation level. “If Inspector Gadget shows up and finds one screw out of place, he’ll flunk us, and God knows when we’ll get him back over here.”
“It’s gotta get done before the end of the week,” Trae said. “I want to get that new floor masked off and the diamond pattern painted over the weekend, when I won’t have these dumbasses walking all over it and tracking in dirt.”
Hattie allowed herself a small sigh. “Okay, Trae. If the cabinets get here by noon, and if the guys can get them installed and the sink and countertops done, we’ll call for the inspection. But no promises. And no bitching and moaning if it doesn’t get done on your time frame.”
“That’s all I asked for,” Trae said. “And I don’t need a side order of attitude to go with it.”
Cass stomped out of the trailer.
* * *
“This is complete and utter chaos,” Hattie told Mo, as the camera operators were setting up to shoot exteriors of the front of the house late that afternoon. “We can’t schedule any of the subs like we would normally. Now Trae’s got the cabinet installers working around the electricians and plumbers. Everybody is in everybody else’s way. I don’t get how that Going Coastal couple can finish even one project, let alone six a season with all this stuff going on around them.”
“You get used to it. Besides, their projects are never as time-consuming as yours. They’re dealing with new construction, and you’re dealing with restoring a house that’s nearly a hundred years old. And in the middle of a murder investigation, which was preceded by a fire.”
“I guess,” Hattie said, nibbling on a protein bar. “I’ve been working on old houses for more than fifteen years, and I’ve never had a project like this. Not even close. Every morning when I get up, I wonder what’s going to happen next.”
“Me too,” Mo said. “Kind of keeps it interesting, don’t you think?”
“I’d prefer boring. Safe and normal and boring would be just fine.”
“You know,” Mo pointed out, “if the show does well, the network’s going to want to order another season, which means you’re going to have to find another old house to restore as soon as you sell this one.”
“If I can sell it,” Hattie said. “Who’s going to want to buy a beach house once they find out a body was buried in the backyard?”
Mo considered this. “You’re just going to have to make it look so amazing, a buyer will be willing to overlook that.”
“How do you think it’s going? The show, I mean. And don’t bullshit me, please.”
“Rebecca likes what she’s seen so far,” he said. “And there’s a hell of a lot of advance media buzz around this show, thanks to you and Trae.”
“Ugh. I will never, ever get used to having someone stick a camera in my face,” she said. “It feels like such an invasion of privacy.”
“Better get over that, Hattie. I hate to say it, but once the news gets out about the body being found here, it’s likely to be a media frenzy.”
“Don’t remind me,” Hattie said, finishing her bar and crumpling the wrapper between her fingers. “I’m already dreading it.”
“If we have to, I’ll hire an off-duty cop to keep the press away from the house,” Mo said. “Makarowicz seems like a good guy. I’m sure he’ll do his best to keep it low-key.”
Leetha appeared in the entrance to the craft services tent. “Okay, Hattie Mae. We’re ready for you and Ashtray out front.”
* * *
With the cameras rolling, Trae examined the vintage brass carriage lanterns that had been mounted on either side of the front door.
He climbed down the porch steps and stood a few yards away. “They’re hung way, way too high,” he announced. “They gotta come down at least six inches. Probably more like eight.”