“Okay. Coming.” She shot the reporter an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I really hope you find out what happened to Lanier Ragan. Selfishly, I really hope it’s not connected to this house.”
“About the house,” Molly said quickly. “I know Holland Creedmore’s family owned it up until a couple weeks ago. And that he played football at Cardinal Mooney for Frank Ragan. Could there be more of a connection?”
“Maybe? Holland was older than me, and he ran in a whole different crowd.”
“What kind of crowd was that?” the reporter asked.
“You know. Rich kids, jocks, stoners.”
“And who did you run with?” Molly asked, smiling.
“Mostly just Cassidy Pelletier—maybe you met her, she works with me, and we’ve been best friends since parochial school. And a few other girls.”
“Hattie!” Mo bellowed from outside the back door. “Now!”
“Gotta go.” Hattie made a quick exit.
22
Up on the Roof
Hattie was sitting in the makeup chair as Lisa fussed over her hair. “I think we should maybe do it in a French braid, or something different. The network honchos saw the video from earlier in the week and they want you to look more feminine.”
“More feminine?” Hattie stared in the mirror. Lisa had already spent thirty minutes spackling, powdering, and contouring her face. She barely recognized herself beneath the thick fringe of extensions Lisa had painstakingly glued to her own stubby lashes. “What next? Do they want to dress me in a tube top and a pair of Daisy Dukes?”
Jodi, the wardrobe assistant, bustled in just then with a garment bag draped over her arm. “Not quite.” She laughed, unzipping the bag and holding up a pair of distressed cut-off overalls and a hot pink sleeveless crop top. “But close.”
“Noooo,” Hattie moaned. “I can’t work in that getup. And it’s not my style. Does Leetha know about this?”
“Don’t know,” Jodi said. “But your call is in five minutes, so we need to get you out of that chair and into your duds before she starts screaming for my hide. And also, I’m supposed to tell you to ditch the work boots.”
* * *
Mo and Leetha were huddling with one of the cameramen when Hattie slunk into the living room.
“Gurrrrl,” Leetha said, taking in Hattie’s newfound glamour. “Did somebody forget to tell me we’re shooting a pole-dancing sequence today?”
“Lisa said she got orders from the network to tart me up, and then Jodi handed me these crap clothes and said she’d been told I needed to ditch the Carhartts.” She pointed a finger at Mo. “Was this your idea?”
“Nope. That came from Rebecca. She and Tony watched the video and came up with this. And just to be clear, I’m as appalled as you.”
“I feel ridiculous,” Hattie said. “These damn overalls are all up in my Kool-Aid, and every time I move I’m afraid one of my boobs will come flopping out.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
She turned to see Trae standing in the doorway. “Might be a ratings booster,” he drawled. “We’re gonna start calling you Hattie the hottie.”
“Never mind that,” Leetha said, glancing down at her notes. “Let’s talk about today. We need to reshoot that back porch sequence from yesterday.”
“But the new floorboards are already nailed down,” Hattie protested.
Leetha’s smile was grim. “Not anymore. But don’t fret. I only had the guys pull up a small section. You’ll stand in the hole they made, point out where y’all rebuilt the old crumbling brick pilings with concrete block, and that’s it.”
“What about me?” Trae asked.
“Downstairs bathroom. Tiling, sink vanity, shower enclosure, mirror,” Leetha told him. “Check in with Jodi. She’s got a different shirt for you to wear, since you’ll be demonstrating your tiling skills today.”
“Me?”
The wardrobe girl waved a blue denim work shirt at him.
“No fair,” Hattie said. “If I have to wear a crop top, he should at least have to wear a wife-beater.”
A slow smile spread across Leetha’s face. “Great idea. Let’s let the viewers at home get a look at Ashtray’s guns. Jodi, we’re gonna need a pair of scissors.”
* * *
Trae stood in the new bathroom shower holding up a piece of subway tile in one hand and a trowel in the other, while Hattie coached him in the finer points of the job. His face was dripping with perspiration and his biceps, now exposed since the sleeves of his work shirt had been hacked off, gleamed in the bright glare of the camera lights. He looked hot, literally and figuratively.