“Yeah.” Hattie slid her mug onto the coffee maker. “What if Tug and Nancy see those pictures? How’s that going to make them feel?”
“Honey? I got a news flash for you. Hank’s dead. But you’re alive. And it’s been seven years now. Tug and Nancy might not exactly love the idea of you being with another man, but they’re good people. They’ll get used to it. The question is, will you? Hattie?”
“I’m here,” she replied. “Look, Cass. The sun’s not even up yet. I can’t get all existential with you before I’m fully caffeinated.”
Cass disconnected, and Hattie sipped her coffee and tried to gather her thoughts. She looked down at the one remaining text message on her phone. The one from Trae.
I dreamed about you last night.
“That’s it? That’s the text?”
Ribsy looked up from his food bowl.
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Hattie asked him, dumping the rest of her coffee into the sink. She stopped and patted the dog’s head. “Okay, boy. No offense, but I hate men.”
31
The Show Must Go On
Hattie loaded Ribsy into the truck and started the drive to Tybee with her wet hair in a towel turban. Her phone was in the cupholder and it pinged to alert her to an incoming text. The message was from Cass. She felt a stabbing pain behind her left eye when she read it.
INSPECTOR GADGET IS BACK
* * *
The driveway was lined with vehicles, including a small white truck with the Tybee city seal on the door.
She parked her truck, jumped down, and made for the porch, with Ribsy bounding along behind. “Now what?”
Howard Rice was standing on the front porch of the house, clipboard tucked under his arm, nose to nose with Mo, who appeared to be having a spirited discussion with the code inspector.
She could hear his voice as she approached the pair. “This is harassment, pure and simple,” Mo said. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“I have a fiduciary duty to the city,” Rice replied, not backing down or away. “When a code violation comes to my attention, it’s my job to enforce the law.” He held up his clipboard and showed it to the producer. “This photo clearly shows that your dumpster was left uncovered. That’s a thousand-dollar fine.”
Hattie marched toward the porch and snatched the clipboard out of Rice’s hand.
The paper was a printout of a color photo showing a dark green container similar to the one in the backyard, taken at night, probably with a flash. “Where’d you get this?” she demanded.
Ribsy positioned himself at her feet, alert for potential danger.
“A concerned citizen emailed it to me last night,” Rice said. He reclaimed the clipboard. “Clearly, you can see the dumpster isn’t covered, because there are boards and bits of tarpaper spilling over the side.”
“Last night? What time last night?” A white-hot rage was boiling up from her chest.
“I’d have to check the time code on the email,” Rice said. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a violation.” He started to rip a citation from a pad clipped to the board, but Hattie stopped him.
“That dumpster is at the rear of my property. We both know it’s not visible from the road. Whoever took that photo was trespassing on private property. I’m sure you’re aware that we had a fire out there last night, which could have burned this house down. My crew and I were here working until around eight thirty, at which time I went to dinner. By the time I got back here shortly before ten, that dumpster was already blazing.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Are you blind and deaf?” Mo shouted. “She’s saying your ‘concerned citizen’ is a goddamned arsonist who deliberately set fire to that dumpster.”
Gadget had the good sense to take a step backward. “You don’t know that.”
“The hell we don’t,” Hattie said. She grabbed her phone from her pocket. “Stay right here. I’m calling Detective Makarowicz at Tybee PD. He needs to see this photo.”
Rice ripped the citation from the pad and handed it to Hattie, who threw it to the porch floor and stomped on it.
* * *
“Super fun way to start the day,” said Cass, who’d been leaning against the porch railing, watching Hattie’s interaction with Inspector Gadget.
“My head already feels like it’s going to explode.”
She called the cell number Makarowicz had given her, but it went directly to voicemail.