“When does the war start?”

“Soon. The other lawyers will show up with the other will.”

“Should be fascinating.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Amburgh. Here’s my card.” Jake left his business card and a $5 bill on the table and hurried out. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking, trying to collect his thoughts and get his mind focused on a contested estate worth $20 million.

A year earlier, Clanton had gossiped its way through a lawsuit over an insurance policy covering a fertilizer plant that had mysteriously burned to the ground. Its owner was a local shyster named Bobby Carl Leach, a shifty operator with a history of burned buildings and lawsuits. Fortunately, Jake was not involved in the litigation; he avoided Leach at all costs. But during the trial, it was revealed that Leach had a net worth of about $4 million. There was nothing liquid about his balance sheet, but when his liabilities were subtracted from his assets, there was an impressive figure for his equity. This had led to countless discussions and arguments over who, exactly, was the richest person in Ford County. The debates had raged over early morning coffee around the square, and in bars where bankers met after hours, and throughout the courthouse where lawyers huddled to exaggerate the latest testimony, all over town, literally.

Bobby Carl, with $4 million, was certainly at the top of the list. The Wilbanks clan would have been had Lucien not squandered the family fortune decades earlier. Several farmers were mentioned, but only out of habit. They had “family money,” which, by the late 1980s, meant they owned sections of land but struggled to pay their bills. A man named Willie Traynor had sold The Ford County Times eight years earlier for $1.5 million, and there were rumors he’d doubled his money in the stock market. However, few rumors about Willie had ever been taken seriously. A ninety-eight-year-old woman held bank stock worth $6 million. As the contest wore on, an anonymous list appeared in a court clerk’s office and was soon faxed all over town. It was cleverly labeled “Forbes Top Ten List of Richest Ford Countians.” Everybody had a copy, and this fueled the gossip. The list was edited, enlarged, detailed, amended, and modified and even fictionalized, but through it all there was no mention of Mr. Seth Hubbard.

The town’s exercise in speculation went on with enthusiasm for several weeks before running out of gas. Not surprisingly, Jake had never seen his own name on the list.

He chuckled to himself as he thought of Ms. Lettie Lang and her forthcoming and rather dramatic entry onto the list.

9

For her last day on the job Lettie arrived half an hour early, and she did so in the hopeless belief that such punctuality might impress Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe; that they might somehow reconsider and allow her to stay on. At 7:30, she parked her twelve-year-old Pontiac next to Mr. Seth’s pickup truck. She had stopped calling him Mr. Seth months earlier, when they were alone anyway. Around other people she used the “Mister,” but only for appearances. She took a deep breath and clutched the wheel and hated the thought of seeing those people again. They would be leaving soon, as soon as possible. She’d heard them gripe about being forced to spend two nights there. Their worlds back home were crumbling, and they were desperate to get away. Burying their father was such a nuisance. They despised Ford County.

She had slept little. Mr. Brigance’s words “sizable portion of his estate” had rattled noisily around her brain throughout the night. She had not told Simeon. Perhaps she would later. Perhaps she would let Mr. Brigance do it. Simeon had badgered her about what the lawyer wanted, what he’d said, but Lettie had been too bewildered and too frightened to try and explain anything. And how could she explain what she didn’t understand? As confused as she was, Lettie knew the most foolish thing she could do was to believe in a positive outcome. The day she saw any money would be the day she believed, and not a moment before.

The kitchen door off the garage was unlocked. Lettie entered quietly and paused to listen for sounds of activity. The television was on in the den. Coffee was brewing on the counter. She coughed as loudly as possible, and a voice called, “Is that you, Lettie?”

“It is,” she said sweetly. She stepped into the den behind a fake smile and found Ian Dafoe on the sofa, still in his pajamas, surrounded by paperwork, lost in the details of some looming deal.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Dafoe,” she said.

“Good morning, Lettie,” he replied with a smile. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks, and you?”

“As well as can be expected. Up most of the night with this,” he said, sweeping an arm over his beloved paperwork, as if she knew exactly what it all meant. “Get me some coffee, would you? Black.”

“Yes sir.”

Lettie took him coffee, which he accepted without a nod or a word, lost once more in his deal. She returned to the kitchen, poured herself some coffee, and when she opened the refrigerator to get the cream she saw a bottle of vodka, almost empty. She had never seen liquor in the house; Seth didn’t keep it. Once a month he brought home a few beers, stuck them in the fridge, and then usually forgot about them.

The sink was full of dirty dishes—how could they possibly be expected to load the dishwasher with a servant on the payroll? Lettie got busy with the cleaning, and presently Mr. Dafoe stopped at the door and said, “I think I’ll get a shower now. Ramona is not feeling well, probably caught a cold.”

Cold or vodka? Lettie thought. But she said, “I’m sorry. Can I do anything for her?”

“Not really. But some breakfast would be nice, eggs and bacon. Scrambled for me, not sure about Herschel.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Since they were leaving, as was the servant, and since the house was about to be locked up, then sold or somehow disposed of, Lettie decided to clean out the pantry and refrigerator. She fried bacon and sausage, whipped up pancakes, scrambled eggs and made omelets and cheese grits and warmed up store-bought biscuits, Seth’s favorite brand. The table was covered with steaming bowls and platters when the three sat down for breakfast, complaining the entire time about all the food and fuss. But they ate. Ramona, puffy-eyed and red-faced and unwilling to say much, seemed to especially crave the grease. Lettie hung around for a few minutes, properly serving them, and the mood was tense. She suspected they’d had a rough night, drinking and arguing and trying to survive one last night in a house they hated. She eased back into the bedrooms, happy to see their bags were packed.

From the shadows, she heard Herschel and Ian discussing a visit by the lawyers. Ian argued it was easier for the lawyers to come to Seth’s house than for the three of them to troop over to Tupelo.

“Damned right they can come to us,” Ian said. “They’ll be here at ten.”

“Okay, okay,” Herschel conceded, then they lowered their voices.

After breakfast, as Lettie cleared the table and stacked the dishes, the three moved outdoors again, to the patio where they settled around the picnic table and drank their coffee in the morning sun. Ramona seemed to perk up. Lettie, who lived with a drunk, figured that most mornings started slow for Mrs. Dafoe. There was laughter as they momentarily shook off last night’s harsh words, whatever they were.

The doorbell rang; it was a locksmith from Clanton. Herschel showed him around and explained loudly, for the benefit of Lettie, that they wanted new locks on the home’s four exterior doors. As the man went to work, starting with the front door, Herschel stopped in the kitchen and said, “We’re getting all new locks, Lettie, so the old keys won’t work.”