“I guess. All I can do is try.”

14

The Berring Lumber Company was a compound of mismatched metal buildings encircled with chain link eight feet tall and secured behind heavy gates partially opened, as if visitors weren’t really that welcome. It was hidden at the end of a long asphalt drive, unseen from Highway 21 and less than a mile from the Tyler County line. Once inside and just past the main gate, office buildings were to the left and acres of raw timber were to the right. Straight ahead was a series of semi-attached buildings where the pine and hardwoods were cleaned, sized, cut, and treated before being stored in warehouses. A parking lot to the right was filled with well-worn pickup trucks, a sign that business was booming; folks had jobs, which were always scarce in this part of the country.

Seth Hubbard lost the lumber yard in his second divorce, only to get it back a few years later. Harry Rex engineered the forced sale, for $200,000, and made off with the money, for his client, of course. Seth, true to form, waited patiently in the bushes until a downturn, then squeezed the desperate owner for a quick sale. No one knew where the name Berring came from. As Jake was learning, Seth pulled names randomly from the air and stuck them on his corporations. When he owned it the first time around, it was Palmyra Lumber. To confuse anyone who might be watching, he selected Berring for the second go.

Berring was his home office, though he had others at various times. After he sold out, and after he was diagnosed with lung cancer, he consolidated his records and spent more time at Berring. The day after his death, Sheriff Ozzie Walls stopped by and had a friendly chat with the office employees. He strongly suggested that nothing be touched. The lawyers would soon follow and from there things would only get complicated.

Jake had spoken twice on the phone with Arlene Trotter, Seth’s secretary. She had been pleasant enough, though certainly not eager to help. On Friday, almost two weeks after the suicide, Jake walked through the front door and into a reception area with a desk in the center of it. Behind the desk was a heavily made-up young lady with wild black hair, a tight sweater, and the unmistakable look of a woman who was fast and loose. A brass plate gave only her first name—Kamila—and Jake’s second or third impression was that the exotic name matched the person. She offered a comely smile and Jake was already thinking about the comment “Seth had zipper problems.”

He introduced himself. She did not stand but gave a soft handshake. “Arlene’s waiting,” she cooed as she pushed a button to someone’s office.

“I’m very sorry about your boss,” Jake said. He did not remember seeing Kamila at the funeral, and he was certain he would have remembered the face and figure had she been there.

“It’s very sad,” she said.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Two years. Seth was a nice man, and a good boss.”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

Arlene Trotter appeared from a hallway and offered a hand. She was around fifty but completely gray; a little heavy but fighting it. Her matching pantsuit was a decade out of style. They chatted as they walked deeper into the hodgepodge of offices. “That’s his,” she said, pointing to a closed door. Her desk was right beside the door, literally guarding it. “His records are over there,” she added, pointing to another door. “Nothing has been touched. Russell Amburgh called me the night he died and said to secure everything. Then the sheriff stopped by the next day and said the same thing. It’s been very quiet around here.” Her voice cracked for a second.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ll probably find his books in good order. Seth kept good records of everything, and as he got sicker he spent more time organizing everything.”

“When did you last see him?”

“The Friday before he died. He was not feeling well and he left around 3:00 p.m. Said he was going home to rest. I heard he wrote that last will here. Is that right?”

“That appears to be correct. Did you know anything about it?”

She paused for a moment and seemed unable, or unwilling, to answer. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Brigance?”

“Sure.”

“Whose side are you on? Are we supposed to trust you, or do we need our own lawyers?”

“Well, I don’t think more lawyers is a good idea. I am the attorney for the estate, chosen by Mr. Hubbard, and instructed by him to make sure his last will, the handwritten will, is honored and followed.”

“And that’s the will that gives everything to his maid?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Okay, what’s our role in this?”

“You don’t have a role in the administration of his estate. You might be called as a witness if the will is contested by his family.”

“As in a trial, in a courtroom?” She took a step back and seemed frightened.

“It’s possible, but it’s too early to worry about it. How many people here worked with Seth on a daily basis?”

Arlene wrung her hands and collected her thoughts. She leaned back and situated herself on the corner of her desk. “Me, Kamila, and Dewayne. That’s about it. There are some offices on the other side, but those guys didn’t see much of Seth. To be honest, we didn’t see much of him either, not until the past year when he was sick. Seth preferred to be on the road, checking his factories, his timber, running after his deals, flying to Mexico to open another furniture plant. He really didn’t like to stay at home.”

“Who kept up with him?”

“That was my job. We talked every day by phone. I made some of his travel arrangements, but he usually preferred to do that himself. He was not one to delegate. He paid all of his personal bills, wrote every check, balanced every account, kept up with every dime. His CPA is a guy in Tupelo—”

“I’ve spoken to him.”

“He has boxes of records.”

“I’d like to speak to you, Kamila, and Dewayne later, if possible.”

“Sure. We’re all here.”

The room had no windows and poor lighting. An old desk and chair indicated that it once might have been used as an office, but not recently. A thick layer of dust covered everything. One wall was lined with tall, black, metal file cabinets. Another wall had nothing but a 1987 Kenworth Truck calendar, hanging by a nail. Four imposing cardboard boxes were stacked on the desk, and that’s where Jake began. Careful to keep things in order, he flipped through the files in the first box, noting what was in them but not exactly crunching the numbers. That would come later.

The first box was labeled “Real Estate,” and it was filled with deeds, canceled mortgages, appraisals, tax bills, tax assessments, paid invoices from contractors, copies of checks written by Seth, and closing statements from lawyers. There were records for Seth’s home place on Simpson Road; a cabin near Boone, North Carolina; a condo in a high-rise near Destin, Florida; and several parcels of what appeared at first glance to be raw land. The second box was labeled “Timber Contracts.” The third was “Bank—Brokerage,” and Jake’s interest rose somewhat. A Merrill Lynch portfolio in an Atlanta office had a balance of almost $7 million. A bond fund at UBS in Zurich was valued at just over $3 million. A cash account at the Royal Bank of Canada on the island of Grand Cayman had $6.5 million. But all three of these rather exotic and exciting accounts had been closed in late September. Jake dug deeper, followed the trail that Seth had carefully left behind, and soon found the money sitting in a bank in Birmingham, earning 6 percent annually and just waiting for probate: $21.2 million, cash.