“I guess not,” Ray said, glancing at the cabinet behind the sofa. “There’s a will there if you want to read it. Signed yesterday.”

“What does it say?”

“We split everything. I’m the executor.”

“Of course you’re the executor.” He walked behind the mahogany desk and gave a quick look at the piles of papers covering it. “Nine years since I set foot in this house. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I stopped by a few days after the election, told him how sorry I was that the voters had turned him out, then I asked him for money. We had words.”

“Come on, Forrest, not now.”

Stories of the war between Forrest and the Judge could be told forever.

“Never did get that money,” he mumbled as he opened a desk drawer. “I guess we’ll need to go through everything, won’t we?”

“Yes, but not now.”

“You do it, Ray. You’re the executor. You handle the dirty work.”

“We need to call the funeral home.”

“I need a drink.”

“No, Forrest, please.”

“Lay off, Ray. I’ll have a drink anytime I want a drink.”

“That’s been proven a thousand times. Come on, I’ll call the funeral home and we’ll wait on the porch.”

A policeman arrived first, a young man with a shaved head who looked as though someone had interrupted his Sunday nap and called him into action. He asked questions on the front porch, then viewed the body. Paperwork had to be done, and as they went through it Ray fixed a pitcher of instant tea with heavy sugar.

“Cause of death?” the policeman asked.

“Cancer, heart disease, diabetes, old age,” Ray said. He and Forrest were rocking gently in the swing.

“Is that enough?” Forrest asked, like a true smart-ass. Any respect he might’ve once had for cops had long since been abandoned.

“Will you request an autopsy?”

“No,” they said in unison.

He finished the forms and took signatures from both Ray and Forrest. As he drove away, Ray said, “Word will spread like wildfire now.”

“Not in our lovely little town.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Folks actually gossip around here.”

“I’ve kept them busy for twenty years.”

“Indeed you have.”

They were shoulder to shoulder, both holding empty glasses. “So what’s in the estate?” Forrest finally asked.

“You want to see the will?”

“No, just tell me.”

“He listed his assets—the house, furniture, car, books, six thousand dollars in the bank.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all he mentioned,” Ray said, avoiding the lie.

“Surely, there’s more money than that around here,” Forrest said, ready to start looking.

“I guess he gave it all away,” Ray said calmly.

“What about his state retirement?”

“He cashed out when he lost the election, a huge blunder. Cost him tens of thousands of dollars. I’m assuming he gave everything else away.”

“You’re not going to screw me, are you, Ray?”

“Come on, Forrest, there’s nothing to fight over.”

“Any debts?”

“He said he had none.”

“Nothing else?”

“You can read the will if you want.”

“Not now.”

“He signed it yesterday.”

“You think he planned everything?”

“Sure looks like it.”

A black hearse from Magargel’s Funeral Home rolled to a stop in front of Maple Run, then turned slowly into the drive.

Forrest leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in hand, and began crying.

Behind the hearse was the county coroner, Thurber Foreman, in the same red Dodge pickup he’d been driving since Ray was in college, and behind Thurber was Reverend Silas Palmer of the First Presbyterian Church, an ageless little Scot who’d baptized both Atlee sons. Forrest slipped away and hid in the backyard while Ray met the party on the front porch. Sympathies were exchanged. Mr. B. J. Magargel from the funeral home and Reverend Palmer appeared to be near tears. Thurber had seen countless dead bodies. He had no financial interest in this one, however, and appeared to be indifferent, at least for the moment.

Ray led them to the study where they respectfully viewed Judge Atlee long enough for Thurber to officially decide he was dead. He did this without words, but simply nodded at Mr. Magargel with a somber, bureaucratic dip of the chin that said, “He’s dead. You can take him now.” Mr. Magargel nodded, too, thus completing a silent ritual they’d gone through many times together.

Thurber produced a single sheet of paper and asked the basics. The Judge’s full name, date of birth, place of birth, next of kin. For the second time, Ray said no to an autopsy.

Ray and Reverend Palmer stepped away and took a seat at the dining room table. The minister was much more emotional than the son. He adored the Judge and claimed him as a close friend.

A service befitting a man of Reuben Atlee’s stature would draw many friends and admirers and should be well planned. “Reuben and I talked about it not long ago,” Palmer said, his voice low and raspy, ready to choke up at any moment.

“That’s good,” Ray said.

“He picked out the hymns and scriptures, and he made a list of the pallbearers.”

Ray hadn’t yet thought of such details. Perhaps they would’ve come to mind had he not stumbled upon a couple of million in cash. His overworked brain listened to Palmer and caught most of his words, then it would switch to the broom closet and start swirling again. He was suddenly nervous that Thurber and Magargel were alone with the Judge in the study. Relax, he kept telling himself.

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely relieved that the details had been taken care of. Mr. Magargel’s assistant rolled a gurney through the front door, through the foyer, and struggled to get it turned into the Judge’s study.

‘And he wanted a wake,” the reverend said. Wakes were traditional, a necessary prelude to a proper burial, especially among the older folks.

Ray nodded.

“Here in the house.”

“No,” Ray said instantly. “Not here.”

As soon as he was alone, he wanted to inspect every inch of the house in search of more loot. And he was very concerned with the stash already in the broom closet. How much was there? How long would it take to count it? Was it real or counterfeit? Where did it come from? What to do with it? Where to take it? Who to tell? He needed time alone to think, to sort things out and develop a plan.

“Your father was very plain about this,” Palmer said.

“I’m sorry, Reverend. We will have a wake, but not here.”

“May I ask why not?”

“My mother.”

He smiled and nodded and said, “I remember your mother.”

“They laid her on the table over there in the front parlor, and for two days the entire town paraded by. My brother and I hid upstairs and cursed my father for such a spectacle.” Ray’s voice was firm, his eyes hot. “We will not have a wake in this house, Reverend.”

Ray was utterly sincere. He was also concerned about securing the premises. A wake would require a thorough scouring of the house by a cleaning service, and the preparation of food by a caterer, and flowers hauled in by a florist. And all of this activity would begin in the morning.

“I understand,” the reverend said.

The assistant backed out first, pulling the gurney, which was being pushed gently by Mr. Magargel. The Judge was covered from head to foot by a starched white sheet that was tucked neatly under him. With Thurber following behind, they rolled him out, across the front porch and down the steps, the last Atlee to live at Maple Run.

HALF AN hour later, Forrest materialized from somewhere in the back of the house. He was holding a tall clear glass that was filled with a suspicious-looking brown liquid, and it wasn’t ice tea. “They gone?” he asked, looking at the driveway.

“Yes,” Ray said. He was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. When Forrest sat down next to him, the aroma of sour mash followed quickly.