“Drinking already?” Jake said as he backed into a massive leather chair.

“If you had my clients you’d start at breakfast.”

“I thought you did.”

“Never on Mondays. How’s Miss Carla?”

“Fine, thanks, and how’s Miss, uh, what’s her name?”

“Jane, smart-ass. Jane Ellen Vonner, and she’s not only surviving life with me but seems to be having a ball and thankful to be so lucky. Finally found a woman who understands me.” He scooped up a pile of bright red chips and crammed them in his mouth.

“Congratulations. When do I meet her?”

“We’ve been married for two years.”

“I know, but I prefer to wait five. No sense rushing in when these gals have such a short shelf life.”

“You come here to insult me?”

“Of course not.” And Jake was being honest. Swapping insults with Harry Rex was a fool’s game. He weighed over three hundred pounds and lumbered around town like an old bear, but his tongue was stunningly quick and vicious.

Jake said, “Tell me about Seth Hubbard.”

Harry Rex laughed and sent debris flying over his desk. “Couldn’t have happened to a bigger asshole. Why do you ask me?”

“Ozzie said you handled one of his divorces.”

“I did, his second, maybe ten years ago, about the time you showed up here in town and started calling yourself a lawyer. Why should Seth concern you?”

“Well, before he killed himself, he wrote me a letter, and he also wrote a two-page will. Both arrived in the mail this morning.”

Harry Rex took a sip of beer, narrowed his eyes, and thought about this. “You ever meet him?”

“Never.”

“Lucky. You didn’t miss a damned thing.”

“Don’t talk about my client like that.”

“What’d the will say?”

“Can’t tell you, and I can’t probate until after the funeral.”

“Who gets everything?”

“I can’t say. I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”

“A two-page handwritten will prepared the day before the suicide. Sounds like a five-year lawsuit bonanza to me.”

“I sure hope so.”

“That’ll keep you busy for a while.”

“I need the work. What’s the ol’ boy got?”

Harry Rex shook his head while reaching for the hoagie. “Don’t know,” he said, then took a bite. The clear majority of Jake’s friends and acquaintances preferred not to speak with a mouthful of food, but such social graces had never slowed down Harry Rex. “As I recall, and again it’s been ten years, he owned a house up there on Simpson Road, with some acreage around it. The biggest asset was a sawmill and a lumber yard on Highway 21, near Palmyra. My client was, uh, Sybil, Sybil Hubbard, wife number two, and I think it was her second or third marriage.”

After twenty years and countless cases, Harry Rex could still floor people with his recall. The juicier the details, the longer he remembered them.

A quick chug of beer, then he continued: “She was nice enough, not a bad-looking gal, and smart as hell. She worked in the lumber yard, ran the damned thing, really, and it was making good money when Seth decided to expand. He wanted to buy a lumber yard in Alabama and he started spending time over there. Turns out there was a secretary in the front office who had his attention. Everything blew up. Seth got caught with his pants down and Sybil hired me to scorch his ass. Scorch I did. I convinced the court to order the sale of the sawmill and lumber yard near Palmyra. The other one never made money. Got $200,000 for the sale, all of which went to my client. They also had a nice little condo on the Gulf near Destin. Sybil got that too. That’s the skinny version of what happened, but the file is a foot thick. You can go through it if you want.”

“Maybe later. No idea of what his current balance sheet looks like?”

“Nope. I lost track of the guy. He laid low after the divorce. The last time I talked to Sybil she was living on the beach and having fun with another husband, a much younger man, she claimed. She said there were rumors that Seth was back in the timber and lumber business, but she didn’t know much.” He swallowed hard and washed it all down. He burped loudly, without the slightest trace of hesitation or embarrassment, and continued, “You talked to his kids?”

“Not yet. You know them?”

“I did, at the time. They’ll make your life interesting. Herschel is a real loser. His sister, what’s her name?”

“Ramona Hubbard Dafoe.”

“That’s the one. She’s a few years younger than Herschel and part of that north Jackson crowd. Neither one got along well with Seth, and I always got the impression he wasn’t much of a father. They really liked Sybil, their second mom, and once it became apparent Sybil would win the divorce and make off with the money, they fell into her camp. Lemme guess—the old man left them nothing?”

Jake nodded but didn’t say a word.

“Then they’ll freak out and lawyer up. You got a good one brewin’, Jake. Sorry I can’t wedge in and get some of the fee.”

“If you only knew.”

A final bite of the hoagie, then the last of the chips. Harry Rex crushed the wrapper, the bag, the napkins, and tossed them somewhere under his desk, along with the empty beer bottle. He opened a drawer, withdrew a long black cigar and jammed it into the side of his mouth, unlit. He’d stopped smoking them but still went through ten a day, chewing and spitting. “I heard he hung himself. That true?”

“It is. He did a good job of planning things.”

“Any idea why?”

“You’ve heard the rumors. He was dying of cancer. That’s all we know. Who was his lawyer during the divorce?”

“He used Stanley Wade, a mistake.”

“Wade? Since when does he do divorces?”

“Not anymore,” Harry Rex said with a laugh. He smacked his lips and grew serious. “Look, Jake, hate to tell you this, but what happened ten years ago is of no significance whatsoever in this matter. I took all of Seth Hubbard’s money, kept enough for myself, of course, gave the rest to my client, and closed the file. Whatever Seth did after divorce number two is none of my business.” He waved his hand across the landfill on his desk and said, “This, however, is what my Monday is all about. If you wanna get a drink later, fine, but right now I’m swamped.”

A drink later with Harry Rex usually meant something after 9:00 p.m. “Sure, we’ll catch up,” Jake said as he headed for the door, stepping over files.

“Say, Jake, is it safe to assume Hubbard renounced a previous will?”

“Yes.”

“And was that previous will prepared by a firm somewhat larger than yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if I were you I’d race to the courthouse and file the first petition to probate.”

“My client wants me to wait until after the funeral.”

“When’s that?”

“Tomorrow at four.”

“The courthouse closes at five. I’d be there. First is always better.”

“Thanks Harry Rex.”

“Don’t mention it.” He burped again and picked up a file.

Traffic was steady throughout the afternoon as the neighbors and church members and other friends made the solemn trek to Seth’s home to deliver food, to commiserate, but mainly to nail down the gossip that was raging through the northeastern edge of Ford County. Most were politely turned away by Lettie who manned the front door, took the casseroles and cakes, accepted condolences, and said time and again that the family “was thankful but not taking company.” Some, though, managed to step inside, into the den where they gawked at the furnishings and tried to absorb a piece of the life of their dear departed friend. They had never been there before, and Lettie had never heard of these people. Yet, they grieved. Such a tragic way to go. Did he really hang himself?

The family was hiding on the rear patio, where they regrouped around a picnic table and kept themselves away from the traffic. Their search of Seth’s desk and drawers revealed nothing of benefit. When quizzed, Lettie claimed to know nothing, though they were doubtful. She answered their questions with soft, slow, thoughtful responses, and this made them even more suspicious. She served them lunch on the patio at 2:00 p.m., during a break in the visitation. They insisted on having a cloth on the picnic table, and linens and silver, though Seth’s collection had been badly neglected for many years. Unspoken were their feelings that, at $5 an hour, the least Lettie could do was act like a real servant.