“Right.” But Carla was mentally packing boxes and preparing to move. She had made the same mistake a year earlier when the law offices of Jake Brigance attracted a young couple whose newborn died in a Memphis hospital. A promising case of medical malpractice wilted under the scrutiny of expert review, and Jake had no choice but to settle for nuisance value.

She asked, “And you went to see Lettie Lang?”

“I did. She lives out from Box Hill in a community called Little Delta; not too many white folks around. Her husband is a drunk who comes and goes. I didn’t go in the house but I got the impression it’s crowded in there. I checked the land records; they don’t own the place. It’s a cheap little rental, similar—”

“Similar to this dump, right?”

“Similar to our home. Probably built by the same hack, who no doubt went bankrupt. But, anyway, there are only three of us here and probably a dozen in Lettie’s house.”

“Is she nice?”

“Nice enough. We didn’t talk long. I got the impression she’s a fairly typical black woman for these parts, with a houseful of kids, a part-time husband, a minimum-wage job, a hard life.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“Yes, but it’s also pretty accurate.”

“Is she attractive?”

Under the quilt, Jake began massaging her right calf. He thought for a moment, then said, “I couldn’t really tell; it was getting dark in a hurry. She’s about forty-five, seemed to be in fairly good shape, certainly not unattractive. Why do you ask? You think sex could be behind Mr. Hubbard’s last will and testament?”

“Sex? Who mentioned sex?”

“That’s exactly what you’re thinking. Did she screw her way into his will?”

“All right, sure, that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what the entire town will be buzzing about by noon tomorrow. This has sex written all over it. He was a dying man and she was his caregiver. Who knows what they did?”

“You have a filthy mind. I love it.”

His hand moved to her thigh but there it was blocked. The phone rang, startling both of them. Jake walked to the kitchen, answered it, then hung up. “It’s Nesbit, outside,” he said to her. He found a cigar and a box of matches and left the house. At the end of the short driveway, by the mailbox, he lit the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool, crisp evening air. A minute later, a patrol car turned onto the street and rolled to a quiet stop near Jake. Deputy Mike Nesbit grappled his overweight self out of the car, said, “Evenin’ Jake,” and lit a cigarette.

“Evenin’ Mike.”

Both blowing smoke, they leaned against the hood of the patrol car. Nesbit said, “Ozzie’s found nothin’ on Hubbard. He ran a search through Jackson and came up dry. Looks like the ol’ boy kept his toys somewhere else; ain’t no records in this state except for his house, cars, acreage, and the lumber yard up near Palmyra. Beyond that, not a trace. I mean nothin’. No bank accounts. No corporations. No LLCs. No partnerships. A couple of insurance policies where you’d expect to find them, but that’s all. Rumors that he did business in other states, but we ain’t got that far yet.”

Jake nodded and smoked. By now, he was not surprised. “And Amburgh?”

“Russell Amburgh is from Foley, Alabama, way down south close to Mobile. He was a lawyer there until he got himself disbarred about fifteen years ago. Commingling client funds, but no indictment. No criminal record. Freed from the legal profession, he went into the timber business and it’s safe to assume that’s where he met Seth Hubbard. As far as we can tell, everything’s on the up-and-up. Not sure why he moved to a dead-end place like Temple.”

“I’m driving to Temple in the morning. I’ll ask him.”

“Good.”

An elderly couple walked by with an elderly poodle. They exchanged pleasantries without slowing down. When they were gone, Jake blew more smoke and asked, “Any luck with Ancil Hubbard, the brother?”

“Not a peep. Nothin’.”

“No surprise.”

“It’s funny. I’ve lived here all my life, never heard of Seth Hubbard. My dad’s eighty, lived here all his life, and he’s never heard of Seth Hubbard.”

“There are thirty-two thousand people in this county, Mike. You can’t know all of them.”

“Ozzie does.”

They had a quick laugh. Nesbit flipped his cigarette butt into the street and stretched his back. “Guess I need to get home, Jake.”

“Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to Ozzie tomorrow.”

“You do that. See ya.”

He found Carla in the empty bedroom, sitting in a chair facing the window with a view of the street. The room was dark. He entered quietly, then stopped, and when she knew he was listening she said, “I’m so sick of seeing police cars in front of my house, Jake.”

He took a deep breath and a step closer. This conversation was too familiar, and a wrong word could send it spiraling down. “So am I,” he said softly.

“What did he want?” she asked.

“Not much, just some background on Seth Hubbard. Ozzie’s been asking around but hasn’t found much.”

“He couldn’t call you tomorrow? Why does he have to drive over and park in front of our house so everyone can see that the Brigances can’t make it through the night without the police showing up again?”

Questions with no answers.

Jake bit his tongue and eased out of the room.

8

Russell Amburgh hid behind a newspaper in a booth in the rear of The Café. He was not a regular, nor was he well known in the small town of Temple. He had moved there because of a woman, his third wife, and they stayed to themselves. He also worked for a man who valued discretion and secrecy, and this suited Amburgh fine.

He secured the booth a few minutes after 7:00, ordered some coffee, and started reading. On the subject of Seth Hubbard’s will or wills, he knew nothing. Though he had worked for Mr. Hubbard for almost a decade, he knew little about his private life. He could put his finger on most of the man’s assets, certainly not all, but he had learned early on that his boss loved secrets. And he liked to play games, and hold grudges, and keep people guessing. The two had traveled extensively together throughout the Southeast as Mr. Hubbard pieced his holdings together, but they had never been close. No one was close to Seth Hubbard.

Jake walked in at exactly 7:30 and found Amburgh back in a booth. The Café was half-full, and Jake, the foreigner, got some looks as he walked through it. He and Amburgh shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Based on their conversation the day before, Jake was expecting a cool reception and grudging cooperation, though he was not overly concerned with Mr. Amburgh’s initial reactions. Jake had been directed by Seth Hubbard to do a job, and, if he was challenged, the court would stand behind him. Amburgh, though, seemed relaxed and sufficiently receptive. After a few minutes of football and weather, he got down to business. “Has the will been probated?” he asked.

“Yes, as of 5:00 p.m. yesterday. I left the funeral and hurried back to the courthouse in Clanton.”

“Did you bring me a copy of it?”

“I did,” Jake said, without reaching for a pocket. “You are named as executor. It is now a public record, so you can have a copy.”

Amburgh showed both palms and asked, “Am I a beneficiary?”

“No.”

He nodded grimly and Jake could not tell if this was expected. “I get nothing in the will?” Amburgh asked.

“Nothing. Is this a surprise?”

Amburgh swallowed hard and glanced around. “No,” he said unconvincingly. “Not really. With Seth, there are no surprises.”

“You’re not surprised he killed himself?”