Sycamore Row

it.”
    “He mentioned you, Jake. He followed the Hailey trial, knows all about the Klan burning your house. He knows you’re in the market.”
    “I’m not in the market, Harry Rex. I’m in litigation with the insurance company. But tell him thanks anyway. Too rich for my blood.”
    “You want some nachos?”
    “No thanks. I need to get home.”
    “Tell Carla I love her and lust after her body.”
    “She knows it. Later.”
    Jake walked to his office in a cold drizzle. The streetlamps around the square were adorned with Christmas wreaths and silver bells. Carols rang out from a Nativity scene in front of the courthouse. The merchants were open late and the stores were busy. There was a slight chance of snow tomorrow and few things excited the town like such a forecast. The old-timers claimed there had been a white Christmas in 1952, and even the slightest chance of one now had kids staring out of windows and stores offering shovels and salt. Shoppers scurried about with great anticipation as if a blizzard was expected.
    Jake took the long route home, driving slowly away from the square and into the shaded streets of central Clanton until he turned onto Market Street. A light was on in the Hocutt House, a rarity. Jake and Carla had passed it many times, always slowly, admiringly, and always aware that the lovely Victorian was hardly used. There had always been rumors that Willie Traynor was selling the place. He had abandoned Clanton after he sold the paper, and everyone knew it.
    The house needed painting. In the summer, the flower beds were choked with weeds and the grass was rarely mowed. In the fall, the leaves gathered in drifts on the front porch and no one raked them.
    For a moment, Jake was tempted to stop, knock on the door, barge in, have a drink with Willie, and talk business. But the temptation passed and he headed home.

24
    On the morning of Christmas Eve, Jake slept late, or as late as possible. With Carla dead to the world, he eased out of bed at seven, and without a sound went to the kitchen. He brewed coffee, scrambled eggs, and toasted muffins, and when he returned with breakfast in bed she grudgingly came to life. They were eating slowly and talking quietly, thoroughly enjoying a rare moment, when Hanna bounded into the room full of anticipation and chattering nonstop about Santa Claus. She wedged herself between her parents and helped herself to a muffin. Without prompting, she reviewed everything she’d put in her letter to the North Pole, and seemed genuinely concerned that she might be asking for too much. Both parents patiently disagreed. She was, after all, the only child and usually got what she wanted. Plus, there was a surprise that would overshadow all of her requests.
    An hour later, Jake and Hanna left for the square while Carla stayed home to wrap packages. Roxy was off for the day, and Jake needed to retrieve a gift for his wife. The office was always the best hiding place. He expected to find no one there, but was not too surprised when he saw Lucien in the conference room, digging through a stack of old files. He looked as though he’d been there for hours, and, more important, he looked clean and sober. “We need to talk,” he said.
    Hanna loved to rummage through her father’s big office, so Jake turned her loose upstairs and went to find coffee. Lucien had already consumed half a pot and seemed sufficiently wired. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said as he closed the conference room door. Jake fell into a chair, stirred his coffee, and asked, “Can this wait until Monday?”
    “No, shut up and listen. The great question here is, Why woulda man do what Seth Hubbard did? Right? Make a last-minute will, crude and handwritten, cut out his family, and leave everything to a person who has no claim to any of his fortune? This is the question that haunts you now, and it will only get bigger until we find the answer.”
    “Assuming there is an answer.”
    “Yes. So to unravel this mystery, and to hopefully help you win this case, we have to answer that question.”
    “And you’ve found it?”
    “Not yet, but I’m on the trail.” Lucien waved at a pile of debris on the table—files, copies of old deeds, notes. “I have examined the land records of the two hundred acres Seth Hubbard owned in this county when he died. A lot of the records were destroyed when the courthouse burned after the second war, but I’ve been able to reconstruct much of what I’m