Sycamore Row

papers. “It’s a suicide.”
    “Oh that.”
    “Yes, that. Last night I told you about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Seth Hubbard, but what I didn’t tell you was that before he died he did a quickie will, mailed it to my office, and designated me as the lawyer for his estate. I probated it late this afternoon. It’s now public record, so I can talk about it.”
    “And this is the guy you never met?”
    “Correct.”
    “A guy you never met but you went to his funeral this afternoon?”
    “You got it.”
    “Why did he pick you?”
    “Brilliant reputation. Just read the will, please.”
    One glance and she said, “But it’s handwritten.”
    “No kidding?”
    Jake re-entangled himself with his wife on the sofa and watched her intently as she read the two-page will. Slowly, her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and when she finished she looked at Jake in disbelief and mumbled, “ ‘Perish in pain’? What a jerk.”
    “Evidently so. Never met the man, but Harry Rex handled his second divorce and he doesn’t think much of Mr. Hubbard.”
    “Most people don’t think much of Harry Rex.”
    “This is true.”
    “Who’s Lettie Lang?”
    “His black housekeeper.”
    “Oh my gosh, Jake. This is scandalous.”
    “I sure hope so.”
    “Does he have money?”
    “Did you read the part where he says, ‘My estate is substantial’? Ozzie knew him and seems to agree. I’m driving to Temple early in the morning to meet with Mr. Russell Amburgh, the executor. I’ll be a lot smarter by noon.”
    She sort of waved the two sheets of paper and asked, “Is this valid? Can you make a will like this?”
    “Oh yes. Wills and Estates 101, taught for fifty years by Professor Robert Weems at the Ole Miss Law School. He gave me an A. As long as every word is written by the deceased, and signed and dated, it’s a real will. I’m sure it’ll be contested by his two kids, but that’s where the fun starts.”
    “Why would he leave virtually everything to his black housekeeper?”
    “I guess he liked the way she cleaned his house. I don’t know. Maybe she did more than clean.”
    “Meaning?”
    “He was sick, Carla, dying of lung cancer. I suspect Lettie Lang cared for him in a lot of ways. Obviously, he was fond of her. His two kids will lawyer up and howl about undue influence. They’ll claim she got too close to him, whispered in the old guy’s ear, and maybe more. It’ll be up to the jury.”
    “A jury trial?”
    Jake was smiling, dreaming. “Oh yes.”
    “Wow. Who knows about this?”
    “I filed the petition at five this afternoon, so the gossip hasn’t started. But I reckon by nine in the morning the courthouse will be alive.”
    “This’ll blow the top off the courthouse, Jake. A white man with money cuts out his family, leaves it all to his black housekeeper, then hangs himself. Are you kidding?”
    He was not. She read the will again as her husband closed his eyes and thought about the trial. When she finished, she placed the two sheets of paper on the floor, then glanced around the room. “Just curious, dear, but how are your fees determined in a case like this? Forgive me for asking.” She sort of waved a loose arm as she took in the narrow room, the flea market furniture, the cheap bookshelves sagging and overloaded, the fake Persian rug, the secondhand curtains, the stack of magazines piled on the floor, the general shabbiness of renters with better taste but no way to prove it.
    “What? You want nicer digs? Maybe a duplex, or a double-wide?”
    “Don’t start with me.”
    “The fees could be substantial, not that I’ve considered the subject.”
    “Substantial?”
    “Sure. The fees are based on actual work, billable hours, something we know so little about. The attorney for the estate gets to punch the clock each day and actually get paid for his time. This is unheard-of for us. All fees must be approved by the judge, who in this case is our dear friend, the Honorable Reuben Atlee, and since he knows we’re starving he’ll probably be in a generous mood. A big estate, a pile of money, a hotly contested will, and we just might avoid bankruptcy.”
    “A pile of money?”
    “Just a figure of speech, dear. We shouldn’t get greedy at this point.”
    “Don’t patronize me,” she said as she looked into the twinkling eyes of a hungry lawyer.
    “Right.” But Carla was mentally packing boxes and preparing to move. She had made the same mistake a year earlier when the law