Текст книги "Sycamore Row"

Автор книги: John Grisham

Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

7

After a quick, late supper of grilled cheese and tomato soup, Jake and Carla cleared the table and cleaned the dishes (there was no dishwasher), and eventually settled in the den, which began where the kitchen left off, some six feet away from the dining table. Three years (plus) in tight living quarters required a constant reassessment of priorities and attitudes, along with a vigilance against edginess. Hanna helped tremendously. Small children care little for the material things that so impress adults; as long as both parents are doting, little else matters. Carla helped her with spelling and Jake read her stories, and as they tag-teamed through the evening they also caught up with the daily papers and the cable news. At 8:00 p.m. on the dot, Carla gave her a bath, and thirty minutes later Hanna was tucked snugly into bed by both parents.

Alone at last and wrapped together under a quilt on the rickety sofa, Carla said, “Okay, what’s up?”

Jake, flipping through a sports magazine, replied, “What do you mean ‘What’s up?’ ”

“Don’t play dumb. Something’s up. A new case maybe? A new client who can pay a decent fee, or perhaps even a huge fee that might rescue us from poverty? Please.”

Jake flung the quilt onto the floor and jumped to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, my dear, there’s a good chance we’ve just stiff-armed poverty.”

“I knew it. I can always tell when you sign up a good car wreck. You get twitchy.”

“It’s not a car wreck.” Jake was thumbing through his briefcase. He pulled out a file and handed her some 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 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?”

“Not at all, Mr. Brigance. The last twelve months have been a nightmare. Seth just got tired of the pain. He knew he was dying. We knew he was dying. So no, no real surprise.”

“Wait till you read the will.”

A waitress blew by, barely slowing long enough to top off both cups of coffee. Amburgh took a sip and said, “Tell me your story, Mr. Brigance. How did you know Seth?”

“Never met him,” Jake said. He rattled off the short version of why he was now sitting at the table. Amburgh listened intently. He had a small round head that was slick on top, and his nervous habit was to start above the eyebrows with his right hand and sweep back, as if the few thick strands of dark hair needed to be continually plastered down. He wore a golf shirt, old khakis, and a light windbreaker, and looked more like a retiree than the businessman from the funeral.

Jake was saying, “Is it safe to assume you’re his most trusted lieutenant?”

“No, not at all. In fact, I’m not sure why Seth wants me involved in this. I can think of others who were closer.” A long sip of coffee, then, “Seth and I didn’t always get along. Several times I thought about leaving. The more money he made, the more risks he took. More than once I became convinced Seth was determined to flame out in some glorious bankruptcy, with the loot hidden offshore, of course. He became fearless, and it was frightening.”

“Now that we’re on the subject, let’s talk about Seth’s money.”

“Sure. I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t know everything.”

“Okay,” Jake said calmly, as if they were back on the weather. For almost forty-eight hours he had been consumed with the burning question of what did Seth possess? Finally, he was about to hear it. He had no legal pad, no pen at the ready, just a cup of black coffee before him.

Amburgh glanced around again, but no one was listening. “What I’m about to tell you is not well known. It’s not confidential, but Seth did a good job of keeping things hidden.”

“It’s all about to come out, Mr. Amburgh.”

“I know.” He took a sip of coffee as if he needed fuel, then leaned in a bit lower. “Seth had a lot of money, and he made it all in the past ten years. After his second divorce, he was bitter, angry at the world, broke, and also determined to make some money. He really liked his second wife, and after she ditched him he wanted revenge. To Seth, revenge meant making more money than what she got in the divorce.”

“I know her lawyer very well.”

“The big fat guy, what’s his name?”

“Harry Rex Vonner.”

“Harry Rex. I’ve heard Seth cuss him a few times.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“That’s what I hear. Anyway, Seth got his house and land, and he borrowed heavily against them to buy a big lumber mill near Dothan, Alabama. I was working there, buying timber, and that’s how I came to know Seth. He got it cheap, good timing. This was late 1979, the price of plywood spiked, and we were doing pretty well. We had a good hurricane season, lots of damage, lots of demand for plywood and lumber. He borrowed against the mill and bought a furniture factory near Albany, Georgia. The place made these oversized rocking chairs you see on the front porches of Griddle restaurants, coast-to-coast. Seth negotiated a contract with the chain and overnight they couldn’t make the rocking chairs fast enough. He pledged the stock, borrowed some more, and bought another furniture factory near Troy, Alabama. About that time he found a banker in Birmingham who was trying to grow his small bank into something much bigger, and he was aggressive. He and Seth were on the same page, and the deals came one after the other. More factories, more lumber mills, more timber leases. Seth had a nose for sniffing out businesses that were undervalued or in trouble, and his banker rarely said no. I warned him against so much debt, but he was too reckless to listen. He had something to prove. He bought an airplane, kept it in Tupelo so no one around here would know, and stayed in the air.”

“Does this have a happy ending?”

“Oh yes. Over the past ten years or so, Seth bought about three dozen companies, primarily furniture plants in the South, some of which he moved to Mexico, but also lumber yards and sawmills, along with thousands of acres of timber. All with borrowed money. I mentioned the one banker in Birmingham, but there were others. The bigger he got the easier it became to borrow more. As I said, it was at times frightening, but the guy never got burned. He didn’t sell a single thing he bought, just held on, looking for the next deal. Deals and debts were like an addiction to Seth. Some men gamble, some drink, some chase women. Seth loved the smell of somebody else’s money as he bought another company. He also liked women.

“Then, sadly, he got sick. It was about a year ago when the doctors told him he had lung cancer. He was ripping along at full speed until he went to the doctor. They told him he had a year, max. Needless to say, he was devastated. Without consulting anyone, he decided to sell out. A few years ago, we found the Rush law firm in Tupelo, and Seth finally had some guys he could trust. He hated lawyers and fired them as fast as he hired them. But the Rush firm convinced him to consolidate everything into one holding company. Last November, he sold the holding company to a leveraged buyout group in Atlanta for $55 million. He happily repaid his debts, to the tune of $35 million.”

“He netted twenty?”

“He netted twenty, give or take. There were a few other loose ends, including me. I had some stock in the holding company and so I walked away in good shape. I retired at the end of last year. I don’t know what Seth has done with the money since then, probably buried it in the backyard. Plus, he accumulated other assets that he kept out of the holding company. There’s a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina, and quite a few other assets. There’s probably an offshore bank account or two.”

“Probably?”

“I can’t say for certain, Mr. Brigance. Just things I’ve heard over the years. As I said, Seth Hubbard loved his secrets.”

“Well, Mr. Amburgh, you as his executor and I as his lawyer have the job of tracking down all assets.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. We’ll need access to his office.”

“And where is that?”

“At the lumber yard near Palmyra. That was his only office. There’s a secretary there, Arlene, who runs the show. I spoke to her Sunday night and suggested that she keep everything locked up until she hears from the lawyers.”

Jake took another sip of coffee and tried to digest it all. “Twenty million bucks, huh? I can’t think of anyone else in Ford County with that kinda money.”

“I can’t help you there, Mr. Brigance. I’ve never lived there. I assure you, though, there’s no one here in Milburn County worth even a fraction of that.”

“It’s the rural South.”

“Indeed it is. That’s the greatness of Seth’s story. He woke up one day at the age of sixty and said I’m broke, tired of being broke, and damned if I’m not gonna make something. He got lucky on his first two deals, then discovered the beauty of using other people’s money. He mortgaged his own house and land a dozen times. Talk about brass balls.”

The waitress delivered oatmeal for Mr. Amburgh and scrambled eggs for Jake. As they sprinkled salt and sugar, Amburgh asked, “Did he cut out his kids?”

“He did.”

A smile, a nod, no surprise.

“You expected this?” Jake asked.

“I expect nothing, Mr. Brigance, and nothing surprises me,” he replied smugly.

“I have a surprise for you,” Jake said. “He cut out both of his kids, both of his ex-wives, who, by the way, are not entitled to anything, and he cut out everybody else except for his long-lost brother, Ancil, who’s probably dead, but if not gets 5 percent, his church, also on board at 5, which leaves a grand total of 90 percent left to his black housekeeper of three years, one Lettie Lang.”

Amburgh stopped chewing as his jaws sagged and his eyes squinted. Deep wrinkles broke out across his forehead.

“Don’t tell me you’re not surprised,” Jake said, victorious, then tossed back a forkful of eggs.

Amburgh took a deep breath and reached out an empty hand. Jake pulled a copy of the will out of a pocket and gave it to him. The deep wrinkles hardened as both pages were read. He began to shake his head in disbelief. He read it a second time, then folded it and placed it aside.

“Did you by chance know Lettie Lang?” Jake asked.

“Never met her. I’ve never seen Seth’s home, Mr. Brigance. Never heard him say a word about it, really, or about anyone who worked there. Seth kept things in compartments, most of which were off-limits to everyone. Do you know this woman?”

“I met her yesterday for the first time. She’ll be in my office this afternoon.”

With his fingertips, Amburgh slowly pushed the platter and bowl away; breakfast was over, the appetite gone. “Why would he do this, Mr. Brigance?”

“I was thinking of asking you the same question.”

“Well, it obviously makes no sense, and that’s why this will is in serious trouble. He was out of his mind. You can’t make a valid will if you lack testamentary capacity.”

“Of course not, but little is clear right now. On the one hand, he seems to have planned his death in meticulous detail, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. On the other hand, leaving it all to his housekeeper is hard to figure.”

“Unless she influenced him.”

“I’m sure that’ll be argued.”

Amburgh reached for a pocket and said, “Mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

He lit a menthol and flicked ashes into his oatmeal. His mind was spinning, nothing made sense. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure I have the stomach for this, Mr. Brigance. I may be named as the executor, but that doesn’t mean I have to serve.”

“You said you were a lawyer once. You sound like it.”

“In the day, I was a small-town hack, same as a million others. Over in Alabama, but probate laws don’t vary much from state to state.”

“You’re right—you don’t have to serve as executor.”

“Who would want to get involved in this mess?”

Me, for one, thought Jake, but he bit his tongue. The waitress cleared the table and topped off the coffee cups. Amburgh read the will again and lit another cigarette. When he’d emptied his lungs, he said, “Okay, Mr. Brigance, allow me to think out loud. Seth mentions a prior will, one prepared last year by the Rush law firm in Tupelo. I know those guys and it’s safe to assume that will is much thicker, much smarter, and put together in such a way as to take advantage of proper estate tax planning, gift exclusions, generation-skipping transfers, the whole nine yards, okay, whatever is available to protect the estate and legally avoid as much in taxes as possible. Are you with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then, at the last minute, Seth prepares this crude document that revokes the proper will, leaves virtually everything to his black housekeeper, and guarantees that much of what he’s trying to give away will be eaten up in estate taxes. Still with me?”

“About 50 percent will go for taxes,” Jake said.

“Half, blown away just like that. Does that sound like a man who’s thinking clearly, Mr. Brigance?”

It did not, though Jake was not ready to yield an inch. He said, “I’m sure that argument will be made in court, Mr. Amburgh. My job is to probate the estate and pursue the wishes of my client.”

“Spoken like a true lawyer.”

“Thank you. Are you gonna serve as the executor?”

“Will I get paid?”

“Yes, there will be a fee, to be approved by the judge.”

“How much time will be involved?”

“Could be a lot. If there is a will contest, which seems likely, we could be in court for hours, for days. As executor, you’ll have to be there, listening to every witness.”

“But, Mr. Brigance, I don’t like this will. I don’t approve of what Seth did. I have not seen the other will, the thick one, but I’m pretty damned certain I like it better. Why should I be an advocate for this slipshod, last-minute, handwritten piece of crap that gives everything to an undeserving black housekeeper who probably had too much influence over the old boy. Know what I mean?”

Jake nodded slightly and frowned with great suspicion. After thirty minutes with this guy, he was fairly certain he didn’t want to spend the next year with him. Replacing an executor was generally no big deal, and Jake knew he could convince the judge that this guy needed to go. Amburgh glanced around again and said softly, “It makes no sense. Seth worked like a dog the last ten years of his life to build a fortune. He took enormous risks. He got lucky. And then, he dumps it all in the lap of some woman who didn’t have a damned thing to do with his success. Kinda makes me sick, Mr. Brigance. Sick and very suspicious.”

“Then don’t serve as executor, Mr. Amburgh. I’m sure the court can find someone else to do the job.” Jake picked up the will, creased the folds, and stuck it back into his pocket. “But sleep on it. There’s no rush.”

“When does the war start?”

“Soon. The other lawyers will show up with the other will.”

“Should be fascinating.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Amburgh. Here’s my card.” Jake left his business card and a $5 bill on the table and hurried out. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking, trying to collect his thoughts and get his mind focused on a contested estate worth $20 million.

A year earlier, Clanton had gossiped its way through a lawsuit over an insurance policy covering a fertilizer plant that had mysteriously burned to the ground. Its owner was a local shyster named Bobby Carl Leach, a shifty operator with a history of burned buildings and lawsuits. Fortunately, Jake was not involved in the litigation; he avoided Leach at all costs. But during the trial, it was revealed that Leach had a net worth of about $4 million. There was nothing liquid about his balance sheet, but when his liabilities were subtracted from his assets, there was an impressive figure for his equity. This had led to countless discussions and arguments over who, exactly, was the richest person in Ford County. The debates had raged over early morning coffee around the square, and in bars where bankers met after hours, and throughout the courthouse where lawyers huddled to exaggerate the latest testimony, all over town, literally.

Bobby Carl, with $4 million, was certainly at the top of the list. The Wilbanks clan would have been had Lucien not squandered the family fortune decades earlier. Several farmers were mentioned, but only out of habit. They had “family money,” which, by the late 1980s, meant they owned sections of land but struggled to pay their bills. A man named Willie Traynor had sold The Ford County Times eight years earlier for $1.5 million, and there were rumors he’d doubled his money in the stock market. However, few rumors about Willie had ever been taken seriously. A ninety-eight-year-old woman held bank stock worth $6 million. As the contest wore on, an anonymous list appeared in a court clerk’s office and was soon faxed all over town. It was cleverly labeled “Forbes Top Ten List of Richest Ford Countians.” Everybody had a copy, and this fueled the gossip. The list was edited, enlarged, detailed, amended, and modified and even fictionalized, but through it all there was no mention of Mr. Seth Hubbard.

The town’s exercise in speculation went on with enthusiasm for several weeks before running out of gas. Not surprisingly, Jake had never seen his own name on the list.

He chuckled to himself as he thought of Ms. Lettie Lang and her forthcoming and rather dramatic entry onto the list.