Lettie wiped a tear and realized she was probably the only person crying.

In front of the lawyers were some business types, one of whom turned around and whispered something to Stillman Rush. Jake thought this might be one of the higher-ups who worked for Seth. He was particularly curious about Mr. Russell Amburgh, described in the handwritten will as once the vice president of Seth’s holding company and the man with the knowledge of the assets and liabilities.

Mrs. Nora Baines sang three stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross,” a somber, surefire tearjerker at any funeral, but at Seth’s it failed to provoke emotion. Pastor McElwain read from Psalms and dwelled on the wisdom of Solomon, then two teenage boys with pimples and a guitar strummed and hummed through something contemporary, a strained song Seth would not have appreciated. Ramona finally broke down and was comforted by Ian. Herschel just stared at the floor in front of the casket, never blinking, never moving. Another woman sobbed loudly in response.

Seth’s cruel plan was to withhold knowledge of his last will until after the funeral. In his letter to Jake, his exact words were: “Do not mention my last will and testament until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it—they’re very good at it. They have no love for me.” As the service dragged on, it became apparent that there was little faking going on. What was left of his family didn’t care enough to even fake it. What a sad way to go, thought Jake.

At Seth’s instructions, there were no eulogies. No one spoke but the pastor, though it was easy to get the impression there might be no volunteers if they opened up the mike. The pastor finished with a marathon of a prayer, one obviously designed to burn some clock. Twenty-five minutes after he started, he dismissed them with the invitation to walk next door to the cemetery for the interment. Outside, Jake managed to dodge Stillman Rush and the lawyers. Instead, he bumped into the nearest man in a business suit and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a Russell Amburgh.”

The man politely pointed and said, “Right there.”

Russell Amburgh was standing ten feet away, lighting a cigarette, and he heard Jake’s inquiry. The two shook hands grimly and gave their names. Jake said, “Could I have a moment alone?”

Mr. Amburgh half shrugged and said softly, “Sure, what’s up?”

The crowd was drifting slowly in the general direction of the cemetery. Jake had no plans to watch the burial; he was on another mission. When he and Amburgh were far enough away not to be heard, he said, “I’m a lawyer in Clanton, never met Mr. Hubbard, but I received a letter from him yesterday. A letter, along with his last will and testament in which he names you as his executor. It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible.”

Amburgh stopped cold and jammed the cigarette into a corner of his mouth. He glared at Jake, then glanced around to make sure they were alone. “What kinda will?” he said, exhaling smoke.

“Handwritten, last Saturday. He was clearly contemplating his death.”

“Then he was probably out of his mind,” Amburgh said, sneering, the first rattle of a saber in the coming war.

Jake had not expected this. “We’ll see. I guess that will be determined later.”

“I was a lawyer once, Mr. Brigance, a long time ago before I found honest work. I know the game.”

Jake kicked a rock and looked around. The first mourners were nearing the front entrance of the cemetery. “Can we talk?”

“What’s in the will?”

“I can’t tell you now but I can tell you tomorrow.”

Amburgh cocked his head back and glared down along his nose. “How much do you know about Seth’s business?”

“Let’s say nothing. In his will he writes that you have a good knowledge of his assets and liabilities.”

Another draw, another sneer. “There are no liabilities, Mr. Brigance. Only assets, and plenty.”

“Please, let’s meet and have a chat. All secrets are about to be revealed, Mr. Amburgh, I just need to know where it’s going. Under the terms of his will, you’re the executor and I’m the lawyer for the estate.”

“That doesn’t sound right. Seth hated the lawyers in Clanton.”

“Yes, he made that very clear. If we can meet in the morning, I’ll be happy to show you a copy of his will and shed some light.”

Amburgh started walking again and Jake tagged along, for a few steps anyway. As they approached the cemetery, Ozzie was waiting by the gate. Amburgh stopped again and said, “I live in Temple. There’s a café on Highway 52, west of town. Meet me there at 7:30 in the morning.”

“Okay. What’s the name of the café?”

“The Café.”

“Got it.”

Amburgh disappeared without another word. Jake looked at Ozzie, shook his head in disbelief, then pointed to the parking lot. Both of them eased away from the cemetery. They’d had enough of Seth Hubbard for one day. Their farewell was complete.

Twenty minutes later, at exactly 4:55 p.m., Jake jogged into the offices of the Chancery Court clerk and smiled at Sara. “Where you been?” she snapped, waiting.

“It’s not even five o’clock,” he shot back as he zipped open his briefcase.

“Yes, but we stop working at four, on Tuesdays anyway. Five on Monday. Three on Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday you’re lucky if we show up.” The woman talked nonstop and had a quick tongue. After twenty years of daily give-and-take with a bunch of lawyers, she had honed her retorts and one-liners.

Jake laid the papers on the counter in front of her and said, “I need to open the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard.”

“Testate or intestate?”

“Oh, he has a will, more than one. That’s where the fun’s coming from.”

“Didn’t he just kill himself?”

“You know damned well he just killed himself because you work in this courthouse where rumors fly and gossip is created and nothing is secret.”

“I’m offended,” she said, stamping the petition. She flipped a few pages, smiled and said, “Ooh, nice, a handwritten will. A boon to the legal profession.”

“You got it.”

“Who gets everything?”

“My lips are sealed.” As Jake bantered he pulled more papers from his briefcase.

“Well, Mr. Brigance, your lips may be sealed but this court file certainly is not.” She stamped something dramatically and said, “It is now officially a public record, under the laws of this great state, unless of course you have a written motion requesting the file to be sealed.”

“I do not.”

“Oh good, so we can talk about all the dirt. There is some dirt, right?”

“Don’t know. I’m still digging. Look, Sara, I need a favor.”

“Anything you want, baby.”

“This is a race to the courthouse and I’ve just won. Sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, I expect two or three pompous-ass lawyers in dark suits to show up and hand over their version of a petition to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate. More than likely they’ll be from Tupelo. There’s another will, you see.”

“I love it.”