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.