She was lying across the rear seat, on her back with a forearm over her eyes, trying to sleep it off. She had stopped talking and her breathing was heavy. He turned around often to make sure she was out of it, then he carefully reached for his new car phone and called the office. Speaking as softly as possible, he offered only the minimum to Rodney, his partner: “The old boy’s gone … estate’s somewhere north of twenty mill … furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes … not bad … about a year … not kidding … more later.”

Ian drove on, smiling at the foliage and dreaming of a better life. Even if they got a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely decided to wait. The phone rang suddenly, startling him and waking up Ramona. “Hello,” he said.

On the other end, a stiff male voice said, “Yes, hello, Ian, Stillman Rush here, hope I didn’t disturb. We’re on our way back to Tupelo.”

“Not at all. We’re on the Trace with a couple of hours to go. Nothing to do but talk.”

“Yes, well, look, there’s been a slight complication, so I’ll just go ahead and get right to the point.” His voice had a nervous tinge to it, and Ian knew immediately that something was wrong. Ramona sat up in the rear seat and rubbed her swollen eyes.

Stillman went on: “We didn’t get the chance to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate after we saw you this morning because another will has already been presented. Seems as though a lawyer in Clanton hustled over to the courthouse late yesterday afternoon and filed a handwritten will that Mr. Hubbard purportedly wrote last Saturday, the day before he died. Handwritten wills are still valid, if they meet certain criteria. This will is just awful. It leaves nothing to the family—Ramona and Herschel are specifically cut out—and instead gives 90 percent of the estate to Lettie Lang, the housekeeper.”

“Lettie!” Ian managed to gasp as he veered across the center line. He caught himself and yanked the wheel.

“What is it?” Ramona snarled from the backseat.

“Yes, Lettie Lang,” Stillman repeated. “I guess he was quite fond of her.”

“This is ridiculous!” Ian said sharply, his voice already several octaves higher, his eyes glaring wildly into the rearview mirror. “Ninety percent? Did you say 90 percent?”

“I did, yes. I have a copy of the will and it clearly says 90 percent.”

“Handwritten? Is it a forgery?”

“We don’t know at this point. Everything is preliminary.”

“Well, obviously, Stillman, this can’t stand up, can it?”

“Of course not. We met with the attorney who probated the will, and he’s not going to withdraw it. So we’ve agreed to meet with the judge soon and work things out.”

“Work things out? What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ll ask the judge to toss out this handwritten will and probate the legitimate one we looked at this morning. If for some reason he says no, then we’ll go to court and fight over which will should stand.”

“When do we go to court?” Ian asked belligerently, but there was also a noticeable layer of desperation in his voice, as if he could feel the fortune beginning to slide.

“We’re not sure right now, but I’ll call in a few days. We’ll work this out, Ian.”

“Damned right you will or I’ll bring in the Lanier firm from Jackson, the big boys, been representing me for a long time. Those guys know how to litigate. In fact, I’ll probably call Wade Lanier as soon as we hang up.”

“No need for that, Ian, not yet anyway. The last thing we need at this point is more lawyers. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“You do that.” Ian slammed the phone down and glared at his wife, who said, “What’s going on, Ian?”

Ian took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re not going to believe it.”

Herschel was sitting behind the wheel of his small Datsun listening to the end of a Springsteen song when the call came. The Datsun was parked near the main entrance of the BMW dealer in East Memphis. Dozens of shiny new BMWs glistened in perfect rows along the street. He’d fought himself over this ridiculous stop, and made peace only with a compromise that was to include a chat with a salesman but certainly no test-drive. Not yet anyway. As he reached to turn off the radio, his car phone rang.

It was Stillman Rush. He began with a nervous “Herschel, there’s a new wrinkle.”

Lettie arrived alone. Jake followed her up the stairs to the big office, where he closed the door and directed her to a small sitting area with a sofa and chairs. He took off his tie and poured coffee and tried to ease her apprehension. She explained that Simeon had already left again. She had told him nothing about Seth’s will, and this angered him. They had fought briefly, with every word echoing around the crowded house, and so he left.

Jake handed her a copy of Seth’s will. She read it and began crying. He placed a box of tissues next to her chair. She read it again, and when she finished she laid it on the coffee table before her and sat for a long time with her face in her hands. When the tears stopped, she wiped her cheeks and sat straighter, as if the shock was gone and she was ready for business.

“Why would he do this, Lettie?” Jake asked firmly.

“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know,” she said, her voice low and hoarse.

“Did he discuss this will with you?”

“No.”

“Have you seen this before?”

She was shaking her head. “No, no.”

“Has he ever mentioned his will to you?”

A pause as she tried to unscramble her thoughts. “Twice, maybe, in the past few months, he said he would leave a little something behind for me, but he never said what. Of course I was hoping he would, but I never brought it up. I never had no will. My momma never had one. Not something we think about, you know, Mr. Brigance?”

“Please call me Jake.”

“I’ll try.”

“Did you call him Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Seth, or just Seth?”

Deliberately, she said, “When it was just the two of us, I called him Seth because that’s what he wanted. If anybody else was around, I always called him Mr. Seth or Mr. Hubbard.”

“What did he call you?”

“Lettie. Always.”

He quizzed her about Seth’s last days, his illness, treatments, doctors, nurses, appetite, daily rituals, and her employment. She knew almost nothing about his business and said that he kept his papers locked up tight around the house; most had been moved to his office over the past few months. He never discussed business with her, or in her presence. Before he got sick, and afterward when he felt well, he traveled a lot and preferred to be out of town. His home was quiet, lonely, and not a happy place. Often she would arrive at 8:00 a.m. with nothing to do for the next eight hours, especially if Seth were out of town. When he was there, she cooked and cleaned. When he was sick, and dying, she stayed by his side. She fed him, and, yes, she bathed him and cleaned up after him when necessary. There had been dark periods, especially during the chemo and radiation, when he was bedridden and too weak to feed himself.

Jake delicately explained the concept of undue influence. The legal assault on the handwritten will would be an assault on Lettie, with allegations that she was too close to Seth, had too much influence; that she manipulated him into including her. For Lettie to prevail, it would be important for her to prove otherwise. As they talked, and as she began to relax, Jake could envision her deposition in the near future, in a room full of hyped-up lawyers all clamoring for the floor and the chance to grill her about what she and Mr. Hubbard did and did not do. He already felt sorry for her.