Sycamore Row (37 page)

“My theory hasn’t gotten that far yet.”

“And why would he leave her everything—the eighty acres plus a helluva lot more—at the expense of his own family?”

“Still digging for that one.”

“I like it. Let’s keep digging.”

“This could be crucial, Jake, because it could prove motive. The big question is, Why? And if we can answer it, then you might just win at trial. Otherwise, you’re screwed.”

“That’s just your opinion, Lucien. As I recall, that was your general sentiment right before the Hailey trial.”

“The sooner you forget that trial, the sooner you’ll become a better lawyer.”

Jake smiled and stood. “Some things you can’t forget, Lucien. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shopping with my daughter. Merry Christmas to you.”

“Bah humbug.”

“Are you coming over for dinner?”

“Bah humbug.”

“That’s what I figured. See you Monday.”

Simeon Lang arrived home just after dark on Christmas Eve. He had been away for over two weeks, and his travels had taken him as far as Oregon, in an 18-wheeler packed with six tons of stolen appliances. He had a pocketful of cash, love in his heart, Christmas jingles on his tongue, and a nice bottle of bourbon hidden under the passenger’s seat. He was cold sober at the moment, and he was promising himself he would not let the booze disrupt the holidays. All in all, Simeon was in a cheerful mood, at least until he pulled to a stop in front of the old Sappington place. He counted seven cars parked haphazardly in the driveway and around the front lawn. Three he recognized; the others, he wasn’t so sure. He abruptly stopped “Jingle Bells” in mid-chorus and wanted to curse. All the lights were on in the house and it gave every impression of being filled with people.

One of the advantages of marrying Lettie was that her family lived far away, over in Alabama. She had no relatives in Ford County. On his side there were too many, and they caused trouble, but he took no flack from her people, at least not in the early years. He had secretly been delighted when she, at the age of thirty, learned that Cypress and Clyde Tayber were not her real parents and their six kids were not her siblings. This delight faded quickly, though, when Lettie carried on
as if they were blood kin. Clyde died, the kids scattered, and Cypress needed a place to live. They took her in, temporarily, and five years later she was still there, bigger and needier than ever. The brothers and sisters were back, with their broods in tow and their hands out.

To be fair, there were some Langs in there too. A sister-in-law in particular had become a constant nuisance. She was out of work and needed a loan, preferably one accompanied by a verbal promise that could not be enforced. Simeon almost reached for the bottle, but he fought the urge and got out of his truck.

There were kids everywhere, a fire in the fireplace, and a kitchen full of women cooking and men tasting. Almost everyone was either happy to see him or good at pretending. Lettie smiled and they hugged. He had called the day before from Kansas and promised to be home in time for dinner. She pecked him on the cheek to see if he had been drinking, and when he passed that test she relaxed considerably. To her knowledge, there was not a drop of booze in the house, and she wanted desperately to keep it that way. In the den, Simeon hugged his kids—Portia, Phedra, Clarice, and Kirk, and his two grandchildren. From upstairs, a boom box was blasting “Rudolph” while three little boys pushed Cypress in her wheelchair up and down the hallway at a dangerous speed. Teenagers watched the television at full volume.

The old house almost shook with a chaotic energy, and after a few minutes Simeon was at peace again. The solitude of the open road had been dashed, but it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and he was surrounded by family. For sure, much of the love and warmth on display was being driven by greed and the desire to get closer to Lettie, but Simeon let it go. For a few hours anyway, just enjoy the moment.

If only Marvis could be there.

Lettie arranged two tables end to end in the dining room. The ladies then covered them with roasted turkeys, hams, sweet potatoes, half a dozen other vegetables and casseroles, and an impressive assortment of cakes and pies. It took a few minutes to gather everyone around the food, and when they were still Lettie offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving. But she had more to say. She unfolded a sheet of white notebook paper and said, “Please listen, this is from Marvis.”

At the sound of his name, all movements stopped, all heads dipped lower. They all had their own memories of the oldest child, and most of them were heartbreaking, unpleasant.

Lettie read, “Hello Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. I wish you the happiest
holiday greetings and hope everyone has a Merry Christmas. I’m writing this from my cell, at night. From here I can catch a glimpse of the sky and tonight there is no moon but plenty of stars. One is really bright, I think it’s the North Star but I’m not sure. Anyway, right now I’m pretending it’s the star over Bethlehem, leading the wise men to the baby Jesus. Matthew, Chapter 2. I love you all. I wish I could be there. I’m so sorry for my mistakes and the misery I’ve caused to my family and friends. I’ll get out one day and when I’m free I’ll be there at Christmas and we’ll have a great time. Marvis.”

Her voice stayed strong but tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them, managed a smile, then said, “Let’s eat.”

Because it was a special occasion, Hanna insisted on sleeping with her parents. They read Christmas stories until well past ten, with at least two breaks every half hour so she could sprint to the den and make sure Santa had not somehow sneaked into the house. She chattered and wiggled with usual nervous anticipation until she inadvertently grew still. When Jake awoke at sunrise, she was wedged under her mother, both of them sound asleep. But with a gentle “I think Santa Claus has been here,” his girls sprang to life. Hanna dashed to the tree and squealed with amazement at the glorious loot Santa had left her. Jake made the coffee while Carla took photos. They opened gifts and laughed with Hanna as the wrappings and boxes piled up. What on earth was better than being a seven-year-old on Christmas morning? When the excitement began to wane, Jake stepped away and eased outside. In a small utility room next to the carport, he retrieved another package, a large square box wrapped in green paper with a large red bow. From inside, the puppy whimpered. It had been a long night, for both of them.

“Look what I found,” he announced as he sat the box on the floor next to Hanna.

“What is it, Daddy?” Hanna asked, immediately suspicious. From inside, the frazzled puppy made not a sound.

“Open it,” Carla said, and Hanna began ripping paper. Jake unfolded the top of the box, and Hanna looked inside. Sadie met her gaze with sad, tired eyes that seemed to say, “Get me outta here.”

They would pretend Sadie came from the North Pole; in fact, she came from the county’s rescue shelter, where, for $37, Jake bought her with all shots included and some future spaying thrown in. With hints
of pedigree not even remotely possible, her handlers could not speculate on her size or temperament. One thought she had “a lot of terrier,” while another disagreed sharply and said, “There’s gotta be some schnauzer in there somewhere.” Her mother had been found dead in a ditch, and she and her five siblings had been rescued at the age of about one month.

Hanna lifted her gently, cradled her, cuddled her, squeezed her next to her chest, and of course the dog began licking her face. She looked at her parents in speechless amazement, her beautiful eyes moist, her voice unable to work.

Jake said, “Santa called her Sadie, but you can choose any name you want.”

Santa was a miracle worker, but at that moment all other gifts and toys he’d left behind were instantly forgotten. Hanna finally said, “Sadie’s perfect.”

Within an hour, the dog had taken over, as all three humans followed her around, making sure she got whatever she wanted.

The invitation to cocktails was a handwritten note from Willie Traynor. Six o’clock, the day after Christmas, at the Hocutt House. Holiday attire, whatever that meant. Carla insisted it meant a necktie at the least, and Jake eventually caved in. Initially, they went through the motions of pretending they did not want to go, when in reality there was absolutely nothing else to do on the day after Christmas. Well-done cocktail parties were rare in Clanton, and they suspected Willie, who grew up in Memphis amid money, might just know how to throw one. The biggest draw was the house. For years they had admired it from the street but had never managed to get inside.

“There’s a rumor he wants to sell it,” Jake said as they were discussing the invitation. He had not told his wife about the earlier conversation with Harry Rex, mainly because the price, whatever it happened to be, was far out of their range.

“That rumor has been around, hasn’t it?” she replied, and from that moment on began dreaming about the house.

“Yes, but Harry Rex says Willie is serious now. He never stays there.”

They were the first to arrive, fashionably late at ten minutes after, and Willie was all alone. His holiday attire included a red bow tie, black satin dinner jacket, and some modification of Scottish kilts. He
was in his early forties, handsome with long hair and a graying beard, and perfectly charming, especially to Carla. Jake had to admit to some level of envy. Willie was only a few years older yet he had already made a million bucks. He was single, known to enjoy the ladies, and gave the impression of a man who’d been around the world.

He poured champagne into heavy, crystal flutes, offered a holiday toast, and after the first sip said with a smile, “I want to tell you something,” as if they were family and important news had arrived.

He went on, “I have decided to sell this house. I’ve owned it for sixteen years, and I love the place, but I’m simply not here enough. It needs real owners, people who will treasure it, preserve it, and keep it just like it is.” Another sip as Jake and Carla hung in midair. “And I’m not selling to just anyone. No realtor is involved. I’d like to avoid putting it on the market. I don’t want the town talking about it.”

Jake couldn’t suppress a chuckle at this. The town was already talking.

“Okay, okay, there are no secrets around here, but folks don’t have to know what we discuss. I would love for you two to have it. I actually saw your other house before it was destroyed, and I admire the way you restored it.”

“Cut the price and we’re in,” Jake said.

Willie looked at Carla’s soft brown eyes and said, “This place has your name written all over it.”

“How much?” Jake asked. His spine stiffened and he vowed not to flinch when the figure was revealed.

“Two fifty,” Willie said without hesitation. “I paid a hundred for it in 1972, then spent a hundred more fixing it up. Same house in midtown Memphis would push a million, but then that’s a long way off. At two fifty it’s a steal, but you can’t ignore the market. If I advertised it for half a million it would sit here until the weeds took over. Frankly, I’d just like to get my money back.”