The Summons (6 page)

He was a little heavier and was carrying the weight well. His long sandy hair was turning gray much quicker than Ray’s. He wore a battered Cubs baseball cap.

“Where is he?” Forrest asked.

“In there.”

Forrest pulled open the screen and Ray followed him inside. He stopped in the door of the study and seemed uncertain as to what to do next. As Forrest stared at his father his head fell slightly to one side, and Ray thought for a second he might collapse. As tough as he tried to act, Forrest’s emotions were always just under the surface. He mumbled, “Oh my God,” then moved awkwardly to the wicker chair where he sat and looked in disbelief at the Judge.

“Is he really dead?” he managed to say with his jaws clenched.

“Yes, Forrest.”

He swallowed hard and fought back tears and finally said, “When did you get here?”

Ray sat on a stool and turned it to face his brother. “About five, I guess. I walked in, thought he was napping, then realized he was dead.”

“I’m sorry you had to find him,” Forrest said, wiping the corners of his eyes.

“Somebody had to.”

“What do we do now?”

“Call the funeral home.”

Forrest nodded as if he knew that was exactly what you’re supposed to do. He stood slowly and unsteadily and walked to the sofa. He touched his father’s hands. “How long has he been dead?” he mumbled. His voice was hoarse and strained.

“I don’t know. Couple of hours.”

“What’s that?”

“A morphine pack.”

“You think he cranked it up a little too much?”

“I hope so,” Ray said.

“I guess we should’ve been here.”

“Let’s not start that.”

Forrest looked around the room as if he’d never been there before. He walked to the rolltop and looked at the typewriter. “I guess he won’t need a new ribbon after all,” he said.

“I guess not,” Ray said, glancing at the cabinet behind the sofa. “There’s a will there if you want to read it. Signed yesterday.”

“What does it say?”

“We split everything. I’m the executor.”

“Of course you’re the executor.” He walked behind the mahogany desk and gave a quick look at the piles of papers covering it. “Nine years since I set foot in this house. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I stopped by a few days after the election, told him how sorry I was that the voters had turned him out, then I asked him for money. We had words.”

“Come on, Forrest, not now.”

Stories of the war between Forrest and the Judge could be told forever.

“Never did get that money,” he mumbled as he opened a desk drawer. “I guess we’ll need to go through everything, won’t we?”

“Yes, but not now.”

“You do it, Ray. You’re the executor. You handle the dirty work.”

“We need to call the funeral home.”

“I need a drink.”

“No, Forrest, please.”

“Lay off, Ray. I’ll have a drink anytime I want a drink.”

“That’s been proven a thousand times. Come on, I’ll call the funeral home and we’ll wait on the porch.”

______

A policeman arrived first, a young man with a shaved head who looked as though someone had interrupted his Sunday nap and called him into action. He
asked questions on the front porch, then viewed the body. Paperwork had to be done, and as they went through it Ray fixed a pitcher of instant tea with heavy sugar.

“Cause of death?” the policeman asked.

“Cancer, heart disease, diabetes, old age,” Ray said. He and Forrest were rocking gently in the swing.

“Is that enough?” Forrest asked, like a true smartass. Any respect he might’ve once had for cops had long since been abandoned.

“Will you request an autopsy?”

“No,” they said in unison.

He finished the forms and took signatures from both Ray and Forrest. As he drove away, Ray said, “Word will spread like wildfire now.”

“Not in our lovely little town.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Folks actually gossip around here.”

“I’ve kept them busy for twenty years.”

“Indeed you have.”

They were shoulder to shoulder, both holding empty glasses. “So what’s in the estate?” Forrest finally asked.

“You want to see the will?”

“No, just tell me.”

“He listed his assets—the house, furniture, car, books, six thousand dollars in the bank.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all he mentioned,” Ray said, avoiding the lie.

“Surely, there’s more money than that around here,” Forrest said, ready to start looking.

“I guess he gave it all away,” Ray said calmly.

“What about his state retirement?”

“He cashed out when he lost the election, a huge blunder. Cost him tens of thousands of dollars. I’m assuming he gave everything else away.”

“You’re not going to screw me, are you, Ray?”

“Come on, Forrest, there’s nothing to fight over.”

“Any debts?”

“He said he had none.”

“Nothing else?”

“You can read the will if you want.”

“Not now.”

“He signed it yesterday.”

“You think he planned everything?”

“Sure looks like it.”

A black hearse from Magargel’s Funeral Home rolled to a stop in front of Maple Run, then turned slowly into the drive.

Forrest leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, and began crying.

CHAPTER 7

Behind the hearse was the county coroner, Thurber Foreman, in the same red Dodge pickup he’d been driving since Ray was in college, and behind Thurber was Reverend Silas Palmer of the First Presbyterian Church, an ageless little Scot who’d baptized both Atlee sons. Forrest slipped away and hid in the backyard while Ray met the party on the front porch. Sympathies were exchanged. Mr. B. J. Magargel from the funeral home and Reverend Palmer appeared to be near tears. Thurber had seen countless dead bodies. He had no financial interest in this one, however, and appeared to be indifferent, at least for the moment.

Ray led them to the study where they respectfully viewed Judge Atlee long enough for Thurber to officially decide he was dead. He did this without words, but simply nodded at Mr. Magargel with a somber,
bureaucratic dip of the chin that said, “He’s dead. You can take him now.” Mr. Magargel nodded, too, thus completing a silent ritual they’d gone through many times together.

Thurber produced a single sheet of paper and asked the basics. The Judge’s full name, date of birth, place of birth, next of kin. For the second time, Ray said no to an autopsy.

Ray and Reverend Palmer stepped away and took a seat at the dining room table. The minister was much more emotional than the son. He adored the Judge and claimed him as a close friend.

A service befitting a man of Reuben Atlee’s stature would draw many friends and admirers and should be well planned. “Reuben and I talked about it not long ago,” Palmer said, his voice low and raspy, ready to choke up at any moment.

“That’s good,” Ray said.

“He picked out the hymns and scriptures, and he made a list of the pallbearers.”

Ray hadn’t yet thought of such details. Perhaps they would’ve come to mind had he not stumbled upon a couple of million in cash. His overworked brain listened to Palmer and caught most of his words, then it would switch to the broom closet and start swirling again. He was suddenly nervous that Thurber and Magargel were alone with the Judge in the study. Relax, he kept telling himself.

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely relieved that the details had been taken care of. Mr. Magargel’s assistant rolled a gurney through the front door, through the
foyer, and struggled to get it turned into the Judge’s study.

“And he wanted a wake,” the reverend said. Wakes were traditional, a necessary prelude to a proper burial, especially among the older folks.

Ray nodded.

“Here in the house.”

“No,” Ray said instantly. “Not here.”

As soon as he was alone, he wanted to inspect every inch of the house in search of more loot. And he was very concerned with the stash already in the broom closet. How much was there? How long would it take to count it? Was it real or counterfeit? Where did it come from? What to do with it? Where to take it? Who to tell? He needed time alone to think, to sort things out and develop a plan.

“Your father was very plain about this,” Palmer said.

“I’m sorry, Reverend. We will have a wake, but not here.”

“May I ask why not?”

“My mother.”

He smiled and nodded and said, “I remember your mother.”

“They laid her on the table over there in the front parlor, and for two days the entire town paraded by. My brother and I hid upstairs and cursed my father for such a spectacle.” Ray’s voice was firm, his eyes hot. “We will not have a wake in this house, Reverend.”

Ray was utterly sincere. He was also concerned about securing the premises. A wake would require a
thorough scouring of the house by a cleaning service, and the preparation of food by a caterer, and flowers hauled in by a florist. And all of this activity would begin in the morning.

“I understand,” the reverend said.

The assistant backed out first, pulling the gurney, which was being pushed gently by Mr. Magargel. The Judge was covered from head to foot by a starched white sheet that was tucked neatly under him. With Thurber following behind, they rolled him out, across the front porch and down the steps, the last Atlee to live at Maple Run.

______

Half an hour later, Forrest materialized from somewhere in the back of the house. He was holding a tall clear glass that was filled with a suspicious-looking brown liquid, and it wasn’t ice tea. “They gone?” he asked, looking at the driveway.

“Yes,” Ray said. He was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. When Forrest sat down next to him, the aroma of sour mash followed quickly.

“Where’d you find that?” Ray asked.

“He had a hiding place in his bathroom. Want some?”

“No. How long have you known that?”

“Thirty years.”

A dozen lectures leapt forward, but Ray fought them off. They’d been delivered many times before, and evidently they had failed because here was Forrest sipping bourbon after 141 days of sobriety.

“How’s Ellie?” Ray asked after a long puff.

“Crazy as hell, the same.”

“Will I see her at the funeral?”

“No, she’s up to three hundred pounds. One-fifty is her limit. Under one-fifty and she’ll leave the house. Over one-fifty and she locks herself up.”

“When was she under one-fifty?”

“Three or four years ago. She found some wacko doctor who gave her pills. Got all the way down to a hundred pounds. Doctor went to jail and she gained another two hundred. Three hundred is her max, though. She weighs herself every day and freaks out if the big needle goes beyond three.”

“I told Reverend Palmer that we would have a wake, but not here, not in the house.”

“You’re the executor.”

“You agree?”

“Sure.”

A long pull on the bourbon, another long puff on the cigar.

“What about that hosebag who ditched you? What’s her name?”

“Vicki.”

“Yeah, Vicki, I hated that bitch even at your wedding.”

“I wish I had.”

“She still around?”

“Yep, saw her last week, at the airport, getting off her private jet.”

“She married that old fart, right, some crook from Wall Street?”

“That’s him. Let’s talk about something else.”

“You brought up women.”

“Always a big mistake.”

Forrest slugged another drink, then said, “Let’s talk about money. Where is it?”

Ray flinched slightly and his heart stopped, but Forrest was gazing at the front lawn and didn’t notice. What money are you talking about, dear brother? “He gave it away.”

“But why?”

“It was his money, not ours.”

“Why not leave some for us?”

Not too many years earlier, the Judge had confided to Ray that over a fifteen-year period he had spent more than ninety thousand dollars on legal fees, court fines, and rehab for Forrest. He could leave the money for Forrest to drink and snort, or he could give it away to charities and needy families during his lifetime. Ray had a profession and could take care of himself.

“He left us the house,” Ray said.

“What happens to it?”

“We’ll sell it if you want. The money goes in a pot with everything else. Fifty percent will go for estate taxes. Probate will take a year.”

“Gimme the bottom line.”

“We’ll be lucky to split fifty thousand a year from now.”

Of course there were other assets. The loot was sitting innocently in the broom closet, but Ray needed
time to evaluate it. Was it dirty money? Should it be included in the estate? If so, it would cause terrible problems. First, it would have to be explained. Second, at least half would get burned in taxes. Third, Forrest would have his pockets filled with cash and would probably kill himself with it.

“So I’ll get twenty-five thousand bucks in a year?” Forrest said.

Ray couldn’t tell if he was anxious or disgusted. “Something like that.”

“Do you want the house?”

“No, do you?”

“Hell no. I’ll never go back in there.”

“Come on, Forrest.”

“He kicked me out, you know, told me I’d disgraced this family long enough. Told me to never set foot on this soil again.”

“And he apologized.”

A quick sip. “Yes, he did. But this place depresses me. You’re the executor, you deal with it. Just mail me a check when probate is over.”

“We should at least go through his things together.”

“I’m not touching them,” he said and got to his feet. “I want a beer. It’s been five months, and I want a beer.” He was walking toward his car as he talked. “You want one?”

“No.”

“You wanna ride with me?”

Ray wanted to go so he could protect his brother, but he felt a stronger urge to sit tight and protect the
Atlee family assets. The Judge never locked the house. Where were the keys? “I’ll wait here,” he said.

“Whatever.”

______

The next visitor was no surprise. Ray was in the kitchen digging through drawers, looking for keys, when he heard a loud voice bellowing at the front door. Though he hadn’t heard it in years, there was no doubt it belonged to Harry Rex Vonner.