The Summons by John Grisham Page A

willing to believe, then Claudia would know about the money. It was obvious she did not. Ray never suspected she knew, because if she had then the money would not have remained hidden in the study. Let her have a rip at three million bucks and everybody in the county would know about it. If she had a dollar, you were going to see it. As pitiful as she looked across the table, Ray suspected she had very few dollars.
    “I thought your second husband had some money,” he said, with a little too much cruelty.
    “So did I,” she said and managed a smile. Ray chuckled a bit. Then they both laughed, and the ice thawed dramatically. She had always been known for her bluntness.
    “Never found it, huh?”
    “Not a dime. He was this nice-looking guy, nine years younger, you know—”
    “I remember it well. A regular scandal.”
    “He was fifty-one years old, a smooth talker, had a line about making money in oil. We drilled like crazy for four years and I came up with nothing.”
    Ray laughed louder. He could not, at that moment, ever remember having a talk about sex and money with a seventy-year-old woman. He got the impression she had plenty of stories. Claudia’s greatest hits.
    “You’re looking good, Claudia, you have time for another one.”
    “I’m tired, Ray. Old and tired. I’d have to train him and all. It’s not worth it.”
    “What happened to number two?”
    “He croaked with a heart attack and I didn’t even find a thousand dollars,” she said.
    “The Judge left six.”
    “Is that all?” she asked in disbelief.
    “No stocks, no bonds, nothing but an old house and six thousand dollars in the bank.”
    She lowered her eyes, shook her head, and believed everything Ray was saying. She had no clue about the cash.
    “What will you do with the house?”
    “Forrest wants to burn it and collect the insurance.”
    “Not a bad idea.”
    “We’ll sell it.”
    There was noise on the porch, then a knock. Reverend Palmer was there to discuss the funeral service, which would begin in two hours. Claudia hugged Ray as they walked to her car. She hugged him again and said good-bye. “I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer to you,” she whispered as he opened her car door.
    “Good-bye, Claudia. I’ll see you at the church.”
    “He never forgave me, Ray.”
    “I forgive you.”
    “Do you really?”
    “Yes. You’re forgiven. We’re friends now.”
    “Thank you so much.” She hugged him a third time and started crying. He helped her into the car, always a Cadillac. Just before she turned the ignition, she said, “Did he ever forgive you, Ray?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I don’t think so either.”
    “But it’s not important now. Let’s get him buried.”
    “He could be a mean old sumbitch, couldn’t he?” she said, smiling through the tears.
    Ray had to laugh. His dead father’s seventy-year-old former lover had just called the great man a son of a bitch.
    “Yes,” he agreed. “He certainly could be.”

CHAPTER 12
    They rolled Judge Atlee down the center aisle in his fine oak casket and parked him at the altar in front of the pulpit where Reverend Palmer was waiting in a black robe. The casket was left unopened, much to the disappointment of the mourners, most of whom still clung to the ancient Southern ritual of viewing the deceased one last time in a strange effort to maximize the grief. “Hell no,” Ray had said politely to Mr. Magargel when asked about opening things up. When the pieces were in place, Palmer slowly stretched out his arms, then lowered them, and the crowd sat.
    In the front pew to his right was the family, the two sons. Ray wore his new suit and looked tired. Forrest wore jeans and a black suede jacket and looked remarkably sober. Behind them were Harry Rex and the other pallbearers, and behind them was a sad collection of ancient judges, not far from the casket themselves.In the front pew to his left were all sorts of dignitaries—politicians, an ex-governor, a couple of