Free Southern Fried by Rob Rosen Page A

exactly the time my heart started beating out a mad samba.
    I know, I’m rambling, but, come on, give me a break; this was
    some heavy shit. Nine futures were on the line, including the
    missing Beau’s.
    Granny’s attorney introduced himself. Claude Newman:
    distinguished, old, all business. He sat at the desk and removed
    the will from his briefcase. The group of us gathered around, on
    southeRn FRied 51
    chairs and couches, some of us standing, but all of us as close as
    possible, nervous looking, silent. Suddenly, I understood what it
    meant to be on pins and needles. And it hurt like a motherfucker,
    let me tell you.
    Claude slipped his bifocals on, cleared his throat, and began,
    all of us leaning in just a couple of inches closer, Pearl’s hand in
    mine, squeezed tightly.
    “My condolences to you all,” he began. “Miss Jackson was a,
    uh, was a, uh…”
    Pearl interrupted. “Yeah, we know what she was; just get on
    with it, please.”
    He coughed and stared down at the paper. “Right. Let’s see
    here then.” He cleared his throat again and began. My heart did
    a skip and a jump, then a double axel. “I, Mary Jackson, being of
    sound mind and body, do hereby leave the following upon my
    demise. To Roy Presley, for taking care of my gardens, my prized
    roses, my manicured lawns and the trees that have been on this
    estate for generations, I leave ten acres of my land, those to the
    far west, to do with as he pleases.” Roy squealed and then bit
    down on his lip in order to contain himself. Though the squeal, of
    course, was telltale; Zeb might not have had a shot with Jake, but
    Roy was fair game. Fair being the optimal word. Again, stunning.
    Simply stunning. Anyway, Claude wasn’t finished with Roy just
    yet. “Provided,” he continued, the big old but acoming, barreling
    down like a runaway freight train. “Provided he continues to
    maintain the estate’s premises for as long as he lives on those ten
    acres, his salary to be paid while he remains with the estate. If he
    leaves said property, he relinquishes his claim to it and his role as
    gardener. The land shall never be for sale and will return to the
    estate upon Roy’s demise or his termination of residence.” Roy’s
    squeal promptly turned to a groan. Even in death she had him. I
    held back a snort, as did Pearl. Still, ten acres plus a salary for life
    was nothing to sneeze at. Even with all that dastardly pine pollen
    forever swirling about.
    Claude moved on. “To Betty Dutmire, for keeping my china
    gleaming, my silver polished, and my heirlooms unchipped,
    52 Rob Rosen
    uncracked, and unbroken, I leave all the china, all the silver, and
    all the heirlooms.” And now it was Betty’s turn to squeal, her
    smile going from fifty-watt to a blinding two-hundred, the cash
    register in her head ch-chinging . But, of course, neither Claude
    nor Granny was quite finished with Betty just yet. Here came
    that other dropping shoe. Kerplunk . “All the china, all the silver,
    and all the heirlooms that are less than fifty years old. Anything
    older will remain in the family, one piece of it, however, going
    to Betty with each year she stays on at the mansion, the piece
    to be determined by the estate.” Meaning, anything that Granny
    had bought in her lifetime was for Betty to keep. Meaning,
    nothing antique. Meaning, the drawers in that cash register had
    been emptied out before they even got filled. And Betty’s smile
    dimmed considerably. Still, as with Roy, Granny’s silver and
    china and heirlooms were also nothing to sneeze at. After all,
    Granny sure as hell didn’t shop at K-Mart for those things. Plus,
    each year Betty stayed on, her personal fortune would increase
    considerably.
    Next was Stella, who, up until then, had remained stone-
    cold silent. Though I doubt she was much of squealer to
    begin with. Besides, what, after all, could Granny leave to a
    handyman woman? Not like Granny had a diamond-studded
    tool belt hanging