Free Southern Fried by Rob Rosen Page B

around. “To Stella Murphy,” Claude began. “A
    construction business will be set up in her name, with enough
    money to get it off the ground and keep it running for up to five
    years.” Well now, wouldn’t you know it, Stella really was squeal-
    able. Only, it sounded more like a high-pitched grunt, really.
    Sort of jarring, if you ask me. Still, Granny made her happy. To
    a point. “Provided,” Claude threw in, as I was sure he would.
    “Provided that her primary client shall be the Jackson estate
    for a period of up to ten years, its upkeep and maintenance her
    responsibility during that time.” Upon that, the squeal-like grunt
    was pretty much just grunt. Stella’s construction business came
    at a hefty price, it seemed. I stared at the ceiling. Well, at least no
    possums so far, Granny. Bravo.
    “To Jake Thompson,” Claude continued. “I leave three
    thousand dollars.”
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    Jake jumped up. “What?” he shouted. “Are you kidding me?
    That impossible old woman had me work on her pool five days a
    week, keeping the leaves out, keeping it sparkling for her, and not
    once did she use it. Not even a piggy toe dipped in.”
    Claude cleared his throat. “Three thousand dollars unless he
    settles down and finds a wife.” Claude smiled almost imperceptibly
    as he glanced at Jake above his reading glasses. “If he does so
    within one year’s time, that amount will increase to one hundred
    thousand. Enough to start a family with.” For Jake, the previous
    squeals were no match for his squeak. It sounded like he stopped
    breathing after that, until Jeeves patted him on the back. “He
    will also be paid an additional ten thousand dollars a year above
    his usual salary for every year he remains with the estate. Ten
    thousand more for every child his future wife gives birth to.”
    Jake coughed. “Impossible old woman,” he reiterated.
    “Quite,” Claude agreed.
    “Any prospects?” I couldn’t help but ask.
    Jake grimaced. “Plenty,” he replied. “Unfortunately.”
    And just wait until those prospects heard about all that money.
    They’d be knocking down poor, rich Jake’s door. Maybe Stella
    would have a new client in Jake then, fixing busted doors. That is,
    when she wasn’t working on the estate. Along with everyone else.
    In perpetual servitude. Granny must’ve had a field day writing up
    that will of hers. In other words, I gulped at what was still yet to
    come.
    Zeb was next. “To Zebulon Jones,” started Claude, “I leave
    any three horses of his choosing.”
    Zeb laughed and clapped his hands, but was smart enough to
    add, “Provided?”
    Claude nodded and found his place. “Provided that he keeps
    them in the estate’s stables, free of charge, food included, and
    that he also maintains the horses that remain in the possession
    of the estate, at his current salary with a ten percent raise in pay.”
    Zeb’s smile remained. “And, since I can’t afford to stable
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    them elsewhere anyway…”
    Claude interrupted. “Yes, I believe you see Miss Jackson’s
    intentions.”
    “Twenty-twenty,” said Zeb. “And I have no problem with
    those intentions. The three horses I have in mind are the best in
    the county. The stud fees alone will keep me rolling in it.”
    Claude shook his head and chuckled, his index finger held up
    high. “Um, except for this.” He again found his place in the will
    and continued. “Any stud fees, sale of said three horses, or sales
    of future progeny of said three horses will be split fifty-fifty with
    the estate. Failure to do so will result in the return of said three
    horses to the estate.”
    Zeb couldn’t help but laugh. “She always did think of
    everything.”
    “Apparently,” agreed Claude.
    “No problem,” Zeb said, with a shrug. “That’s still three more
    horses than I had when I woke up this morning. Plus a raise.” He,
    too, stared up at the ceiling. “Thank you kindly, Miss Jackson.”
    Jake, Stella,