Sycamore Row - John Grisham

and I think he paid something like fifty grand for it. Sold it ten years later for one point
five mill.” Harry Rex loaded up a nacho and stuffed it in his mouth. Pausing only
slightly, he continued, “He never really fit in around here, so he went back to Memphis,
where he was from, and lost his ass in real estate. Then his grandmother died and left
him another bundle. He’s in the process of losing it too, I think. We were pretty close
back in the day and he pops in from time to time, looking for a drink.”
“Does he still own the Hocutt House?”
“Yep, and I think that’s one reason he wants to talk. He bought it in 1972 after all the
Hocutts died off. Talk about a weird bunch. Twins, Wilma and Gilma, plus a brother and
a crazy sister, and none of them ever married. Willie bought the house because nobody
else wanted it, then he spent a few years fixing it up. You ever seen it?”
“Only from the street. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s one of the finest Victorians in these parts. Kinda reminds me of your old place,
just a lot bigger. Willie has good taste and the interior is immaculate. Problem is, he
hasn’t spent three nights there in the past five years. He wants to sell it, probably needs
the money, but, hell, can’t nobody around here afford it.”
“Whatever the price, it’s way out of my range,” Jake said.
“He thinks it’s worth $300,000. I said maybe so, but he’ll never get it. Not now, not
ten years from now.”
“Some doctor’ll buy it.”
“He mentioned you, Jake. He followed the Hailey trial, knows all about the Klan
burning your house. He knows you’re in the market.”
“I’m not in the market, Harry Rex. I’m in litigation with the insurance company. But
tell him thanks anyway. Too rich for my blood.”
“You want some nachos?”
“No thanks. I need to get home.”
“Tell Carla I love her and lust after her body.”
“She knows it. Later.”
Jake walked to his office in a cold drizzle. The streetlamps around the square were
adorned with Christmas wreaths and silver bells. Carols rang out from a Nativity scene
in front of the courthouse. The merchants were open late and the stores were busy.
There was a slight chance of snow tomorrow and few things excited the town like such a
forecast. The old-timers claimed there had been a white Christmas in 1952, and even the
slightest chance of one now had kids staring out of windows and stores offering shovels
and salt. Shoppers scurried about with great anticipation as if a blizzard was expected.
Jake took the long route home, driving slowly away from the square and into the
shaded streets of central Clanton until he turned onto Market Street. A light was on in
the Hocutt House, a rarity. Jake and Carla had passed it many times, always slowly,
admiringly, and always aware that the lovely Victorian was hardly used. There had
always been rumors that Willie Traynor was selling the place. He had abandoned
Clanton after he sold the paper, and everyone knew it.
The house needed painting. In the summer, the flower beds were choked with weeds
and the grass was rarely mowed. In the fall, the leaves gathered in drifts on the front