Sycamore Row - John Grisham

Ford County, but there’s no way to prove it.”
“Oh, I think she’s definitely a Rinds,” Charley said, hanging on in desperation. He
thumped his paperwork as if it held the unquestioned truth. “We’re probably seventh or
eighth cousins.”
“Same as ever’ other black person in north Mississippi,” Lettie said, almost under her
breath. The women backed away from the table. Shirley, a sister and one of Cypress’s
daughters, arrived with the coffeepot and topped off their cups.
Charley seemed undaunted and kept up his barrage of chatter as the conversation
drifted away from bloodlines and shaky family histories. He was there looking for
money, and he had done his homework. His sleuthing had brought Lettie as close to her
true ancestors as any efforts so far, but there was simply not enough hard evidence to
tie up the loose ends. There were still too many gaps, too many questions that could
never be answered.
Portia eased into the background and just listened. She was tiring of his diamonds and
slickness, but she was enthralled by his research. She and Lucien, and now Lettie too,
were laboring under the unfounded theory that Lettie was related to the Rindses who
once owned the land the Hubbards took title to in 1930. If proven, this might help
explain why Seth did what he did. And, it might not. It might also raise a hundred other
questions, some of which could prove detrimental. Was any of it admissible in court?
Probably not, in Lucien’s opinion, but it was worth their determined pursuit.
“Where’s the best place for lunch?” Charley asked boldly. “I’m taking you ladies out
for lunch. My treat.”
Such a Chicago idea! Black folks in Clanton rarely ate out, and to do so on a Saturday
for lunch with such a charming young man, and one picking up the tab, was irresistible.
They quickly decided on Claude’s, the black-owned café on the square. Jake ate there
every Friday and had even taken Portia. On Saturdays, Claude grilled pork chops and
the place was packed.
The last time Lettie rode in a late-model Cadillac was the morning she drove Seth to
his office, the day before he killed himself. He’d made her drive and she’d been a wreck.
She remembered it well as she sat up front with Charley. Her three daughters sank into
the lush leather of the rear seat and admired the well-appointed interior as they headed
for the square. Charley talked nonstop, drove slowly so the locals could admire his car,
and within minutes brought up the idea of a wildly profitable funeral home he wanted
to buy on the South Side of Chicago. Portia glanced at Phedra, who glanced at Clarice.
Charley caught them in the rearview mirror, but never stopped talking.
According to his mother, who was now sixty-eight and in good health with a fine
memory, her branch of the Rinds family lived near the rest of them, and at one time
made up a sizable community. With time, though, they joined the great migration and
headed north in search of jobs and a better life. Once they left Mississippi, they had no
desire to return. Those in Chicago sent money back to retrieve the ones left behind, and
over time all the Rindses had either fled or died.
The funeral home could be a gold mine.
The little restaurant was almost full at noon. In a spotless white apron, Claude