Sycamore Row - John Grisham

Sitting by the fire in a fine old home, one with a history, and sipping hot cocoa made
by someone else, and talking to such a noted rogue as Lucien Wilbanks, Portia at times
couldn’t believe herself. She was an equal. She had to constantly remind herself of this,
but it was true because Lucien treated her as one. There was an excellent chance they
were wasting their time chasing the past, but what a fascinating search. Lucien was
obsessed with the puzzle. He was convinced Seth Hubbard did what he did for a reason.
And the reason wasn’t sex or companionship. Portia had gently confronted her mother
and, with all the trust and respect and love she could humanly muster, had asked her the
big question. No, Lettie had said. Never. It was never considered, not on her part
anyway. It was never discussed, never a possibility. Never.
Randall Clapp slid the envelope into a drop box outside the main post office in
downtown Oxford. It was plain, white, legal-sized, no return info, and it was addressed
to Fritz Pickering in Shreveport, Louisiana. Inside were two sheets of paper—a full copy
of the will handwritten by Irene Pickering and signed by her on March 11, 1980. The
other copy was locked away in Wade Lanier’s law office. The original was in the file
stolen from the Freeman Law Firm, two blocks down the street.
The plan was for Fritz Pickering to receive the anonymous letter, notice it postmarked
in Oxford, open it, recognize the old will, and wonder who in the world had sent it to
him. He would probably have a hunch but he would never know for sure.
It was late Saturday night, the college bars were rocking, and the police were more
concerned with that activity than with the petty break-in of a small law office. With
Clapp in the alley watching things, agent Erby entered the rear door, and within five
minutes had returned the Pickering file to its proper and long-neglected resting place.