Sewell had taken care of everything for Jane. Was this the care of a lawyer for a good client or the devotion of a friend?

“So,” he was saying briskly, “the little bitty operating expenses for this house will come out of the estate, but I trust you won’t mind, we kept it at a minimum. You know when you completely turn off the air or beat into a house, the house just seems to go downhill almost immediately, and there was always the slight chance Jane might make it and come home.”

“No, of course I don’t mind paying the electric bill. Do Parnell and Leah have a key?”

“No, Jane was firm about that. Parnell came to me and offered to go through and get Jane’s clothes and things packed away, but of course I told him no.”

“Oh?”

“They’re yours,” he said simply. “Everything”-and he gave that some emphasis, or was it only my imagination-“everything in this house is yours. Parnell and Leah know about their five thousand, and Jane herself handed him the keys to her car two days before she died and let him take it from this carport, but, other than that, whatever is in this house”-and suddenly I was alert and very nearly scared-“is yours to deal with however you see fit.”

My eyes narrowed with concentration. What was he saying that he wasn’t really saying?

Somewhere, somewhere in this house, lurked a problem. For some reason, Jane’s legacy wasn’t entirely benevolent. After calling the police about the break-in and calling the glass people to come to fix the window, Bubba Sewell took his departure.

“I don’t think the police will even show up here since I couldn’t tell them anything was missing. I’ll stop by the station on my way back to the office, though.” he said on his way out the door.

I was relieved to hear that. I’d met most of the local policemen when I dated Arthur; policemen really stick together. “There’s no point in turning on the air conditioner until that back bedroom window is fixed,” Sewell added, “but the thermostat is in the hall, when you need it.”