The residents of Goose Creek, Georgia, were alternating between shock and mourning. That Huey John DeLong had died was a source of great sadness. He was the last of the DeLongs, who had been their small town’s only claim to fame, before passing away in his sleep two nights ago, at the age of ninety-three.

For years the single and widowed ladies of Goose Creek had done their best to entice Huey John into marriage. They’d flirted at parties and presented fine baked goods on Sunday afternoons, hoping to be asked to stay to tea. Sometimes it had worked, sometimes it had not, but no matter what sort of attention they’d been paid by Huey John, it had never ever involved even a hint of wedded bliss.

And now he was dead.

That was where the mourning came in.

The shock that accompanied his passing had come at five minutes past ten this morning when E.E. Cummings, the DeLong family lawyer, had read aloud Huey John’s will to three distant cousins and an assortment of hired help who’d served him and his family over the past twenty or so years.

The hired help received generous monetary gifts that had put tears in their eyes. The cousins, who had never been to Goose Creek in their lives and who knew Huey John only by name, received bus tickets back to their respective homes with a “Thank You” for coming, which had incensed them highly.

It was, however, the last page of the will that brought everyone present to their feet and sent a hiss of outrage through the room.

“I hereby bequeath all the remaining properties listed in the contents above, to Myra Joan Broady, Tessa Faye Upshaw, Billie Ruth Henry, and Annie May Crawley. Their last place of employment was at the Pink Kitten Inn.”

The cousins looked stunned and confused, and it wasn’t until the woman who’d cleaned Huey John’s house for the last fifteen years stood up and exclaimed!

“Edward Everett! Did I hear you right?”

The lawyer sighed, then nodded. He’d been dreading this day for years.

“Yes, Miz Thurman, you heard me right, and before you get yourself all in a snit, may I remind you that the property was Huey John’s to do with as he chose.”

“But he was plumb diddly by the time he died,” she muttered.

“Be that as it may,” E.E. said. “But Huey John wrote this will on his seventy-fifth birthday and has not seen fit to change a word of it since.”

One of the cousins, a man named Justin Bertram, decided to speak up.

“I’m sorry,” he drawled. “But will someone please explain what the hell is goin’ on here?”

Elsie Thurman pursed her mouth in disapproval and then stuck out her chin.

“The Pink Kitten Inn is a house of ill repute. Huey John has gone and left his money and property to four old prostitutes.”

Justin Bertram gasped, and turned to the lawyer. “Is this true?”

E.E. had been listening to the screeches and gasps with growing disdain, realizing, as Huey John had obviously known all along, that these people cared nothing for him and meant nothing to him. The only fun and friendship that he’d ever had in his life had been from his paid female companions, who had not only adored Huey John, but had loved his joie de vivre. And because he was the last person who could speak for Huey John, E.E. leaned forward with what he hoped was a cordial smile.

“Why yes, Mr. Bertram, I believe that it’s true.”

“But the DeLong mansion is on the registry of historical sites ... and the five hundred acres of land surrounding it are some of the finest farmin’ land in the area.”

E.E. nodded. “Yes, this is true.”

Justin Bertram was beginning to shake. “And the money ... five million dollars ... he can’t just ... it isn’t right that ... we will contest the—”

It was then that E.E. held up his hand. “Oh yes, there was one small bit I forgot. If any one of tries to contest the will, he will be paid the sum of one dollar for his troubles and any previous gifts will become null and void.” Then he added. “And just so you know ... this will was witnessed by the Governor of Alabama, as well as the man who was head of the Alabama State Bureau of Investigation at the time. And, while they’re now retired, they are both lively and vital men who would take huge offense at being accused of doing something illegal.”

“God in heaven,” Justin Bertram gasped, and sat down with a thump.

“So it’s true?” Elsie asked.

E.E. leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chain, and then nodded.

“Yes, Miz Thurman. Huey John DeLong has bequeathed all his worldly goods to four whores.”