Little light had been shed on the money

Little light had been shed on the money. The Judge enjoyed the dice and was good at gambling, but it seemed unlikely he could have cleared $3.1 million in seven years. And to do so without creating paperwork and leaving a trail seemed impossible.
Ray returned to the tax records while Harry Rex plowed through the ledgers of donations. "Which CPA are you gonna use?" Ray asked after a long period of silence.
"There are several."
"Not local."
"No, I stay away from the guys around here. It's a small town."
''Looks to me like the records are in good shape," Ray said, closing a drawer.
"It'll be easy, except for the house."
"Let's put it on the market, the sooner the better. It won't be a quick sell.”
"What's the asking price?"
"Let's start at three hundred."
"Are we spending money to fix it up?"
"There is no money, Harry Rex."
JUST BEFORE dark, Forrest announced he was tired of Clan-ton, tired of death, tired of hanging around a depressing old house he had never particularly cared for, tired of Harry Rex and Ray, and that he was going home to Memphis where wild women and parties were waiting.
"When are you coming back?" he asked Ray.
"Two or three weeks."
"For probate?"
"Yes," Harry Rex answered. "We'll make a brief appearance before the judge. You're welcome to be there, but it's not required."
"I don't do court. Been there enough."
The brothers walked down the drive to Forrest's car. "You okay?" Ray asked, but only because he felt compelled to show concern.
"I'm fine. See you,UGG Clerance, Bro," Forrest said, in a hurry to leave before his brother blurted something stupid. "Call me when you come back," he said. He started the car and drove away. Ray knew he would pull over somewhere between Clanton and Memphis, either at a joint with a bar and a pool table, or maybe just a beer store where he would buy a case and slug it as he drove. Forrest had survived his father's funeral in an impressive way, but the pressure had been building. The meltdown would not be pretty.
Harry Rex was hungry, as usual, and asked if Ray wanted fried catfish,fake montblanc pens. "Not really," he answered.
"Good, there's a new place on the lake."
"What's it called?"
“Jeter's Catfish Shack."
"You're kidding."
"No, it's delicious."
They dined on an empty deck jutting over a swamp, on the backwaters of the lake. Harry Rex ate catfish twice a week; Ray, once every five years. The cook was heavy on the batter and peanut oil, and Ray knew it would be a long night, for several reasons.
He slept with a loaded gun in the bed of his old room, upstairs, with the windows and doors locked, and the three garbage bags :ked with money at his feet. With such an arrangement, it was difficult to look around in the dark and conjure up any pleasant childhood memories that would normally be just under the surface,Designer Handbags. The house had been dark and cold back then, especially after his mother died.
Instead of reminiscing, he tried to sleep by counting little round black chips, a hundred bucks each, hauled by the Judge from the tables to the cashiers. He counted with imagination and ambition. and he got nowhere near the fortune he was in bed with,fake uggs for sale.