Hannibal Rising by Jon Sharpe Page B

that last part.

10
    Samantha sat at one end of the long mahogany table, Tom at the other end. Fargo was on Sam’s right, Cletus Brun on Tom’s left. There were plenty of empty chairs; the table could seat forty people. Clockwise after Fargo, a few chairs away, sat Roland, then Theodore Pickleman. On the other side of the table were Charles and his friend from the Hannibal Men’s Club, a man by the name of Bruce Harmon. Charlotte and her cousin Amanda sat across from Fargo and Charlotte glared at him every chance she got.
    The meal started with a choice of soup, potato or vegetable. A salad bowl was passed around. Roast venison, beef and ham were the meats. Carrots and green beans the vegetables. In addition, the cook’s staff had prepared simmering hot rolls. Fargo smeared his thick with butter. The coffee was a rich blend from Italy, he was told. The taste was too bitter for his liking so he spooned in enough sugar to sink a canoe. For dessert there was apple pie, cherry pie, or pudding. Fargo chose the pudding.
    By six everyone was done eating and they were sitting around making small talk.
    Fargo was on his fourth cup of coffee. No one said much to him, which was fine, as he got to eat in peace.
    Then Samantha caught his eye. “I trust the meal was to your liking?”
    “Kings should eat this well.”
    Sam grinned. “For all our father’s faults, he was a stickler for family meals. We were required to eat together. No exceptions. Charles always had to wait to go to his club until after we ate. Roland stayed away more than a few times when he was off hunting, which always made Father furious.”
    Charlotte was being her sweet self around the others. She sighed and said with only slight resentment, “Our father always had to do everything his way. He never allowed for our personal wishes.”
    “Did you cry at his funeral?” Fargo asked.
    “Why, of course I did,” Charlotte answered, sounding shocked. “I loved my father even though he was always mean to me.”
    “Maybe he saw you for how you truly are.”
    Charlotte forgot herself and bristled. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? I was always the nicest of all of us.”
    “Emmett was nice, too,” Samantha said sadly.
    “Yes, he was,” Charlotte quickly corrected herself. “I miss him terribly. It’s a shame we can’t give him a proper burial until after the hunt.”
    As if that were a cue, Theodore Pickleman rose and tapped his wineglass with a butter knife. The ting-ting-ting got everyone’s attention. They all fell silent save for Tom, who loudly declared, “Finally!”
    “We all know why we’re here,” the lawyer began. “It’s yet another condition of your father’s will. He was quite explicit in how this was to be arranged and I have followed his instructions to the letter.”
    “Yes, yes, get on with it,” Tom said.
    Charles leaned on his elbows. “How is this silly hunt to be handled?”
    “I’ll get to that in a moment.” Pickleman hooked his thumbs in his vest. “First I am required to make one thing perfectly clear. Whoever wins the hunt inherits everything . All of your father’s money. All of his many properties. All of his holdings in everything. We are talking millions of dollars.”
    “We know that,” Tom said.
    “Yes. But what you don’t know is that in your father’s will, he left it up to the winner to decide whether he or she will share any of the inheritance. Whoever prevails can either keep it all or offer the others equal shares.”
    “Equal?” Charlotte said.
    Pickleman nodded. “It’s a condition of the will. Either the winner shares everything equally or he or she can’t share anything at all.”
    Roland said, “How peculiar.”
    “Not at all,” Samantha said. “It’s just like Father to force us to be generous whether we want to be or not. Don’t you see? If Tom were to win, for instance, he can’t keep ninety percent of the inheritance for himself and give the rest of us a