A/N: Yet more Southern detection.

Big Swamp

Chapter Twelve: Baby, Banana Bread, and a Briefcase

I get in the Camry, climbing into a preheated oven. I crank the engine then twist the A/C to the max. My big complaint about my office is that no shade trees border the gravel parking lot. Parking there in the summer's leaving a car in an equatorial jungle clearing. I'm sweat-soaked before I get out of the lot. The A/C pants, trying pitifully to match the accumulated heat in the car.

At the first stop sign, I take out my phone and start the Matt Pond PA album I played for Sarah last night. Listening, cooling gradually, I merge onto I-85 N and point the Camry at Wade Peterson.

As I drive, I ponder. I haven't had much time to ponder. Too much going on, too many visits, too much feeling. Since Sarah Walker first visited my office, I've been ballooning skyward, struggling to add ballast, to cool my burners, to return to the ground.

I haven't been investigating actively — mostly, things have happened to me. I've been drifting along. Since I've never been in love before, I did not anticipate what it would do to me. It's like the entire world around me was destroyed in the blink of an eye, then recreated, exactly as before.

Everything's the same but everything's different.

Shaw's riled me, though: Peterson's riled me: stirred me to activity, shaken me from my dreamy stupor, one I've connived at for over a week. — I don't take kindly to being leaned on. If Peterson's agitated enough to dispatch Shaw as a messenger, I need to seize the initiative, the advantage. He won't expect me.

Of course, he might not be home — but I'm not going to call, announce my arrival. I want the added advantage of surprise. So, I'm rolling the dice.

That image, of rolling dice, sticks in my mind. It's time for me to face facts. A connection exists between Wylie and Sarah and Wade Peterson. But what connection, of what kind?

Wylie owns Noble Hall; Jane Peterson and then Wade Peterson owned it before him. So, he must have purchased it from Wade Peterson. That could be all that's going on, perhaps: a question or issue about the house or the land, a question that Wylie wanted to ask or discuss with Peterson. That might explain the meeting with Bill Peppers, but why go to such lengths — why the intermediary, why the campus meeting? As for Briggs and Stratton, Sarah might have just been along for the ride, she might not have known anything about Peterson. The meeting at Briggs and Stratton might have been a coincidence. Peterson might have shown up on some unrelated matter. Wylie saw Peterson and took a minute to speak to him. — But why was Wylie there? Why was Sarah with him? Did Sarah already know Peterson, though she denied it? Why didn't she tell me she was at Briggs and Stratton with Wylie, that they saw Peterson there? She chose not to tell me at Chuck's, she didn't just fail to tell me, as might have been true on the phone.

And — here's the main thing, the question that jostles all the others — why would seeing me in the parking lot have caused Peterson to sic Shaw on me? Shaw showing up changes everything.

I wonder who sent Langston Graham to hire me, encouraging him to ask questions about Jane Peterson's death?

I set my cruise control and let the questions meander in my mind as the music also calls up memories of night swimming.

Sarah Walker has me flummoxed. I don't understand the supposed case she has me on. I need to talk with Wylie again, and I need to do it when she's not around. Maybe I can make that happen tomorrow.

And, eventually, I will ask Sarah the questions I need to ask her, ask her directly, and not let her bedazzle me out of a real answer. I admit that I've not asked because I fear the answers, fear that they will chase away the dream.

I push that fear aside and turn down the music's volume. I do a quick Google voice search for the phone number of the Lee County Humane Society, then call it.

"Lee County Humane Society," a pleasant female voice says when there's an answer.

"Hi, um, look, this is Chuck Bartowski, I'm calling with a curious request…"

"Chuck? Hey, this is Carina, you know, from the Club."

The red-headed Auburn student, the valet stand. "Oh, right! Hi, Carina, how are you? I didn't know you worked at the Humane Society too?"

She laughs. "I'm fine. Yeah, I work here as a volunteer, kinda to clear my head after spending too many sunny hours with the Daughters of the Confederacy over at the Club. — So, did Morgan send you out on a big case? How does it involve the Humane Society?"

"Have you...seen Morgan lately?"

"No, but it's funny you called. He called me a little while ago and asked me to dinner. I'm meeting him later at Cafe 123."

I almost swerve out of my lane. — A date? Does Morgan have a date? And she's attractive, smart. And he's taking her to a nice place? — But she thinks he's the detective. And she's too smart for him to fool her for long. I'm not sure what to do. I can't remember the last time Morgan had a date that Bolonia did not arrange. I decide to stay out of it for now.

"That's a good place to eat." I change the subject back to the Humane Society. "I'm calling to find out about some cats that were picked up by the Humane Society a while ago. Twenty of them, I think. They belonged to a woman named Jane Peterson. She died and you folks went to her house and took the cats. Would you have a record of that, any way of finding out what happened to the cats?"

"Yeah, there should be." I hear her rattling papers. "It may take a second — the operating system here was the one Noah used on the Ark."

I laugh. "Take your time."

She makes a low, humming noise. I hear keys clacking. "Okay. Peterson. Cats. Twenty, really?"

"So I'm told."

"Is she the woman who sang naked on her balcony?"

"Mmmhmm. The same."

"Figures. Okay, okay. Right. Here it is. Jane Peterson. But it wasn't twenty cats. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

She clears her throat. "When our people got there, two of the cats, older ones, were dead. They captured eighteen and they retrieved the corpses of the other two. They brought the cats here." She pauses, more key clicks. "The live cats were a mess. Mostly feral, diseased. Vets attended to them but three more died within a couple of days. The rest improved — and the younger ones ended up getting adopted. But several never did; they were put down. — This was a while ago."

"Yes, it was. The five that died — all old cats?"

More clacks. "So the vet notes say, yeah."

"Thanks, Carina. I hope you have a good time tonight. A good place to eat."

"Morgan's kind of an interesting guy, isn't he, Chuck?"

"That he is, Carina. That he is."

I leave the interstate and take the winding road to Peterson's house.

I don't know much about Peterson. He was Jane Peterson's son, and they were never close — or so small-town talk has it. He lives on West Point Lake. He owns a big construction company based in LaGrange, but the company does work all around the area, often on Auburn's campus. I've heard occasional rumors that he's mixed up with members of the University's Board of Trustees — the implication is that he's got an inside track to winning bids on campus contracts. I've never given any of that, or Peterson himself, much thought until Graham visited me.

We met once at a local business luncheon, so we know each other by sight. He's medium tall, thick-waisted but narrow-shouldered, balding. He has a high voice, nasal, and his typical expression suggests that he's just sipped soured milk.

I slow as I approach Peterson's house. The house is built of brownish bricks, and, although one-story, it is vast, with brick courtyards, gardens, and seating areas. Large oaks overhang the house. It looks like a height-challenged castle.

The yellow Caddy sprawls in the driveway. Behind it, a newish steel-blue BMW sedan sits collectedly. The vanity plate on the BMW reads TFYWIF.

Behind the house, in the distance, is West Point Lake.

I pull in and park, put my phone in my pocket. When I get out, a tiny dog appears at my feet, growling and snarling, but it makes no move to bite me. I speak to it kindly then walk toward the front doors. The dog trots along behind, still growling and snarling. The doors are large, dark brown. Squaring up to them, the dog still behind me, still making ineffectual threats, I poke the doorbell. A muted ring sounds inside the house.

The ring seems to quiet the dog. It stops threatening and begins to scratch itself. A moment later, one door opens and a woman stands in it, a tall iced tea in her hand. She's wearing a surprisingly narrow red polka dot halter, and beneath it, a surprisingly narrow pair of red polka dot shorts narrowed more by the legs being rolled up. She's also wearing sunglasses — mirrored sunglasses.

She looks at me and for a moment, I fall prey to the illusion that the sunglass lenses are her eyes. She's thin and deeply tanned, long-legged and long-armed, and she strikes me as a barely dressed Praying Mantis.

The dog runs between her legs and into the house, and the woman makes a surprised noise. "Whoops!"

"Hi, I'm here to see Wade Peterson. This is his house, isn't it?"

She nods and shrugs simultaneously and I don't know what that means. After a moment, she pushes the sunglasses down her nose, revealing a very large pair of forest green eyes.

"We're out back. Who's calling?" she asks but does not wait for an answer. Instead, she turns and heads into the house, taking off her sunglasses and putting them on a table near the door.

I'm supposed to follow, I guess, and so I do. Her long thin legs are subtly well-shaped, and the red heels she is wearing make them seem longer still. We walk through the house quickly. So as not to glance at her bottom — as if I were following it and not her — I glance around.

The decor's a self-satirizing phantasmagoria of atrocious taste.

Shag carpet — I didn't know anyone made that anymore, much less chose it — chokes the floor. It's white, and I have the strange conviction that I am trekking across coconut cotton candy. Pictures on black velvet adorn the walls, along with various slogan plaques: Live, Laugh, Love. Eat, Pray, Love. — that kind of thing. A faint scent of incense colors the air. The furniture appears to be seconds from the latest Tomás de Torquemada collection, torture for the eyes as well as the body.

We cross through the house to a pair of large, glass sliding doors. Behind the house is a massive deck, built to take advantage of the wonderful view of the lake. In the distance, I can now see a large boathouse and an impressive motorboat tied alongside it. A pier runs from the boathouse out into deeper water.

At a large table on the deck sits Wade Peterson. He sees me and jerks before he can control himself. A moment later, though, he gives me a do-I-know-you-don't-I-know-you look. The look's too late, but he doesn't seem to realize that. I play along for the moment.

"Hi, Mr. Peterson, I don't know if you know me, but I'm Chuck Bartowski. We met once a while back…"

He gives me his soured milk look but twists his lips into a smile. "Oh, yes...I remember." He looks from me and to the woman. "This is my wife, Patty."

I nod to Polka-dot Patty and both she and her husband watch to see if my eyes travel the tanned length of her. I instead gaze out at the water. "Beautiful place you have here!"

"Thanks. Can we get you something to drink?" He says 'we' but means Patty.

"Sure, some iced tea, if you have some."

Patty holds hers out for display. "Mine's sweet, Mr. Chuck. Most say it's the sweetest they've ever tasted."

Her tone sounds flirty but I keep mine business-like. "Thanks, Patty."

She gives me a look as if hoping for more of a reaction. I quickly turn to Peterson. As I do, I hear her huff quietly as she goes back in the glass doors. Peterson pretends not to hear her.

"Mr. Peterson, a visitor stopped by to see me today. His name is Daniel Shaw. He does remedial detective work around Opelika. He told me that I was to stay away from you. You and I saw each other this morning at Briggs and Stratton. I'm curious why seeing me would cause you to send Shaw?"

He wasn't expecting this and it takes him a second to react. He shifts in his chair. "You say we saw each other. I say you were following me."

"I was there before you, Peterson."

He blinks at me. "Well, you were watching me. And you've got no right to do it."

"To watch someone who drives into a parking lot in that mustard monstrosity in the driveway? How could I not?"

"So, you're telling me you just happened to be there, just happened to be looking at me?" He's not mentioned Morgan at all. That's interesting.

"Just happened, yeah."

He gives me a long stare and I return it. He shrugs and the shrug occurs just as Patty comes back with a glass of iced tea. She hands it to me, contriving to make her hand and mine touch.

She gives me a small, quick yet coy smile. I feel Peterson bristle. I turn from Patty to him and sip the tea. I almost gag. Ellie's tea is sweet, — but this is iced sugar with a spoonful of tea.

I put the glass down and Patty puts hers down too. The dog — it had followed Patty into the house — starts growling and snarling again. Patty reaches down and scoops it up. "Quiet, Baby."

"The dog's name is Baby?" I ask, mainly to keep from having to take another sip of the tea.

"Yes, she's my little terror."

Peterson grunts, as if he knew the language of Father Casey. "Terror is right. That dog needs to be put down."

Patty pales and holds Baby closer. "Wade, you won't hurt my little dog."

Peterson eyes her in a way that makes no promises and he stands up. Patty holds the dog closer

I reach out slowly and extend my hand toward Baby. She gives it a puzzled look, then a half-hearted sniff, growling all the while. I pat Baby's head and she endures it.

"She likes you," Patty exclaims. "But I can see why. I like you too."

I can't tell if she's just naturally this flirtatious or if it's aimed at Peterson. She reaches beneath her arm with her empty hand and readjusts that side of her halter. Peterson narrows his eyes, watches her, but he speaks to me: "Is there anything else, Bartowski?"

"Call off Shaw, Peterson, or I'll start watching you — and when I watch, I see things."

Peterson shakes his head. "I do what I want."

I stare into his eyes. "I can show myself out."

"No, no," Patty says, "I'll show you out." She bends over in front of me, putting Baby down without bending her knees. Then she stands. "Follow me, Mr. Barshonski."

"Bartowski."

She slides open the glass door and smiles back at me. "I never get names right."

As we reverse our course through the house, I ask Patty a question. "That's your BMW outside?"

She gets to the door and stops, turns to me. "The blue one?"

I nod. "The only one."

"Yeah, that's mine."

"How long have you and Mr. Peterson been married?"

"Three years," she says with a heavy sigh. "Three years." She leans toward me after checking to make sure Peterson did not follow us. "I guess my itch is four years early." She adjusts the other side of her halter as she looks into my eyes.

Opening the door for myself, I step out and glance back. She picks up her sunglasses and puts them on. "See you around, Mr. Barshonski."

She watches me leave with her mirrored, Praying eyes.

I drive south wondering about the conversation with Peterson and Patty and Baby. He might call Shaw off, he might not. But the trip wasn't wasted.

Peterson's hiding something, that's sure. He's not just sore that I saw him, he's sore about where and when I saw him. What he's hiding is unclear. I can't assume it has anything to do with his mother's death — officially, a death by natural causes, heart attack, remember. Peterson certainly strikes me as a man who cuts corners; he might be hiding sharp business dealings and nothing like murder. Matricide. His wife's done with him but afraid of him.

My phone rings. It's Ellie.

"Hey, Chuck!"

"Ellie, what's up?"

She pauses for just a beat. "I've invited Devon for dinner, and I finished up early so I could make it. I just wanted you to know."

"That's great, Ellie. I'd like to get to know him since you are."

I can feel her blush over the phone. "Chuck," she says warningly.

I laugh. "Sorry, but that's great. Just, we have Graham coming over later."

"I know. Devon's gonna be here early. 5:30 pm. We can eat and he can leave before Graham arrives. I'm baking banana bread."

Ok, the big guns are out. My sister definitely likes this man. She likes him banana-bread much, and that's a lot. Ellie's banana bread is better than her iced tea.

"Sounds delicious. — But you didn't need to call me about this."

"No, I know. I was just hoping you might invite someone. Sarah?"

"Oh, well, maybe. We had lunch together."

"Right. One of my patients today was there. He told me all about it, about her. She shook Chuck's." Me too.

"I'll ask, Ellie, and text you the answer."

"Good, see you in a bit, Chuck."

"Hey, Chuck," Sarah says cheerfully when I call.

Nerves attack me as I start to talk. "Hey, Sarah, I'm calling because Ellie invited Devon to dinner and she's made a lot, I'm guessing, including banana bread, which is worth it all by itself, and, anyway, she wondered if you would come to dinner too because she really likes this man, but she's nervous about having him to dinner, about the awkward threesome — um, not the right word — the triangle — um, not the right word, either…"

Sarah laughs. "Chuck, slow down. Are you really this nervous about asking me to dinner, after the lunch we had?"

"I guess. Kinda. Me twice in one day is kind of a lot."

"That sounds good. Banana bread sounds good. What have you been up to?"

I freeze for a second. I don't want to have this conversation and I especially don't want to have it on the phone, unable to see Sarah's face, her actions. "Just some case follow-up."

Her answer is teasing but there's a note of worry in it. "Very mysterious."

"What about you?"

Now she's guilty of a prefatory silence. "Oh, not much. Bryce got back from Montgomery and we're having drinks on the upper balcony."

That information sinks into my lower gut. "Oh, Bryce is back."

We're both silent for a moment. "So, you'll come to dinner?" I ask.

"Your place, right?"

"Right."

"See you then, Chuck. I'm really pleased Ellie suggested it. I'd like to get to know her better."

That makes my gut hurt less. "Okay. 5: 30pm? Ellie and I have someone stopping by later about some business matter, so we won't be able to make an entire evening of it."

"That's fine. See you in a little while, Chuck. — And Chuck," her voice sinks, "I was already missing you."

I hardly know what to say, so I say what I feel, surprising myself. "God, I was missing you too."

A knock at the front door heralds the arrival of Dr. Woodcomb.

Ellie's still busy in the kitchen with some last-minute prep, so I open the door. I can see him through the glass.

"Hey, Chuck," he says, shaking my hand, "good to see you again."

"You too, Devon. Come in. Ellie'll join us in a minute." I move us into the living room and I sit down on the end of the couch. He sits in an armchair. He's wearing an orange polo shirt and a pair of jeans, brown casual shoes. He has a winning smile.

He looks around. "Beautiful place, Chuck."

"Thanks, but the beauty is all Ellie. She chose everything, arranged everything. The only room I control is mine and it's the only room with a closed door."

He laughs and then gives me a pointed look. "Ellie tells me you're a private detective?"

"That's what it says on my office door," I offer with a smiling shrug.

"How'd that happen? Ellie said you went to Oberlin. Did you major in noir?"

I shake my head, smiling too. Yes, I went to Oberlin. No, I didn't major in noir. But I probably would've if I could've. I double-majored — Literature and Psychology. But my dad was a big detective buff and he got me started reading detective books fairly young. He was a big fan. Movies too. You might say that Encyclopedia Brown and The Maltese Falcon are to blame — and...Well, after I finished at Oberlin, I came home and I couldn't decide what to do. Dithering's, um, my strong suit. I thought about going to grad school — but decided I'd had enough time in the classroom. I wanted to work — but to be my own boss."

I stop and laugh. "I felt a little like Lloyd Dobbler: 'I don't want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career…' Anyway, one day a woman asked Ellie if there were any reputable private detectives in town. Ellie mentioned the question to me and it was like, I don't know, tumblers moved in my head. I thought — Why not? Soon, I found an office and put up my sign."

Devon listened carefully, chuckling at the Lloyd Dobbler reference. "Love that film, Say Anything. — That's awesome, Chuck. It must be full of excitement and intrigue."

I shake my head. "Not really." I think of Sarah showing up in my office. "It has moments but they're few and far between. Mostly, a detective is a harmless drudge."

"A doctor is too," he says. "TV makes it seem like we run around restarting folks who've coded, like we're constantly in a maelstrom of ER drama. But it's not like that, really... "

There's another knock on the door. "That must be Sarah. Excuse me, Devon."

My heart's racing, my palms sweating as I walk to the door. For some reason, the thought of Sarah crossing the threshold here, entering the house, having dinner with Ellie and Devon, — it all hits me at once. How much I'd like this to be my life. Ellie happy with Devon, me with Sarah, all four of us together, friends and family.

But I have no idea what Sarah wants — except she said she'd stick.

I wipe my palms on my pants and open the door. She's in her third outfit change of the day. I realize what a long day it's been; its revolutions marked by her wardrobe. She has on a white linen blouse and light blue slacks, white sandals. Her hair has been swept up but not into any tight bun. She's a standing summer evening.

"Hey, Chuck, here I am." She puts her hands out, they're cool against my cheeks, and she gives me a warm kiss that becomes hot against my lips.

Ellie clears her throat behind me. "There you are, Sarah, welcome!"

We break the kiss and I turn. Ellie's standing with Devon, holding his hand. He's pleased by that fact and he flashes his GQ-cover smile. "Hi, Ellie, Devon," Sarah says, slipping past me.

Sarah's ill-prepared for the next moment, when Ellie drops Devon's hand and pulls Sarah into a hug. When Ellie releases her, Sarah blinks for a moment, then smiles.

"Let's go to the dining room," Ellie says, "it's all ready."

It is. Ellie's used our mom's wedding china, the golden candle holders, the lace tablecloth. A table for royalty, our dearest, finest possessions. We've only used these once before, and that was when my grandfather, my Mom's dad, visited after I graduated from Oberlin. I notice that Ellie has Mom's silver, floral hair comb in her dark hair and she's wearing a plain-cut but form-fitting purple dress. She looks regal. Devon steals glances at her as she seats us all.

The table is heavy with food. My sister's amazing. Works all day then somehow pulls this off. It's magic. There's cold chicken, kale salad, a bowl of freshly cut mixed fruit, and warm bread. A pitcher of iced tea stands on one end of the table, ice water on the other. In between are two bottles of chilled white wine.

We begin to eat and the conversation is free and easy, light, like the food. Ellie tells funny stories about waiting room behavior on the part of patients. Devon talks about growing up in Chicago. I relate a story of taking too many No-Doze before an exam, worried I'd go to sleep during it because of my all-nighter, and how I'd written an entire bluebook full of complete No-Dozing gibberish. Sarah comments and laughs, asks questions, but she tells no tales about herself. No one notices but me, I think. At one point, she looks at me, and I can tell she's wondering if I've noticed. I do my best not to let on.

"So, Devon," I ask, dividing my attention between him and Sarah, were you Jane Peterson's doctor?"

Devon is surprised. Sarah's hand tightens on her fork; the tips of her fingers whiten.

"Yes," Devon says, "or rather I was one of her doctors."

"That's a strange question, Chuck," Ellie says, a reprimand encoded in her wording. Sarah picks up her napkin and wipes her lips.

"I was just thinking about her the other day," I explain, "I guess because of the party at Noble Hall. I mentioned her to Langston Graham, the lawyer, and we talked about her for a minute. He mentioned you had been her doctor, one of her doctors."

"She was an...unusual woman," Devon offers, "it was hard to tell which ailments were in her head and which in her body."

"But she had a bad heart, at least that's what everyone says, and that's what it said in the paper about her death: heart attack."

Devon shrugs. "Yes, that's what the paper said, and that's what I heard from Dr. McCoombs, who was her longtime doctor. So, I assume that's what happened."

"Assume?" I ask.

Ellie gives me a sharp look. "That poor old woman. Chuck, this isn't appropriate."

"I'm sorry. She was such a character, all the stories about her. There's that one about her walking the grounds at Noble Hall at night carrying a lantern…"

"Chuck," Ellie says, exasperated.

"...And all the cats. Twenty cats."

"Twenty?" Ellie asks without thinking — and then I can see her kick herself under the table.

Sarah's been sitting still through the conversation, listening.

"She did have cats," Devon agrees, "but I didn't know how many. She was always scratched up, her hands and forearms. Sometimes it was pretty bad. I guess they weren't all tame."

"Speaking of unhousebroken," Ellie says loudly, redirecting attention to herself, "Daniel Shaw showed up in my waiting room at the end of the day. My receptionist told me he was there. But when I came out, he was gone. That's weird, even for him."

Devon nods, Sarah looks at me. I understand. The bastard visited Ellie for my benefit. He wasn't just threatening me and Morgan, he was threatening my sister too.

I fight back my anger but I believe Sarah sees it. Ellie misses it. Devon's asking her about Shaw. Devon is angry too, though not for the reason I am. Ellie's trying to discourage his anger but I can tell it flatters her that he's angry, reassures her. It strikes me just how important this evening really is to her, how important Devon is.

"So, Ellie," I say, interrupting, "there's banana bread?"

She squeezes Devon's hand then nods at me, smiling. "Yes, there is. Would you and Sarah like to get it, it's in the kitchen. Just grab some dessert plates and forks. You can make coffee; everything's set up. Just turn it on."

I'm sure my sister is planning to make out briefly with Dr. Woodcomb while we are in the other room. The smile Sarah gives me as we enter the kitchen and close the door reveals that she has the same thought about Ellie.

"So, what can I do?" Sarah asks. My answer is to swoop her into my arms and kiss her the way I've wanted to kiss her all day, brief, passionate kisses one after the other, like Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in Notorious. When I finish, we are both breathless, our eyes dilated.

"Chuck," she says, elongating my name, her chin trembling just perceptibly, and stepping away from me, around the counter. "I can't come back from another of those."

"No, me either," I confess, glad to have the counter to stand behind. "We should get the banana bread. Turn on the coffee."

"You mean we didn't already? I figure every appliance in the house is turned on." She fans herself with her hand and we laugh, our laughter ours, shared, intimate.

A few minutes later we take the dessert and coffee into the dining room. Ellie's hair comb is crooked in her hair.

Ellie and I are cleaning up after dinner, each lost in our own thoughts and feelings, a warm, mutual hush between us.

For the third time, there's a knock at the door. Ellie goes to answer it and brings Langston back to the dining room with her. He's carrying his briefcase. We'd left out the banana bread and coffee. I offer some to Langston as he sits.

"Thanks, but no. My wife stuffed me before I left the house."

He opens his briefcase and takes out a thick folder, puts it on the table. He looks at us both and I can see a hint of a smile on his face, a rare thing.

"I know you two must be curious about why I'm here, so I'll get right to it. Your maternal grandfather has decided to retire. He cashed in his stocks and other holdings, liquified much of his fortune. It's been very hush-hush. As I understand it, he bought a rather large yacht and plans to retire to sea. He has no desire, he says, to take his fortune with him or to keep more money around than he could spend, to make people wait like vultures for him to be dead, — though of course you two wouldn't.

"Anyway, I have worked with his lawyer in Boston, at your grandfather's request." Langston opens the folder and takes out two pages, hands one to me and one to Ellie. "Two accounts have been set up at Auburn Bank, one in each of your names. Again, hush-hush. Each of the two accounts contains ten million dollars. I know your financial situation, I know you have not just been scraping by, but you are both now and officially wealthy. — I feel a little like the guy with the Publisher's Clearing House checks."

Ellie gapes at me and I gape at her. We each mouth ten million dollars? as Langston chuckles.

A/N: "We're in the money, we're in the money!" Sing along.