A/N: Book Two begins.

Big Swamp

Chapter Thirteen: Windfalling

All that great wealth generally gives above a moderate fortune is more room for the freaks of caprice, and more privilege for ignorance and vice, a quicker succession of flatteries, and a larger circle of voluptuousness."

Samuel Johnson — Rambler 38

Swamped, swallowed, engulfed.

I mentioned 'Opelika' means big swamp, right? Except there is no swamp, big or little. Except in our house, mine and Ellie's.

For a long time after Langston leaves, we sit silently. We're at the dining room table, the remaining banana bread untouched on a tray in the middle of the table. The dregs of the coffee overcooking in the kitchen provide a background odor.

The clock on the mantel in the living room ticks as if it were in the money.

Moony.

Ellie shakes her head and swallows. "I suppose we knew he might leave us something…"

I recall telling Sarah about my grandfather's collection of English sports cars. I didn't mention he has fourteen.

"Yeah, but leave us something. He's been in dandy health as far as I know — " Ellie nods her agreement " — and I never imagined anything like this. He'd always said he would die in the office, and that he was leaving his money to charity. I believed him on both counts."

"Me too," Ellie says quietly. "I know we're on better terms with him than we were before...well, before Mom and Dad, you know...but he's only visited here twice, for my graduation and yours, and he never seemed to forgive us for not going to Harvard, as he did, as Mom did."

"Right," I say as I stand up, "and forgiveness isn't his meter. He never forgave Mom for Dad. He sort of forgave us for being Dad's, but...Shit, Ellie, ten million dollars. I don't want ten million dollars."

Here's the weird thing — I don't. I've never cared about having much money. Neither has Ellie. We don't want to be poor: don't misunderstand. But there's a point with money past which it's more of a burden than a blessing. It's not like I have a list of items I need or even want. I have no visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.

Ten million dollars.

"We can't tell anyone, El. No one."

Her face shows incomprehension, then she nods slowly. "No. You're right. It'd change everything, my practice, your work. Our friends. We need time to consider this, decide what to do."

Ellie already donates a lot of her money to charity; I guess I said that. She makes a ton more than me. I sell books but genre books through a small publisher. I couldn't live on what I make from writing alone.

Or from detecting alone.

But I don't need ten million dollars.

"Right," I agree. "We don't tell anyone until we decide what to do."

Ellie sighs, glances at me. "Help me clean up?"

I nod.

Later, after we finish Ellie goes to her room and I go to mine but I hear her moving around. She doesn't sleep and neither do I.

Or I don't expect to.

But my phone ringing wakes me, so I did sleep. As my phone rings, I realize I dreamt of ringing cash registers, Scrooge McDuck, church mice, gold doubloons, and plug nickels. I pick up my phone and see that it's Sarah. I added her name to the Burbank number.

"Hey, Sarah," I say, my voice cracking from a night's disuse.

"Chuck, hey, I'm sorry if I woke you, I was just worried about you."

I push myself toward the headboard of my bed, enough to sit up. "Worried about me? Why?"

"Last night — at one point Ellie mentioned Daniel Shaw and I saw you get angry. Ellie deflected the conversation but I wanted to ask you about it." No surprise Sarah noticed Ellie's deflection. Sarah's the mistress of deflections.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that's right. I forgot about it."

"Forgot?" She sounds surprised.

"Um, we...Ellie and I...we had a visitor last night with...news...It distracted me."

"Bad news, Chuck; I hope not." Her concern touches me.

"No, not bad, just unexpected. I can't really talk about it right now, but, as soon as I can, I'll tell you about it."

"Okay, and the thing with Shaw, his visit to your sister? You took that as some kind of threat, didn't you? Is it because of what happened at the party here?"

"No. That's part of the history, but Shaw and I have a long history; it stretches back to the dawn of time: high school."

"Oh, wow. That is way back. — I'm going to be busy today, but we're going to babysit tomorrow night, aren't we?"

I had forgotten Jill's twin terrors. "Yes, but I can do it by myself."

She sounds hurt. "You don't want me there?"

"No. I mean yes. I want you there. I just…"

"Chuck, get it through your head that I want to spend time with you — swimming, eating, babysitting. It's all good if we're together."

There's that word. I keep feeling that we are together.

"Sarah, are we dating, or are we pretending to date so that I can figure out what Wylie's up to?"

"We are dating and you are figuring out what Wylie's up to."

"And you've decided we are dating...unilaterally."

That low laugh. "How long would it have taken for us to be dating if I'd left it up to you to decide, or even if I'd only waited for you to go halves on the issue?"

I shake my head and laugh at myself. "Touché."

"Exactly. Sometimes a woman has to take what she wants."

The thought that Sarah Walker wants me cheers me and confuses me. What do I have that she could want?

I push myself farther up the headboard. "Sarah, how long are you going to be visiting Wylie? Don't you have a life to get back to in California?"

"Do you want me to leave, Chuck?"

"No! I mean, no, I don't. Of course not. But…"

"But you're worried about it? Things are happening fast?"

I blow out a breath. "Yeah."

She takes a minute. "Look, I don't want to have this talk over the phone. Can we postpone it until tomorrow night?"

"Yes," I answer while shouting No internally. "Friday it is."

"And Chuck?"

"Yes?"

"Don't spiral. It's okay."

"Okay."

She ends the call. I pull my sheet over my head

Morgan's already in the office when I arrive. He has two cups of coffee on his desk, steam rises from each. Mine's black, he hands it to me as I come in. His is creamed white, — and sugared, no doubt. Morgan does his best to make sure his coffee does not taste like coffee.

Despite all that's on my mind, when he hands me the coffee I remember my phone chat with Carina.

"So, Cafe 123 with the lovely Miss Carina, eh, Morg?"

He blushes. I hadn't known that blushing, that embarrassment in any form, was possible for him.

"Carina told me you called the Humane Society."

I sit down next to his desk and he sits. "She was helpful. I met her at the Club."

He nods. "She said. And, hey, Chuck, ah, thanks for not giving me away."

I sip my coffee and peer at him over the cup lip, then lower the cup. "She still thinks you're the boss?"

"No, Chuck, I confessed."

"So, she made you wear the Caesar Salad?"

He shakes his head. "No, she was cool. She got in my face a bit — man, she can be scary — and then she said we should eat. We did. After, we walked around downtown, sat by the fountain across from the Courthouse."

"How old is she, Morg?"

"Older than you think. She's a senior, but she took two years off between her sophomore and junior years at Auburn. She's twenty-four. An old soul."

I almost choke on my next sip of coffee. "An old soul? Did Bolonia say that?"

Morgan shakes his head again. "No, Carina said it about herself. She was wild when she was younger, high school, early in college. She worked for the Peace Corps those two years and that settled her, she said. She came back and got serious about school, about life."

"And she didn't kill you for lying?"

"No," Morgan says, clearly still shocked by it himself. "She forgave me."

We each say Huh at the same time and sip our coffees.

"Say, Chuck, do you think you could help me learn to drive again?"

"Morgan…" I tried to help him once during high school and once a couple of years ago. Both efforts nearly got me killed.

"Please, Chuck, I need to be able to drive if I'm going to date someone like Carina. And I've been saving for a car."

I can't hide my skepticism. "Morg, I know how much you make. How could you have saved any money for a car?"

"What else do I spend it on? I ride a bike or walk. I live and eat at home — except when you feed me. You buy all the video games…"

"So, you really have enough to buy a car?"

"Almost, if it's a used one. — Please, Chuck, no woman has ever been nice to me, much less one as beautiful and smart as Carina. Please, Chuck. And a raise?"

It occurs to me for the first time since I left the parking lot that I can afford to increase Morgan's pay, since I can afford almost anything.

"Okay, Morgan. I'll tell you what: I'll give you a raise. — But you'll have to find someone else to help you learn to drive. Been there, done that, twice. There're limits even to our friendship."

He grins. "I'll find someone. Mom said I can use her car for the lessons."

I spend the morning on the computer chasing Wade Peterson.

Peterson's name comes up here and there in connection with construction jobs, several on Auburn's campus. I find pictures of him and Patty at a few events. I'm about to shift to Peppers when I find an old newspaper article, written years ago when Peterson was a boy. It's an article about Noble Hall. The article doesn't tell me anything I don't know about the Hall, but the picture is of Wade standing on one side of his mother. A man stands on the other side of Jane Peterson. The caption identifies him as David Diamond, a worker on the grounds.

The picture is grainy, gray, and white, but I see a clear resemblance between Diamond and Wade. I run a copy of it and I get in my car and drive to Auburn, to St. Dunstan's.

I want to talk to Diana Beckman.

Diana Beckman does more than prevent wide Father Casey from veering off the straight and narrow. She does more than run St. Dunstan's. She also knows more about folks in Auburn and Opelika, particularly the old families, the Club set, than anyone else.

She's spent her life on the edge of that set. Her mother belonged to it but her father did not, and that kept Diana from ever fitting in. Her mother's friends were almost all from that group, and for a time they said they forgave her mother's indiscretion in marrying down. Over time, those friends disappeared. But Diana kept tabs on them, on their sons and daughters. There's a touch of ressentiment in Diana's knowledge — she does delight in scandal and misstep. But she's not given to sharing what she knows. She's more Google than gossip. She knows what she knows but she doesn't share unless asked.

I go up the steps and into the door. Diana's at her desk, a cup of tea in one hand, a copy of The Burnt Orange Heresy in her other hand.

When she sees me, she puts the latter down. "Chuck, not often I see you on a Thursday. Father Casey's at the hospital, visiting a parishioner."

"I'm here for you today, Diana, not him."

She gives me a pleased grin and nods to the chair on the side of the room. I grab it and move it across from her, sit down.

"So, what can I do for you, Chuck?" She leans forward and eyes me over her teacup. "Is it for a case?"

I shrug but smile and her eyes gleam.

"Ask away, Chuck."

"What can you tell me about Jane Peterson, about her history?"

Diana shakes her head and blows out a breath. "Poor old Jane. All the money in the world and it bought her nothing but misery." She stops, frowns. "Her family's the oldest in the county, and her father was one in a succession of hard men. Her great-grandfather got Noble Hall during Reconstruction, and old rumors say he swindled it. He drank and chased women and beat his wife. That seemed to set the standard of behavior for Peterson men.

"Jane lived in real terror of her father, never dated, hardly mixed with others, though she was, by their reckoning, ranked first in their set. She tended him into his bitter old age and when he died, she had a brief flirtation with wildness, but it was never really in her."

Diana pauses again, and I think of my conversation with Morgan, about Carina.

"She got mixed up with a man, a drifter really, his name was…?" She drops her chin in an effort to remember.

"Diamond?"

She looks up at me. "Yes, that's his name. She fell as hard for him as I've seen a woman fall — of course, she was wholly unprepared for love, for a man being warm and kind to her. Wade, her son, is almost certainly Diamond's boy, although Jane's mother — usually just an ornament at Noble Hall, almost non-existent as a person — hurried her from town for a time and she came back, a little over a year later, with a boy child in tow. The claim was that it belonged to a cousin who could not afford to care for it, and that Jane took it in, but no one believed that story except Jane's mother, who convinced herself it was true. Everyone was polite enough to act like they believed it, and I suppose the new generations may. But Jane herself made little attempt to keep the story going once her mother passed."

I let Diana unwind the story, much interested in it. Fishing the picture from my pocket, I hand it to her. "That's Diamond?"

She nods. "Yes, that's him."

"So, he left, never came back?"

"No, not until after Jane's mother died; then, he started coming back regularly. Jane tried to pass him off as an employee, but he was sleeping with her when he was in town. Most people figured he came to town to bed her and to beg money from her, and when he'd done both, he'd leave. Then he'd come back for more."

The story's suggesting things to me. "Did Wade know Diamond as his father?"

Diana shakes her head. "I'm not sure. He must have, but there was no public acknowledgment of it. Eventually, Diamond drifted away and never drifted back. Jane was heartbroken, I believe, though she couldn't let on. I've always thought her descent into half-madness was mostly the result of Diamond leaving her, never returning, although, Lord knows, her life provided enough causes for such a descent."

"Did she and Wade get along?"

Diana frowns again. "Hard to say. They weren't close. Wade was ashamed of her, I think, and ashamed of Diamond. When he was old enough, Wade left town, moved to LaGrange. Jane loved him but he was indifferent to her. Another misery in her life."

I take the picture back and put it in my pocket. "Did you know about cats?"

"Jane's feline menagerie? Yes, and it was hard to stand close to her in the final couple of years without knowing about them." Diana looks around and leans forward, whispering: "She stank of cat urine."

"Was she often scratched up?"

Diana seems surprised by the question. "I didn't see her often, so I can't say. But she was scratched up when I saw her the last time, a week or two before her heart gave up."

Diana sinks into sadness and I admit to feeling it too. Not a happy story. It hits me harder because of last night, because I have heaps of money sitting in the bank now myself. Jane's didn't make her happy, much the opposite.

We sit together for a moment in what feels like an impromptu wake.

"Is someone interested in Jane's death, Chuck?" Diana asks quietly but intently.

I just look at her and she nods, understanding. "Well, good luck, Chuck. If something happened to her other than the official story, I hope you unearth it. She deserves a good turn."

The heat of the day arrives early.

I leave St. Dunstan's and cross the street, walking to nearby Toomer's Corner. I enter the refrigerated interior and claim a stool, order a lemonade. So cold, so sour, so absolutely wonderful. — The rich man in hell would have begged for a drop of this from the beggar's finger if he had known of it. Toomer's Lemonade would make even hell momentarily cooler.

I gaze around as I drink my lemonade, ruminating on what Diana told me, but then struck by the fact that this is where Sarah and I were supposed to have met, here, over lemonade.

And then, as if by a spellwork summons, Sarah walks into the shop. I gawk at her and when she sees me, she gawks back. "Fancy meeting you here," she laughs.

"What's brought you to Auburn," I ask.

She walks to me and kisses me, then sits down before she answers. "I was going to go see Diana at the church. Choir stuff. The lure of lemonade diverted me. I'll go see her in a minute. For now, I'm going to enjoy a lemonade with my boyfriend."

I choke on my sip. "Boyfriend?" Swamped.

"Sometimes a woman has to take what she wants."

I nod, trying to recover my internal balance as she orders. "Okay, girlfriend; I surrender to the title gladly. — So, are we going to have that talk now, early?"

Her face darkens for a moment. "No, not here. Not now. Tomorrow, as we said."

I notice her keys on the counter. No Porsche key is on the ring, but there is a Range Rover key.

"Did you get a new car? Range Rover?"

She gives me a spooked look for a second. "How could you know that? I just took delivery this morning. It's part of the reason I'm out, taking it for a first spin."

I nod at her keys. She stares at me for a minute, and that cool look creeps back into her eyes for a second. "You are a detective, aren't you?"

I shrug. "What about the Porsche?"

"Traded it. That was California." She doesn't explain further. Her lemonade arrives.

"Oh," I say, not understanding, and not daring to hope that means the decision involves me.

"It's white," she says, "tan interior. Seemed like better color choices under this sun."

"Yeah, that's why my Camry's white. It helps but not enough."

She nods. "The A/C in the Range Rover will ice you over in about thirty seconds on high."

"Lucky girl."

She makes a face and then shrugs. She looks at her watch. "I've got to go. Bryce is with me. He's at the haberdashery down the street and I'm supposed to meet him at the car in a few minutes."

So as to hide the deep green I suddenly feel, I seize on a word. "Haberdashery?"

She giggles. "His word. Clothes Horse." She sips her lemonade

"He is pretty," I offer in an attempt to be magnanimous that makes even my lemonade taste sweet by contrast.

Sarah tilts her head. "Yeah, he is. No one appreciates that fact more than he does. And once you know that, it seems less of a fact, if that makes sense."

I nod, feeling better, less green. She stands and kisses me again, her lips cold from the lemonade, tart. I kiss her back.

"See you, boyfriend," she whispers in my ear, tugging me against her for a second in a tight hug. And then she's gone.

I drive back to the office, turning the word 'boyfriend' over in my head.

In less than twenty-four hours, I've become a millionaire and Sarah Walker's boyfriend. — An embarrassment of riches, to coin a phrase.