TWENTYIT’D BEEN twenty-two and a half hours since Dottie’s drunk, scared voice came over the phone. Trudging to the parking lot beside the mallard pool, my feet dragged in cadence with the surf’s dirge.
Actually, I was beginning to hate the sea music—the whole production, plot, cast, and especially the deus ex machina named Ken Svederup.
H. H. Crossway had assigned me to find a living grandchild, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. I had tabbed two of them! What was this fact going to do to the two kids?
Gloomily, I ground the starter and drove along the hummocked Club pavement.
Brad and Sonny were equally the President and Founder’s descendants, on the blood and bones and genes basis. Morally, each was entitled to equal shares in the five million dollar inheritance sweepstakes. Lega
