by Ellen Raskin
The judge returned to Sunset Towers with clippings from the newspaper’s files. Faithful Sandy was waiting.
Hoping to interrogate both George Theodorakis and James Shin Hoo, they alternated their dinner orders. One night they would order up, the next night they would order down. To their disappointment Theo delivered up. They had no questions to ask him, but he had one for the doorman.
“Chess?” Sandy replied. “Sorry, don’t know the game. I’m a whiz at hearts, though. ‘Shooter,’ they call me.”
Theo left them to their sandwiches and their work.
The private detective the judge had hired was still investigating the heirs, so tonight’s project would be the Westing family.
Judge Ford opened the thin folder on Mrs. Westing. Mrs. Westing—no first name, no maiden name. In the few newspaper photographs in which she appeared, always with her husband, the captions read: Mr. and Mrs. Samuel W. Westing. A shadowy figure, a shy woman, she seemed to slip behind her husband before the camera clicked, or had her face masked by a floppy hat brim. A slim woman dressed in the fashion of the time: long, loose chemise, narrow shoes with sharply pointed toes and high spiked heels. A nervous woman, her hands, especially in the later pictures, were blurred. In the final photograph a black veil covered her face. She seemed to lean unsteadily against the stocky frame of her husband as they left the cemetery.
Sandy reported his findings. “Jimmy Hoo never met Mrs. Westing. Neither did Flora Baumbach. She says Violet’s fiancé brought her to the shop for fittings. She says it’s bad luck for a groom to see the bride in the wedding gown before the wedding; I guess she’s right. Well, that’s it. Nobody else admits to having known Mrs. Westing, except me.”
“You knew her, Mr. McSouthers?” the judge asked.
“Well, not exactly, but I saw her once or twice.” The doorman described Mrs. Westing as blonde, full-lipped, a good figure though on the skinny side. “Mostly I recall those full lips because she had a mole right here.” He pointed to the right corner of his mouth.
Judge Ford did not remember a mole; she remembered copper-colored hair and thin lips, but it was so long ago, and well—Mrs. Westing was white. Very white.
Next, Westing’s daughter. The judge studied the photograph under the headline:VIOLET WESTING TO MARRY SENATOR
The senator turned out to be a state senator, a hack politician, now serving a five-year jail term for bribery. But Flora Baumbach was right about the resemblance. Violet Westing did look like Angela Wexler. And that was George Theodorakis, all right, dancing with her in the society page clippings.
“What does it all mean, Judge?” Sandy asked, squinting at the pictures through his smeared glasses. “Angela looks like Westing’s daughter, and Theo looks like his father, the man Violet Westing really wanted to marry.”
“How did you know that?”
Sandy shrugged. “It was common gossip at the time, that Westing’s daughter killed herself rather than have to marry that crooked politician. . . .”
Now the judge remembered; her mother had written her about the tragedy. “Tell me, Mr. McSouthers, you seem to know what’s going on in this building: Is Angela Wexler involved with Theo in any way?”
“Oh no.” Sandy was certain of that. “Angela and her intern seem happy enough with each other. At least, I hope so. I mean, if Sam Westing wanted to replay that terrible drama, Angela Wexler would have to die.”
16
THE THIRD BOMB
“BOOM!” Grace Wexler slammed the door on the delivery boy’s silly face and returned to her party with a pink-ribboned gift. The gossiping guests were sipping jasmine tea from Westing Paper Party Cups, nibbling on tidbits from Westing Paper Party Plates, and wiping their fingers on Westing Paper Party Napkins. Madame Hoo served in a tight-fitting silk gown slit high up her thigh, a costume as old-fashioned and impractical as bound feet. Women in China wore blouses and pants and jackets. That’s what she would wear when she got home.
Grace clapped her hands for attention. “Girls, girls! It’s time for the bride-to-be to open her presents. Angela, you sit here and everybody gather round.”
Angela did as her mother said. She lowered herself to a cushion on the floor, ringed by gift boxes and surrounded by vaguely familiar faces. She had not invited her few friends from college; they were bent on careers, this wasn’t their thing. These were her mother’s friends and the newly married daughters of her mother’s friends—and Turtle, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, smirking. Lucky Turtle, the neglected child.
“Read it out loud, dear,” Grace ordered, as Angela opened the card tied to the yellow-ribboned box.
To the bride-to-be in the kitchen stuck, An asparagus cooker and lots of luck. from Cookie Barfspringer
“Thank you,” Angela said, wondering which one was the Barfspringer.
The next gift was an egg poacher.
The box in pink ribbons contained another asparagus cooker.
“I sure hope Doctor Deere likes asparagus,” someone remarked. The giver said she could return it for something else, although two might come in handy. “A doctor’s wife has so much entertaining to do.”
Angela glanced at her watch and reached for the tall, thin carton wrapped in gold foil.
“Look how Angela’s hands are shaking; she’s as nervous as a groom.” Giggles. “Bride-to-be jitters.” More giggles.
Slowly, Angela unknotted the gold ribbon. Carefully, she unfolded the gold foil. How neatly she did everything, the perfect child; not like Turtle, who ripped off wrappings, impatient to see what was inside.
“Hurry up, Angela, you’re such a poke,” Turtle complained. Suddenly there she was, kneeling down to peek under the lid.
“Get away!” Angela cried, jerking the gift up and away from her sister as the lid blasted off with a shattering bang. Bang! Bang! A rapid rat-a-tat-tat. Rockets shooting, fireballs bursting, comets shrieking, sparks sizzling. Two dozen framed flower prints falling off the wall.
Then it was over. Screams hushed to whimpers and the trembling guests crawled out from under tables and peered out of closets.
“Is anyone hurt?” Grace Wexler asked nervously. Other than being scared out of ten years of their lives, thank you, they were fine. “Where’s Angela?”
Angela was still seated on the cushion in the middle of the floor. Fragments of the scorched box lay in her burned hands. Blood oozed from an angry gash on her cheek and trickled down her beautiful face.
Heirs, beware, Sam Westing had warned. They should have listened. Now it was too late.
The suspicious heirs gathered in the lobby around the police captain called in by Judge Ford. One of them was a murderer, they thought, and one of them was a bomber, and one of them was a thief. But which was which and who was who? Or could it be one and the same?
“Some game,” Mr. Hoo grumbled, unwrapping a chocolate bar. One ulcer wasn’t enough, Sam Westing had to give him three more. “Some game. The last one alive wins.”
(Now, there’s a likely suspect, Otis Amber thought. Hoo, the inventor; Hoo, the angry man, the madman.)
“The last one alive wins,” Flora Baumbach repeated. “Oh my, what a terrible thing to say.”
(Can’t trust that dressmaker, Mr. Hoo thought. How come she’s grinning at a time like this?)
The captain offered no help at all. “Neither the bomb squad nor the burglary detail has enough evidence to search the apartments,” he explained.
“You call that justice?” Sandy asked.
(Good-natured Sandy couldn’t be the one. He wasn’t in the building when the first two bombs went off, or when the judge’s watch was stolen, Jake Wexler thought. On the other hand, he sure did hate Sam Westing.)
“Yes, Mr. McSouthers, justice is exactly what I call it.”
(Not her, not the judge, in spite of the clues, Chris thought. Unless she’s one of those Black Panthers in disguise.)
“Those weren’t gas explosions, those were bombs. Right?” Theo pressed the capt
ain.
(A nice kid, that Theo. Doug, too, Flora Baumbach thought. But how often had she seen television interviews of next-door neighbors saying: Can’t believe he killed thirteen people, he was such a nice kid. Oh my, oh my, what’s gotten into me, thinking such a thing?)
The captain would not call them bombs. “More like childish pranks,” he said.
(Childish pranks! That brat’s capable of anything.)
Turtle stuck out her tongue at the sneering Doug Hoo.
“Evil pranks of the devil,” Crow muttered. Her blessed Angela was almost killed.
“Crow could be the one. Bring hellfire down on all of us,” Theo whispered to Chris, “but she wasn’t in the building when the first two bombs went off.”
“Yes, s-she was.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
The captain described the so-called bombs. “Just a few fireworks triggered by a squat striped candle set in a tall open jar; the ribbon probably hid the air holes in the box. No one would have been hurt if the young lady had not tilted the box toward herself.”
“A time bomb,” Grace Wexler said, glaring at the person who delivered the gifts.
(An unhappy woman, that self-appointed heiress, the judge thought. Unfulfilled, possibly disturbed. Capable of the burglaries, perhaps, but not the bombings. She wouldn’t have hurt her own daughter—at least, not Angela.)
“Don’t look at me like that,” Otis Amber shouted at Mrs. Wexler. “I don’t own no striped candles, or no fireworks, neither.”
(That idiot is the likeliest of all, Grace thought. But he wasn’t around when the coffee shop blew up.)
“O-o-o-ggg a-a-ahh.” The excitement was too much for Chris Theodorakis.
(That was one heir no one suspected. And Angela, of course, no one could suspect her.)
Otis Amber was not even sure of that. “Still waters run deep,” he said. “He-he-he.”
Turtle could not let him get away with that, even if it was true.
“Otis Amber limps,” Chris noted the next day.
Her family kept reassuring her. “You’re going to be fine, Angela, just fine.”
The loud snore that erupted from the next hospital bed was Sydelle Pulaski pretending to be asleep.
“I still don’t remember,” Angela mumbled. Her bandaged cheek made speaking difficult. Her face hurt, her hands hurt—hurt very much.
“Traumatic amnesia,” Jake Wexler said. “It happens after sudden accidents. Don’t worry, Angie-pie, you’re going to be fine.”
“You’re going to be fine, Angela, just fine,” Grace said despondently. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Come, Turtle.”
“In a minute.” Turtle waited for the door to close. She touched her sister’s bandaged hand. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
Another snore from Sydelle.
“Just thanks. The fireworks would have gone off in my face if you hadn’t pulled the box toward you. Here, I brought your tapestry bag; I didn’t look at your notes or clues, honest.” But she had removed the incriminating evidence.
“Turtle, tell me the truth. How bad is it?”
“The doctor had to take some glass out of your hands, but no stitches. The burns will heal okay.”
“And my face?”
“Some scarring, not bad really, Angela. Besides, you always said being pretty wasn’t important, it’s who you really are that counts.”
Angela wondered about that. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe pretty was important. Maybe she was crazy, she must have been crazy.
“Don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty,” Turtle said. “But, wow, that sure was a dumb thing to do.”
Sydelle Pulaski’s eyes popped open in surprise. Quickly she squeezed them shut and uttered another loud snore. Well, what do you know? Her sweet, saintly partner was the bomber. Good for her!
17
SOME SOLUTIONS
MONDAY WAS Agray, rainy day. Depressing. So was the stock market, which fell another six points. Turtle was jittery.
All the heirs were jittery. The bomb squad was called in several times to examine suspicious parcels. One turned out to be a sealed vacuum cleaner bag full of dust that Crow had set behind the incinerator door. Another was a box delivered to Mrs. Wexler. In it were bonbons (her favorite) and a note: Love and kisses, Jake.
“What do you mean, how come? Can’t I send candy to my wife without getting the third degree? I thought you were looking on the thin side, okay?”
Grace made him eat the first piece.
The next day Grace received a larger box. In it the bomb squad found one dozen long-stemmed roses and a note: For no reason at all, just love, Jake.
The bomb squad was called again when Turtle ran after her partner through the lobby shouting “Mrs. BAUM-bach, Mrs. BAUM-bach!” Someone thought she had shouted “Bomb! Bomb!”
A hollow wind wailed through damp Tuesday. In the morning the stock market rose three points. “Bullish,” said Flora Baumbach. In the afternoon the market dropped five points. “Bearish,” said Flora Baumbach. Those were the only two trading terms she had learned.
Madame Hoo, a quicker student than the dressmaker, had learned more words: partner, money, house, tree, road, pots, pans, okay, football, good, rain, spareribs. Her teacher, Jake Wexler, visited her in the kitchen before he sat down to his daily lunch in the Chinese restaurant. Today his wife and Jimmy Hoo agreed to eat with their only customer on the promise that he would help them with their clues and not take a share of the inheritance if they won.
Grace laid their five words on the table.
“These are clues?” Jake looked down on purple waves for fruited sea. He switched two squares of Westing Superstrength Towels. “Purple fruited makes more sense. How about grapes or plums?”
Grace was about to insist on purple waves, but plums reminded her of something. “Plum,” she said aloud. “Plum. Wasn’t the lawyer’s name Plum?”
“You’re right, Grace,” Mr. Hoo said excitedly. “You’re absolutely right.” He tore one of the clues in two: fruit/ed. “Ed Purple-fruit. Ed Plum!”
“We got it, we got it,” Grace cried, leaping up to embrace her partner.
“I never did trust lawyers,” Mr. Hoo shouted gleefully.
“What about the other clues: for sea waves?” Jake asked, but the happy, hugging and dancing, celebrating pair did not hear him.
“Boom!” said Madame Hoo, placing a plate of spareribs on the table. That word she had learned from Otis Amber.
Sandy was proud of the notebook he bought, with its glossy cover photograph of a bald eagle in flight (sort of appropriate, he explained to the judge; fits in with Uncle Sam and all that). In it he painstakingly entered the information culled from reports the private detective delivered each day to Judge Ford’s office: photostats of birth certificates, death notices, marriage licenses, drivers’ licenses, vehicular accident reports, criminal records, hospital records, school records. To these the doorman added the results of his own snooping.
“My investigator is having a difficult time getting into the not-so-public records of Westingtown,” the judge said. “We’ll have to put the Westings aside and begin with the heirs.”
“Since we’re feasting on chicken with water chestnuts,” Sandy said, “I’ll start off with the Hoos.” (Doug had delivered down.) He read aloud from his entry:• HOO
JAMES SHIN HOO. Born: James Hoo in Chicago. Age: 50. Added Shin to his name when he went into the restaurant business because it sounded more Chinese. First wife died of cancer five years ago. Married again last year. Has one son: Douglas.
SUN LIN HOO. Age: 28. Born in China. Immigrated from Hong Kong two years ago. Gossip: James Hoo married her for her 100-year-old sauce.
DOUGLAS HOO (called Doug). Age: 18. High-school track star. Is competing in Saturday’s track meet against college milers.
Westing connection: Hoo sued Sara Westing over the invention of the disposable paper diaper. Case never came to court (Westing disappeared). Settled with the co
mpany last year for $25,000. Thinks he was cheated. Latest invention: paper innersoles.
“I can take some credit for those paper innersoles,” Sandy bragged. “My feet were killing me, standing at the door all day, so I said to Jimmy: ‘Jimmy, if only somebody would invent a good innersole that didn’t take up so much room like those foam-rubber things.’ And sure enough, he did it. They’re great, I got a pair in my shoes now, wanna see?”
“No, thank you.” The judge was eating.
It was past midnight when Theo finished his homework in the dim light of the study lamp. The wind was still howling, and something (a word? a phrase?) was still eluding him. He had been studying solutions in chemistry. Solutions—that was it! The solution is simple, the will said. He was sure of it.
By changing for and thee to the numbers four and three, Theo was able to arrange the clues into a formula (whether or not it was a chemical solution, let alone the Westing solution, was another matter).
N H(IS) FOR NO THEE (TO) = NH4NO3
But four clue letters were left out: isto, osit, itso, otis. OTIS! He had it: a formula for an explosive, and the name of the murderer! He had to tell Doug.
“Where g-g-gogin?”
“Shhh!” Theo smoothed the blanket over his sleepy brother in the next bed, struggled into his bathrobe, and stumbled over the wheelchair as he tiptoed out of the room.
The elevator made too much noise, use the stairs. The cement was cold, he had forgotten his slippers. Two unmarked doors, which one? Tap, tap. Tap. A grunting voice, dragging footsteps. Please, let it be Doug, not Mr. Hoo or Judge Ford.
It was Crow. Clutching a robe about her gaunt frame, her unknotted hair hanging long and limp, she tried to focus her dulled eyes on the shocked face of her visitor. “Theo! Theo! The wind, I heard the wind. I knew you would come.”
“Me?”
Grasping his hand, she pulled him into the maid’s apartment between 4C and 4D and shut the door. “We are sinners, yet shall we be saved. Let us pray for deliverance, then you must go to your angel, take her away.”