by Ellen Raskin
Theo found himself kneeling on the bare floor next to the praying Crow. He must be dreaming.
“Amen.”
18
THE TRACKERS
IT WAS FLORA Baumbach who braided Turtle’s hair now, sometimes in three strands, sometimes four, sometimes twined with ribbons, while Turtle read The Wall Street Journal.
“Listen to this: ‘The newly elected chairman of the board of Westing Paper Products Corporation, Julian R. Eastman, announced from London where he is conferring with European management that earnings from all divisions are expected to double in the next quarter.’”
“That’s nice,” Flora Baumbach said, not understanding a word of it.
Turtle gave the order for the day. “Listen carefully. As soon as you get to the broker’s office I want you to sell AMO, sell SEA, sell MT, and put all the money into WPP. Okay?”
Oh my! That meant selling every stock mentioned in their clues and buying more shares of Westing Paper Products—at a loss of some thousands of dollars. “Whatever you say, Alice, you’re the smart one.”
Flora Baumbach’s hands were gentle, they never hurried or pulled a stray hair. Flora Baumbach loved her, she could tell. “I like when you call me Alice,” Turtle said, “but I better not call you Mrs. Baumbach anymore, because of the bomb scare, you know.” Calling her Flora would spoil everything. “Maybe I could call you Mrs. Baba?”
“Why not just Baba?”
That’s exactly what Turtle (Alice) wanted to hear. “Was your daughter, Rosalie, very smart, Baba?”
“My, no. You’re the smartest child I ever met, a real businesswoman.”
Turtle glowed behind The Wall Street Journal. “I bet Rosalie baked bread and patched quilts and dumb stuff like that.”
The dressmaker’s sure fingers fumbled over the red ribbons she was weaving into a four-strand braid. “Rosalie was an exceptional child. The friendliest, lovingest . . .”
Turtle crumpled the newspaper. “Let’s go. I’m late for school and you’ve got that big trade to make.”
“But I haven’t finished tying the ribbons.”
“Never mind, I like them hanging.” Turtle felt like kicking somebody, anybody, good and hard.
Sandy was not at the door when they left. He was in apartment 4D neatly writing in his patriotic notebook information gathered on the next heir.
• BAUMBACH
FLORA BAUMBACH. Maiden name: Flora Miller. Age: 60. Dressmaker. Husband left her years ago, sends no money. She had a retarded daughter, Rosalie, a Mongoloid child. Sold bridal shop last year after Rosalie died of pneumonia, age 19. Spends most of her time at the stockbrokers.
Westing connection: Made wedding gown for Violet Westing, which she never got to wear.
Sandy turned to a fresh page, propped his feet on the judge’s desk, and began to read the data supplied by the private investigator on Otis Amber. He laughed so hard he nearly fell off the tilting chair.
Haunted by last night’s dream, Theo jogged behind his partner halfway to the high school before he uttered a breathless “Stop!”
Doug Hoo stopped.
“Who lives in the apartment next to yours?”
“Crow. Why?”
“Nothing.” How come he didn’t know that? Because no one ever wonders where a cleaning woman lives, that’s why. But he wasn’t like that, was he? Still, it must have been a dream. In the dream, the nightmare, Crow had given him a letter, but the only thing he found in his bathrobe pocket this morning was a Westing Paper Hankie. “Hey, wait!” Doug had started off again. “I figured out our clues. Ammonium nitrate. It’s used in fertilizers, explosives, and rocket propellants.”
“I knew those clues were a pile of fertilizer,” Doug replied, jogging easily. Only one thing mattered: Saturday’s big track meet. If he won or came in a fast second he’d have his pick of athletic scholarships. He didn’t need the inheritance.
“Stand still and listen.” Theo grabbed Doug by the shoulders and held him flat-footed to the ground. “Like it or not we’re partners, and you’ve got to do your share.”
“Sure,” Doug replied. His father was angry, his partner was angry, and a bomber was blowing up Sunset Towers floor by floor. Some game! “What do you want me to do?”
“Follow Otis Amber.”
Head tilted back, Flora Baumbach squirted drops in her eyes, blinked, and stared again at the moving tape.
“Oh my!” Westing Paper Products had jumped four and a quarter, no, four and a half points. Her eyes must be blurry from the medicine. The dressmaker sat on the edge of her chair, biting her fingernails, waiting for WPP to cross the board again. There: WPP $40. Oh my, oh my! This morning she had paid thirty-five dollars a share. There it goes again: WPP $40¼. Oh my, oh my, oh my!
After classes, instead of running around the indoor track, Doug Hoo jogged out of the gym to the shopping center six blocks away. There was Otis Amber, placing two cake boxes in the compartment of his bike. He picked up a package from the butcher shop, and pedaled off, unaware of the sweat-suited figure trotting half a block behind him, and went into Sunset Towers to make his deliveries.
“Hi, Doug. Gonna run the mile under four minutes on Saturday?” the doorman asked.
“Sure hope so. Do me a favor, Sandy, give a loud whistle when Otis Amber comes out. Okay?”
Chip-toothed Sandy gave such a loud whistle that Otis Amber would have been deafened if the flaps of the aviator’s helmet had not been snug against his ears.
Leaving his bicycle in the parking lot, Otis Amber boarded a bus. Doug ran the five uphill miles to a house with the placard: E. J. Plum, Attorney. He ran another three uphill miles after the bus that took the delivery boy to the hospital entrance.
Doug sank down in a waiting-room chair, wiped his face on his sweatshirt and picked up a magazine. Fascinated by the centerfold picture, he almost missed Otis Amber, who dashed out of the hospital as though fleeing for his life.
Hiding behind parked cars, Doug followed the delivery boy to another bus, ran four steep miles to a stockbroker’s office (how is it that all roads go uphill?), from the broker to the high school, from the high school (downhill, at last) back to Sunset Towers.
The exhausted track star leaned against the side of the building, thankful he was not a long-distance runner.
“I gotcha!” Otis Amber poked a skinny finger into Doug’s ribs. “He-he-he,” he cackled, handing the startled runner a letter. “It’s from that lawyer Plum. Says all the heirs gotta be at the Westing house this Saturday night. Sign here.”
With his last ounce of energy he wrote Doug Hoo, miler on the receipt, then slid down the wall to a weary squat. Some miler. His feet were blistered; his muscles, sore; he could barely breathe, he might never run another step in his life.
On receiving the notice of the Westing house meeting, Judge Ford canceled her remaining appointments and hurried home. Time was running out.
Sandy read to her from his notebook:• AMBER
OTIS JOSEPH AMBER. Age: 62. Delivery boy. Fourth-grade dropout. IQ: 50. Lives in the basement of Green’s Grocery. A bachelor. No living relatives.
Westing connection: Delivered letters from E. J. Plum, Attorney, both times.
“I would’ve guessed Otis had an IQ of minus ten,” Sandy said with a smile.
“Go on to the next heir,” the judge replied.
• DEERE
D. DENTON DEERE. Age: 25. Graduate of UW Medical School. First-year intern, plastic surgery. Parents live in Racine (not heirs).
Westing connection: Engaged to Angela Wexler (see Wexlers), who looks like Sam Westing’s daughter, Violet, who was also engaged to be married, but to a politician, not an intern.
“That’s awful complicated, I know,” the doorman apologized, “but it’s the best I could do.”
• PULASKI
SYDELLE PULASKI. Age: 50. Education: high school, one year secretarial school. Secretary to the president of Schultz Sausages. Is taking her first vacation in 25 years (six
months’ saved-up time). Lived with widowed mother and two aunts until she moved to Sunset Towers. Walked with a crutch even before she broke her ankle in the second bombing. Now needs two crutches (she paints them!).
Westing connection: ?
“We don’t have any medical reports on her muscular ailment,” Sandy reported. “The nurse at Schultz Sausages said she was in perfect health when she left on vacation.”
“Strange,” the judge remarked. A suspicious malady, no apparent Westing connection, somehow Sydelle Pulaski did not seem to fit in.
Sydelle Pulaski clasped the translated notes to her bosom. “My little secret, mustn’t peek,” she said coyly, but the doctors had come to see Angela.
The plastic surgeon loosed the tape from her check and peered under the gauze. “One graft should do it, but we can’t operate until the tissue heals,” he said to the intern, then spoke to the patient. “Call my secretary for an appointment in two months.” He strode out of the room, leaving Denton Deere to replace the bandage.
“I don’t want plastic surgery,” Angela mumbled. It still hurt to talk.
“Nothing to be frightened of. He’s the best when it comes to facial repairs, that’s why I brought him in.”
“We’ll have to postpone the wedding.”
“We can have a small informal wedding.”
“Mother wouldn’t like that.”
“How about you, Angela, what do you want?” He knew her unspoken answer was “I don’t know.”
The door flew open and slammed against the adjacent wall. “Where do you think you’re going?” Denton pulled Turtle to a halt by one of the streaming ribbons twisted in her braid. “The sign says No Visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a sister. And get your germy hands off my hair.”
Denton Deere hurried to seek first aid for his bleeding shin and sent the biggest male nurse on the floor to take care of Turtle, the same male nurse who chased Otis Amber out of the hospital for sneaking up on a nurse’s aide carrying a specimen tray and shouting, “Boom!”
Turtle had time for one question. “Angela, what did you sign on the receipt this time after ‘position’?”
“Person.”
“I changed mine to victim,” Sydelle said.
Turtle paid no attention to the victim. She was more interested in the two men entering the room: the burly male nurse and that creep of a lawyer, Plum. “I gotta go. Don’t say anything to anybody about anything, Angela, no matter what happens. Not even to a lawyer. You know nothing, you hear? Nothing!” She skirted Ed Plum, ducked under the outstretched hairy hands of the male nurse, slid down the hall, scampered down the stairs and out of the hospital.
“Hi, how are you?” Ed Plum smiled at Angela, ignoring the patient in the other bed. He didn’t recognize Ms. Pulaski without her painted crutch. “I’m sorry to hear about your accident. Otis Amber told me about it. Just thought I’d drop in for a chat.” The young lawyer, who had admired the pretty heiress from the minute he first laid eyes on her, did not have a chance to chat.
Grace Wexler entered the room, saw the answer to the clues: Ed Purple-fruit, the murderer, standing over her daughter, and uttered a blood-curdling shriek.
Three visitors in one day! The first was Otis Amber with a letter and another receipt to sign. Chris had pretended to be scared by the “Boom!” but he wasn’t really. He had twitched because he was excited about going to the Westing house again, even if he hadn’t figured out the clues.
Then Flora Baumbach came to see him. He wasn’t nervous at all with that nice lady. She smiles that funny smile because she’s sad inside. She once had a daughter named Rosalie. She told him how Rosalie would sit in the shop and say hello to the customers, and how she would feel the fabrics. Mrs. Baumbach made wedding dresses, which are mostly white, so she bought samples of materials with bright colors and patterns because Rosalie loved colors best. Rosalie had 573 different swatches in her collection before she died. Mrs. Baumbach said her daughter might have been an artist if things had turned out differently.
What would I have been if things had turned out differently?
The third visitor entered. Limping! His partner was limping! Too much excitement, his stupid body was jerking all over the place.
Denton Deere sat down next to the wheelchair. “Take it easy, Chris. Calm down, kid, I’m not the creature from the black lagoon, you know.”
His partner, a doctor, watched horror movies on television, too. Slowly arms untangled, legs unsnarled. Slowly Chris stuttered out his news: Flora Baumbach felt so guilty about seeing their dropped clue that she told him one of her clues: mountain. “But we m-mus-n t-tell T-Turtle.”
“Don’t worry,” the intern said, displaying a bruised shin.
Chris laughed, then stopped. “I s-sorry.”
“Mountain, hmmm.” Denton Deere thought about the new clue. “If a treasure is hidden in a grain shed on a mountain plain, I sure don’t have time to look for it. Do you?”
“N-n-n.”
“Let’s forget the clues, I have something more important to tell you. Don’t get excited, okay?”
Chris nodded. His partner was going to ask for the money.
Denton Deere stood. “I’ll get your toothbrush and pajamas, then we’ll go to the hospital. Don’t get excited.”
Chris got excited. How could he explain that what he wanted from his partner was companionship, not more probing, pricking doctors with their bad news that made his mother cry?
“Listen, Chris, can you hear me? Just overnight. I found a neurologist, a nerve doctor, who works on problems like yours.”
“Op-p-pra-shn?”
“No operation. Did you hear me, Chris? No operation. The doctor thinks a new medicine may help, but he has to examine you, make some tests. I have your parents’ permission, but no one will touch you unless we talk it over first, you and me, together. I promise.”
Chris grimaced trying to smile. His partner said talk it over, the two of them, together. They were really partners now. “You c-c-cn have m-money.”
“What? Oh, the money. Later. Here, let me take those, you won’t need them in the hospital.” Chris clung to his binoculars. “Well, I guess you do need them. Ready? Here we go!”
All of a sudden he was leaving Sunset Towers, pushed by his limping partner. Maybe Doctor Deere is not who and what he says he is. Maybe he is being kidnapped for ransom. Maybe he’s being held hostage. Oh boy, he hasn’t had so much fun in years.
19
ODD RELATIVES
THURSDAY WAS Asunny day, a glorious day; the autumn air was crisp and clear. None of the heirs noticed.
WPP crossed the tape at $44 . . . $44½ . . . $46. Forty-six dollars a share! Oh my! (“Don’t sell until I give the word, Baba,” Alice-Turtle had said.) Baba. The dressmaker smiled at her new name and eased back in the chair, but not for long. WPP $48¼. Oh my, oh my! Flora Baumbach bit her thumbnail to the quick. If only the child was here.
The child was being examined by the school nurse, having been caught again with a radio plugged in her ear. Turtle blamed her misbehavior on a toothache. “The only thing that soothes the horrendous pain is listening to music.”
“You should see a dentist,” the nurse said.
“I have an appointment next week,” Turtle lied. “Can I go home now? The pain is truly unbearable.”
“No.” The nurse packed the tooth with foul-tasting cotton and sent her back to class. So every half hour Turtle had to ask permission to go to the lavatory in order to keep up with the latest stock market reports. “Bladder infection,” she explained.
Crow polished Mrs. Wexler’s silver teapot with a Westing Disposable Diaper for the third time. Two more days, the day after next. It was too painful, going back to that house, but Otis said she must, to collect her due. It was her penance to go back, not her due. Blessed is he who expects nothing.
“Boom! Just a warning to keep doors locked,” the delivery boy said, dumping a carton of Westing Paper P
roducts on the kitchen floor. “You know, Crow old pal, I think I figured out who the bomber is.”
Crow stiffened as she stared at her distorted reflection in the shining silver. “Who?”
“That’s right,” Otis Amber said. “James Shin Hoo. He wanted to put the coffee shop out of business, right? Then he had to bomb his own restaurant so nobody would suspect him, right? And he catered the Wexler party. Nobody would notice if the caterer brought in an extra box along with the food, right?”
James Shin Hoo was the bomber. Crow’s hands trembled, her face blotched with hate. That beautiful, innocent angel reborn; Sandy said her face will be scarred for life. James Shin Hoo, beware! Vengeance shall be mine.
The judge rearranged her docket in order to have these last days free. (Leave it to Sam Westing to interfere with her work.)
Sandy turned to his next entry. “It’s an interesting one.”
• CROW
BERTHE ERICA CROW. Age: 57. Mother died at childbirth, raised by father (deceased). Education: 1 year of high school. Married at 16, divorced at 40. Ex-husband’s name: Windy Windkloppel. Hospital records: problems related to chronic alcoholism. Police record: 3 arrests for vagrancy. Gave up drinking when she took up religion. Started the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen on Skid Row. Works as cleaning woman in Sunset Towers, lives in maid’s apartment on fourth floor. Westing connection: ?
“Yes, it is interesting,” Judge Ford replied, “but it hardly tells us what we want to know.”
“You’ve got a customer.” Jake Wexler pointed a sparerib at the black-clad figure standing at the restaurant door.