by Ellen Raskin
TURTLE SPENT THE night at the bedside of eighty-five-year-old Julian R. Eastman. T. R. Wexler had a master’s degree in business administration, an advanced degree in corporate law, and had served two years as legal counsel to the Westing Paper Products Corporation. She had made one million dollars in the stock market, lost it all, then made five million more.
“This is it, Turtle.” His voice was weak.
“You can die before my very eyes, Sandy, and I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Show some respect. I can still change my will.”
“No you can’t. I’m your lawyer.”
“That’s the thanks I get for that expensive education. How’s the judge?”
“Judge Ford has just been appointed to the United States Supreme Court.”
“What do you know, honest Josie-Jo on the Supreme Court. She was a smart kid, too, but she never once beat me at chess. Tell me about the others, Turtle. How’s poor, saintly Crow?”
“Crow and Otis are still slopping soup,” Turtle fibbed. Crow and Otis Amber had died two years ago, within a week of each other.
“And that funny woman with the painted crutches, what’s her name?”
“Sydelle Pulaski Schultz. She and her husband moved to Hawaii. Angela keeps in touch.”
“Angela. And how is your pretty sister, the bomber?”
Turtle never knew he knew. “Angela is an orthopedic surgeon.” Julian R. Eastman was an old man, but suddenly his mind, too, was old. For the first time since the Westing game he was wearing the dentures with the chipped front tooth. He had turned back to his happiest times. Sandy was dying, he was really dying. Turtle held back her tears. “Angela and Denton Deere are married. They have a daughter named Alice.”
“Alice. Doesn’t Flora Baumbach call you Alice?”
“She used to, she calls me T. R. as everyone does.”
“How is the dressmaker, Turtle? Tell me about them, tell me about all of them.”
Flora Baumbach had given up dressmaking when she moved in with Turtle years ago. “Baba is well, everyone is well. Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis (remember, they had the coffee shop in Sunset Towers), they retired to Florida. Chris and his wife Shirley teach ornithology at the university. They’re both professors. Chris discovered a new subspecies on his last trip to South America; it’s named after him: the something-Christos parrot.”
“The something-Christos parrot, I like that. And the track star? Has he won any more medals?”
“Two Olympic golds in a row. Doug is a sports announcer on television.”
“And how is Jimmy Hoo’s invention going? I gave him the idea, you know.”
“It looks like a real winner, Sandy.” Mr. Hoo, too, was dead. Sunny Hoo finally made her trip to China, but returned to carry on the business.
“And tell me about my niece, Gracie Windkloppel. Does she still think she’s a decorator?”
“Mom went into the restaurant business, has a chain of ten. Nine are quite successful. I keep telling her to give up on Hoo’s On Tenth, to cut her losses, but she’s stubborn as ever. I guess she hangs on to it because it’s in Madison, to be near Dad. He’s now the state crime commissioner.”
“He’s well qualified for the job. And your husband, how’s his writing coming along?”
He had remembered. “Theo’s doing fine. The first novel sold about six copies, but it got great reviews. He’s just about finished with his second book.”
“And when are you two going to have children?”
“Some day.” Turtle and Theo had decided against having children because of the possibility of inheriting Chris’s disease. “If it’s a boy we’ll name him Sandy, and if it’s a girl, well, I guess we can name her Sandy, too.”
The old man’s voice was barely audible now. “Did you say Angela had a little girl?”
“Yes, Alice, she’s ten years old.”
“Is she pretty like her mother?”
“I’m afraid not, she looks a lot like you and me.”
“Turtle?”
“Yes, Sandy.”
“Turtle?”
“I’m right here, Sandy.” She took his hand.
“Turtle, tell Crow to pray for me.”
His hand turned cold, not smooth, not waxy, just very, very cold.
Turtle turned to the window. The sun was rising out of Lake Michigan. It was tomorrow. It was the Fourth of July.
Julian R. Eastman was dead; and with him died Windy Windkloppel, Samuel W. Westing, Barney Northrup, and Sandy McSouthers. And with him died a little of Turtle.
No one, not even Theo, knew her secret. T. R. Wexler was understandably sad over the death of the chairman of the board of the Westing Paper Products Corporation. She had been his legal adviser; she would inherit his stock and serve as a director of the company until the day she, too, would be elected chairman of the board.
Veiled in black, she hurried from the funeral services. It was Saturday and she had an important engagement. Angela brought her daughter, Alice, to the Wexler-Theodorakis mansion to spend Saturday afternoons with her aunt.
There she was, waiting for her in the library. Baba had tied red ribbons in the one long pigtail down her back.
“Hi there, Alice,” T. R. Wexler said. “Ready for a game of chess?”
