“No, it isn’t. Those are gifts for Angela, the wedding shower is tomorrow. Don’t worry, you’re not supposed to be there, just girls. The doorbell was ringing all morning, I couldn’t leave the apartment for an instant; one at a time he delivered them, the smirking fool, and each time he shouted ‘Boom!’”
She looked especially attractive today, Jake thought. Between the ringing doorbell and the booms, she had managed time for the beauty parlor and the sunlamp.
Mr. Hoo set the spareribs on the table and lowered himself to a chair.
Grace lost her scowl. “Since you’re here, Jake, I’d like your opinion on the advertising campaign I’m planning. Jimmy and I are having a slight disagreement. I say that Shin Hoo’s sounds like every other Chinese restaurant to English-speaking ears.”
English-speaking ears? Jake bit his lip in an effort to keep silent.
“I say the restaurant needs a name people won’t forget,” Grace continued. “A name like Hoo’s On First.”
Jake could not help himself. He tried to cover a loud guffaw with louder coughing. Hoo pounded him on the back and apologized for the ginger.
“You remember that old baseball routine, Jake,” Grace prompted.
Yes, he did. “Who’s on second? No, What’s on second; Who’s on first.”
“It’s an idiotic name,” Hoo argued. “Hoo’s On First sounds like my restaurant is on First Street, or worse yet, on the first floor. Customers will end up in the coffee shop drinking dishwater tea.”
“Not the way I’ll promote it, they won’t,” Grace insisted. “Well, what’s your opinion, Jake?”
The podiatrist put down the sparerib he was about to bite into. “Hoo’s On First is a dandy name.”
Before he could pick up the rib again, Hoo whisked the plate off the table. “Who elected you judge, anyhow?”
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
