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 A sunny 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 Products 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.
