• 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.
“Must be a bill collector,” Hoo said, frowning over his account book.
Grace looked up, saw it was only the cleaning woman, and returned to the sports photographs she was sorting. A dozen or more superstars would be framed and hung on one wall of Hoo’s On First.
“Come on over and join us,” Jake shouted.
Limping to their table, Crow heard Mrs. Wexler click her tongue. Sinful woman, she’ll go to hell with her pride and her covetousness, and take that foot-butcher of a husband with her. And that one, the fat one, the glutton, the bomber, the mutilator of innocent children.
Maybe she is a customer, Hoo thought, recognizing the face clenched in righteous anger as that of a diner not being served fast enough. He rose and pulled out a chair for Crow. “My wife will be serving a Chinese tea lunch shortly.”
Madame Hoo placed a variety of dumplings on the table, giggled at Jake, and ran back to the kitchen.
That tittering Madame Hoo was a beautiful woman. And quite young. Grace, casting a suspicious eye on her husband, was suddenly seized by a surge of gnawing jealousy (maybe it was just the fried dumpling).
Madame Hoo returned to pour the tea. Jake patted her hand. Good, Grace noticed, she’s clutching her stomach, about time she felt jealous. The podiatrist turned his smile to Crow. “Nothing wrong with your appetite, I’m happy to see.”
“Nothing is wrong with my mouth,” the cleaning woman replied, looking down at her plate, “it’s my feet that hurt. That corn you cut out didn’t heal yet, I got a callus on the sole of my left foot, and my ingrown toenail is growing in again.”
Grace clasped a hand over her mouth and ran out of the restaurant. Mr. Hoo headed for the kitchen.
“Your trouble comes from years of wearing the wrong kind of shoes,” Jake lectured.
Crow wasn’t listening. James Shin Hoo, the bomber, was coming back. He had something in his hand.
“Here, Crow, try these. I invented them myself. Paper innersoles. They’ll make you feel like you’re floating on air. It’s tough standing on your feet all day. Here, take them.”
Crow examined the two pads of spongy folded paper. “How much?”
“Nothing, compliments of the house.”
Still suspicious, Crow slipped the innersoles into her shoes and tried walking. What a blessed relief. Otis Amber was wrong. James Shin Hoo was a charitable man, he couldn’t be the bomber. Crow floated out of the restaurant without paying for her lunch.
“OH NO, NOT another victim,” Sydelle Pulaski cried, stuffing her notes under the mattress.
The nurse wheeled Chris next to Angela’s bed and explained that the boy was being tested for a new medication. “Are you all right?” she asked, bending over the squirming patient.
Chris was trying to remove a blank, sealed envelope from his bathrobe pocket. He knew his brother had a crush on Angela. He figured Theo must have sneaked upstairs in the wrong bathrobe to slip this letter under Angela’s door, then remembered she was in the hospital and was too shy to give it to her in person.
“Look at that smile,” Sydelle exclaimed.
“F-from Theo,” he said. Chris hoped to watch Angela read the love letter, but the nurse insisted he return to his room.
“Bye-bye, good luck,” Sydelle called. Angela waved a bandaged hand.
“M-moun-t-tain,” Chris replied. “From T-turtle.” Serves her right for kicking his partner.
Mountain, Angela thought. Turtle’s MT stood for mountain, not empty. And the letter was not from Theo.
Your love has 2, here are 2 for you.
Take her away from this sin and hate
NOW! Before it is too late.
Again two clues were taped at the bottom:
WITH MAJESTIES
“Crow and Otis Amber’s clues are not king and queen,” she told Sydelle. “They are with thy beautiful majesties.”
SANDY AND THE judge were still at work on the heirs.
• WEXLER
JAKE WEXLER. Age: 45. Podiatrist. Graduated from Marquette. Married 22 years, has two daughters (see below).
GRACE WINDSOR WEXLER. Born Gracie Windkloppel. Age: 42. Married to above. Claims to be an interior decorator. Spends most of her time in the Chinese restaurant or the beauty parlor. She and Jake (see above) have two daughters (see below).
ANGELA WEXLER. Age: 20. Engaged to marry D. Denton Deere (also an heir). One year college (high grades). Victim of third bombing. Embroiders a lot.
TURTLE WEXLER. Real name: Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. Age: 13. Junior-high-school student. Plays the stock market. Smart kid, but kicks people. Flora Baumbach calls her Alice.
Westing connection: Grace Windsor Wexler claims that Sam Westing is her real uncle. Angela looks like Violet Westing, so does Grace in a way, except she’s older.
Sandy fidgeted with his pen. “There’s something I didn’t write down. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, you being a judge and all, but, well, Jake Wexler . . . he’s a bookie.”
No, he should not have told her. “A small-time operator, I’m sure, Mr. McSouthers,” the judge replied coldly. “It can have no bearing on the matter before us. Sam Westing manipulated people, cheated workers, bribed officials, stole ideas, but Sam Westing never smoked or drank or placed a bet. Give me a bookie any day over such a fine, upstanding, clean-living man.”
The doorman’s face reddened. He pulled the dented flask from his hip pocket and downed several swigs.
She had been too harsh. “Would you like me to fix you a drink, Mr. McSouthers?”
“No thanks, Judge. I prefer
