THEO THEODORAKIS. Age: 17. High-school senior. Works in family coffee shop. Wants to be a writer. Seems lonely; can’t find anyone to play chess with.
christos theodorakis. Age: 15. Younger brother of above. Confined to wheelchair; disease struck about four years ago. Knows a lot about birds.
Westing connection: Father was childhood sweetheart of Sam Westing’s daughter (who looked like Angela Wexler). Mrs. Westing broke up the affair. She wanted daughter to marry somebody else, but Violet Westing killed herself before the wedding. Neither parents of above are heirs.
“I hear the new medicine they’re trying out on Chris is doing some good,” Sandy reported. “But the poor kid needs more help than medicine. He’s real smart, you know. Chris could have a real future, be a scientist or a professor, even; but it will take a pile of money, more money than his folks could ever make, to put him through college with a handicap like that.”
“The parents interest me more,” the judge said. “Why are they not heirs?”
Sandy had some thought on that, too. “Maybe Sam Westing didn’t want to embarrass George Theodorakis, him being married and all. Or maybe Westing figured he’d be too busy with his coffee shop to stay in the game. Or maybe Westing blamed him for his daughter’s death, figuring they should have eloped.”
“No, if Sam Westing blamed Mr. Theodorakis, he would have made him an heir in this miserable game,” the judge replied. “There are too many maybe’s here, which is what Sam Westing planned. We must not allow ourselves to be distracted from the real issue: Which heir did Sam Westing want punished?”
“The person who hurt him most?” Sandy guessed.
“And who would that be?”
“The person who caused his daughter’s death?”
“Exactly, Mr. McSouthers. Sam Westing plotted against the person he held responsible for his daughter’s suicide, the person who forced Violet Westing to marry a man she loathed.”
“Mrs. Westing? But that’s not possible, Judge. Mrs. Westing is not one of the heirs.”
“I think she is, Mr. McSouthers. The former wife of Sam Westing must be one of the heirs. Mrs. Westing is the answer, and whoever she is, she is the one we have to protect.”
21 The Fourth Bomb
THE DOOR TO apartment 2C opened. Flora Baumbach screamed, and Turtle flung herself on the pile of money they had been counting.
It was Theo, not the thief. “Can I borrow your bike for a few hours? It’s very important.” Theo was not a runner like Doug, who was fuming about his being so late. He needed the bicycle to follow Otis Amber, right now.
Turtle stared at him in stony silence.
“I didn’t make that sign in the elevator; besides, you already kicked me for it. Please, Turtle.” She still wouldn’t answer, punk kid. “I had a long talk with the police today, but I refused to tell them who the bomber was.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
What does she think it means? It means that he and everybody else knows that Turtle is the bomber. “Never mind. Can I have your bike or not?”
“Why do you want it?”
Theo ground his teeth. Take it easy; anger won’t help any more than blackmail did. Try being a good guy. “I saw Angela in the hospital today. She sends her regards.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You let me have that bike, Turtle Wexler, or—or else!”
Turtle did not have to ask what “or else” meant: police—bomber—Angela, but how did Theo find out? “Here!” She threw the padlock key across the room and waited for him to rush out before she let go of the money.
“He’s such a nice boy,” Flora Baumbach remarked.
“Sure,” Turtle replied, dialing the telephone number of the hospital. “Angela Wexler, room 325.”
“Room 325 is not accepting any calls.”
Turtle hung up the phone. If Theo knew, others knew. Angela had set off those fireworks wanting to get caught, but it was different now. Now she was confused, now she was just plain scared. They could force a confession out of her in no time, the guilt was right there staring out of those big blue eyes. Maybe they’re questioning her now. “Baba, I’m not feeling so good; I think I’ll go home to bed.”
WEAVING THROUGH RUSH-HOUR traffic on Turtle’s bike, Theo trailed the bus to a seamy downtown district across the railroad tracks where Crow and Otis got off. Skid Row. The pair wandered through the dimly lit, littered, and stinking street, bending over grimy bums asleep in doorways, raising them to their unsteady feet, and leading the ragtag procession into a decaying storefront. Paint was peeling off the letters on the window: Good Salvation Soup Kitchen.
A drunken wreck of a man lurched into Theo, who put a quarter into the filthy outstretched hand, more out of fright than charity. Snatches of hymn-singing drifted toward him as the last of the stragglers staggered through the door. Theo crossed the narrow street and pressed his nose against the steamy soup-kitchen window. Rows of wretched souls sat hunched on wooden benches. Crow stood before them in her neat black dress, her hands raised toward the crumbling ceiling. Behind her Otis Amber stirred a boiling mess in a big iron pot.
Theo pedaled back to Sunset Towers at a furious pace. Whatever brought Crow and Otis Amber to these lower depths was none of his business. He hated himself for spying. He hated Sam Westing and his dirty money and his dirty game. Theo felt as dirty as the derelicts he spied on. Dirtier.
THE JUDGE THOUGHT they had finished with the heirs.
“Not quite,” the doorman said.
• McSOUTHERS
ALEXANDER MCSOUTHERS. Called Sandy. Age: 65. Born: Edinburgh, Scotland. Immigrated to Wisconsin, age 3. Education: eighth grade. Jobs: mill worker, union organizer, prizefighter, doorman. Married, six children, two grandchildren.
Westing connection: Worked in Westing Paper plant 20 years. Fired by Sam Westing himself for trying to organize the workers. No pension.
Sandy turned to a blank page, pushed his taped glasses up the broken bridge of his nose, and looked at the judge. “Name?”
It
