Julian R. Eastman rose. He looked stern. And very proper. He wore a gray business suit with a vest, a striped tie. His shoes were shined. He limped as he walked toward her, not the crooked limp of Doctor Sikes, just a small limp, a painful limp. Again Turtle was gripped by panic. He seemed so different, so important. She shouldn’t have kicked him (the Barney Northrup him). He was coming closer. His watery-blue eyes stared at her over his rimless half-glasses. Hard eyes. His teeth were white, not quite even (no one would ever guess they were false). He was smiling. He wasn’t angry with her, he was smiling.
“Hi, Sandy,” Turtle said. “I won!”
28 And Then . . .
TURTLE NEVER TOLD. She went to the library every Saturday afternoon, she explained (which was partly true). “Make your move, Turtle, you don’t want to be late for the wedding.”
The ceremony was held in Shin Hoo’s restaurant. Grace Wexler, recovered from a world-record hangover, draped a white cloth over the liquor bottles and set a spray of roses on the bar. No drinks would be served today.
Radiant in her wedding gown of white heirloom lace, the bride walked down the aisle, past the tables of well-wishers, on the arm of Jake Wexler. Mr. Hoo, the best man, beamed with pride at her light footsteps as he supported the knee-knocking, nervous groom.
A fine red line of a scar marked Angela’s cheek, but she looked content and lovely as ever in her pale blue bridesmaid’s gown. The other bridesmaid wore pink and yellow with matching crutches.
The guests cried during the wedding and laughed during the reception. Flora Baumbach smiled and cried at the same time. “You did a good job altering the wedding dress, Baba,” Turtle said, which made the dressmaker cry even harder.
“A toast to the bride and groom,” Jake announced, raising his glass of ginger ale. “To Crow and Otis Amber!”
The heirs of Uncle Sam Westing clinked glasses with the members of the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen, sobered up for this happy occasion. “To Crow and Otis Amber!”
APARTMENT 4D WAS bare. For the last time Judge Ford stared out the side window to the cliff where the Westing house once stood. She would never solve the Westing puzzle; perhaps it was just as well. Her debt would finally be repaid—with interest; the money she received from the sale of her share of Sunset Towers would pay for the education of another youngster, just as Sam Westing had paid for hers.
“Hi, Judge Ford, I c-came to say g-good-bye,” Chris said, wheeling himself through the door.
“Oh hello, Chris, that was nice of you, but why aren’t you studying? Where’s your tutor?” She looked at the binoculars hanging from his neck. “You haven’t been birdwatching again, have you? There will be plenty of time for birds later; first you must catch up on your studies if you want to get into a good school.” Good heavens, she was beginning to sound like Mr. Hoo.
“Will you c-come to see m-me?” Chris asked. “It g-gets sort of lonely with Theo away at c-college.”
The judge gave him one of her rare smiles. He was a bright youngster (“Real smart,” Sandy had said), he had a good future (Sandy had said that, too), he needed her influence and the extra money, but she might smother him with her demands. “I’ll see you when I can, and I’ll write to you, Chris. I promise.”
HOO’S LITTLE FOOT-EZE (patent pending) was selling well in drugstores and shoe repair shops.
“Once we capture the Milwaukee market I’ll take you to China,” James Hoo promised his business partner.
“Okay,” Madame Hoo replied, toting up accounts on her abacus. No hurry. She had many friends in Sunset Towers now. And no more cooking, no more tight dresses slit up her thigh. Her husband had bought her a nice pantsuit to wear when they called on customers, and for her birthday Doug had given her one of his medals to wear around her neck.
THE SECRETARY TO the president of Schultz Sausages was back on the job. Her ankle mended, Sydelle Pulaski had discarded her crutches. She had all the attention she could handle without them; after all, she was an heiress now. (It wasn’t polite to ask how much, but everyone knew Sam Westing had millions.) Of course she could retire to Florida, she said, but what would poor Mr. Schultz do without her? And then one unforgettable Friday Mr. Schultz, himself, took her to lunch.
JAKE WEXLER HAD given up his private practice (both private practices) now that he had been appointed consultant to the governor’s inquiry panel for a state lottery (thanks to a recommendation by Judge Ford). Grace was proud of him, and his daughters were doing well. In fact everything was fine, just fine.
Hoo’s On First was a great success. Grace Wexler, the new owner, offered free meals to the sports figures who came to town, and everyone wanted to eat where the athletes ate. The restaurant’s one windowless wall was covered with autographed photographs of Brewers, Packers, and Bucks. Grace straightened the framed picture of a smiling champion, signed: To Grace W. Wexler, who serves the number-one food in town—Doug Hoo. She certainly was a lucky woman: a respected restaurateur, wife of a state official, and mother of the cleverest kid who ever lived. Turtle was going to be somebody someday.
A narrow scar remained, and would always remain, on Angela’s cheek. It was slightly raised, and she had developed a habit of running her fingers along it as she pored over her books. Enrolled in college again, she lived at home to save money for the years of medical school ahead. She had returned the engagement ring to Denton Deere; she had not seen him since Crow’s wedding. Ed Plum had stopped calling after ten refusals. Angela had neither the time nor the desire for a social life what with studying, her weekly shopping
