“Study, study, study,” Turtle said.
Angela saw little of her sister, who was either at school, in Flora Baumbach’s apartment, or at the library. “Hi, Turtle, how come you’re so happy today?”
“The stock market jumped twenty-five points.”
THE NEWLYWEDS, CROW and Otis Amber, moved into the apartment above the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen. The storefront mission had been renovated and expanded with the money from the inheritance. Grace Wexler had supervised the decorations: copper pots hung from the ceiling; the pews were padded with flowered cushions and fitted with hymnbook pockets and drop-leaf trays. There was meat in the soup and fresh bread every day.
29 Five Years Pass
THE FORMER DELIVERY boy danced into the Hoos’ new lakefront home. “Let’s give a cheer, the Ambers are here!” Otis came to celebrate Doug’s victory, wearing the old zippered jacket and aviator’s helmet. He had even let a stubble grow on his chin. The only thing missing was his delivery bike (they had come in the soup-kitchen van).
“Thank you for the generous donation, Mr. Hoo. God bless you,” Crow said. “Otis and I distributed the innersoles among our people. It helped their suffering greatly.” She looked worn, her skin pulled tight against the fragile bones, and she still wore black.
Mr. Hoo, on the other hand, was stouter and less angry. In fact, he was almost happy. Business was booming. Milwaukee loved Hoo’s Little Foot-Eze, and so did Chicago and New York and Los Angeles, but he still had not taken his wife to China.
Theo Theodorakis, graduate of journalism school, cub reporter, held up the newspaper, hot off the press:
OLYMPIC HERO COMES HOME
Four columns were devoted to the history and achievement of the gold medal winner who had set a new record for the 1500-meter run. Theo had not actually written the article on the local hero, but he had sharpened pencils for the reporter who did.
“Take a bow, Doug,” Mr. Hoo said, beaming.
Doug leaped on a table and thrust his index fingers high in the air. “I’m number one!” he shouted. The Olympic gold medal hung from his neck, confetti from the parade dotted his hair. The Westing heirs cheered.
“HELLO, JAKE, I’M so glad you could come,” Sunny (as Madame Hoo was now called) said, shaking the hand of the chairman of the State Gambling Commission.
“Boom!” Jake Wexler replied.
“HELLO, ANGELA.” Denton Deere had grown a thick moustache. He was a neurologist. He had never married.
“Hello, Denton.” Angela’s golden hair was tied in a knot on the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup. She was completing her third year of medical school. “It’s been a long time.”
“Remember me?” Sydelle Pulaski wore a red and white polka-dot dress and leaned on a red and white polka-dot crutch. She had sprained her knee dancing a tango at the office party.
“How could I ever forget you, Ms. Pulaski?” Denton said.
“I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Conrad Schultz, president of Schultz Sausages.”
“How do you do.”
“JUDGE FORD, I’D like you to meet my friend, Shirley Staver.” Chris Theodorakis was in his junior year at college. A medication, recently discovered, kept his limbs steady and his speech well controlled. He sat in a wheelchair, as he always would.
“Hello, Shirley,” the judge said. “Chris has written so much about you. I’m sorry I’m such a poor correspondent, Chris; I found myself in a tangle of cases this past month.” She was a judge on the United States Circuit Court of Appeals.
“Chris and I were both chosen to go on a birdwatching tour to Central America this summer,” Shirley said.
“Yes, I know.”
FOR OLD TIMES’ sake Grace Wexler catered the party herself and passed among the guests with a tray of appetizers. She owned a chain of five restaurants now: Hoo’s On First, Hoo’s On Second, Hoo’s On Third, Hoo’s On Fourth, Hoo’s On Fifth.
“Who’s that attractive young woman talking with Flora Baumbach?” Theo asked.
“Why, that’s my daughter Turtle. She’s really grown up, hasn’t she? Second year of college and she’s only eighteen. Calls herself T. R. Wexler now.”
T. R. Wexler was radiant. Earlier that day she had won her first chess game from the master.
30 The End?
TURTLE SPENT THE night at the bedside of eighty-five-year-old Julian R. Eastman. T. R. Wexler had a master’s degree in business administration, an advanced degree in corporate law, and had served two years as legal counsel to the Westing Paper Products Corporation. She had made one million dollars in the stock market, lost it all, then made five million more.
“This is it, Turtle.” His voice was weak.
“You can die before my very eyes, Sandy, and I wouldn’t believe it.”
“Show some respect. I can still change my will.”
“No you can’t. I’m your lawyer.”
“That’s the thanks I get for that expensive education. How’s the judge?”
“Judge Ford has just been appointed to the United States Supreme Court.”
“What do you know, honest Josie-Jo on the Supreme Court. She was a smart kid, too, but she never once beat me at chess. Tell me about the others, Turtle. How’s poor, saintly Crow?”
“Crow and Otis are still slopping soup,” Turtle fibbed. Crow and Otis Amber had died two years ago, within a week of each other.
“And that funny woman with the painted crutches, what’s her name?”
“Sydelle Pulaski Schultz. She and her husband moved to Hawaii. Angela keeps in touch.”
“Angela. And how is your pretty sister, the bomber?”
Turtle never knew he knew. “Angela is an orthopedic surgeon.” Julian R. Eastman was an old man, but suddenly his mind, too, was old. For the first time since the Westing game he was wearing the dentures with the chipped front tooth. He had turned back to his happiest times. Sandy was dying, he was really dying. Turtle held back her tears. “Angela and Denton Deere are married. They have a daughter named Alice.”
“Alice. Doesn’t Flora Baumbach call you Alice?”
“She used to,
