“How is the dressmaker, Turtle? Tell me about them, tell me about all of them.”
Flora Baumbach had given up dressmaking when she moved in with Turtle years ago. “Baba is well, everyone is well. Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis (remember, they had the coffee shop in Sunset Towers), they retired to Florida. Chris and his wife Shirley teach ornithology at the university. They’re both professors. Chris discovered a new subspecies on his last trip to South America; it’s named after him: the something-Christos parrot.”
“The something-Christos parrot, I like that. And the track star? Has he won any more medals?”
“Two Olympic golds in a row. Doug is a sports announcer on television.”
“And how is Jimmy Hoo’s invention going? I gave him the idea, you know.”
“It looks like a real winner, Sandy.” Mr. Hoo, too, was dead. Sunny Hoo finally made her trip to China, but returned to carry on the business.
“And tell me about my niece, Gracie Windkloppel. Does she still think she’s a decorator?”
“Mom went into the restaurant business, has a chain of ten. Nine are quite successful. I keep telling her to give up on Hoo’s On Tenth, to cut her losses, but she’s stubborn as ever. I guess she hangs on to it because it’s in Madison, to be near Dad. He’s now the state crime commissioner.”
“He’s well qualified for the job. And your husband, how’s his writing coming along?”
He had remembered. “Theo’s doing fine. The first novel sold about six copies, but it got great reviews. He’s just about finished with his second book.”
“And when are you two going to have children?”
“Some day.” Turtle and Theo had decided against having children because of the possibility of inheriting Chris’s disease. “If it’s a boy we’ll name him Sandy, and if it’s a girl, well, I guess we can name her Sandy, too.”
The old man’s voice was barely audible now. “Did you say Angela had a little girl?”
“Yes, Alice, she’s ten years old.”
“Is she pretty like her mother?”
“I’m afraid not, she looks a lot like you and me.”
“Turtle?”
“Yes, Sandy.”
“Turtle?”
“I’m right here, Sandy.” She took his hand.
“Turtle, tell Crow to pray for me.”
His hand turned cold, not smooth, not waxy, just very, very cold.
Turtle turned to the window. The sun was rising out of Lake Michigan. It was tomorrow. It was the Fourth of July.
JULIAN R. EASTMAN was dead; and with him died Windy Windkloppel, Samuel W. Westing, Barney Northrup, and Sandy McSouthers. And with him died a little of Turtle.
No one, not even Theo, knew her secret. T. R. Wexler was understandably sad over the death of the chairman of the board of the Westing Paper Products Corporation. She had been his legal adviser; she would inherit his stock and serve as a director of the company until the day she, too, would be elected chairman of the board.
Veiled in black, she hurried from the funeral services. It was Saturday and she had an important engagement. Angela brought her daughter, Alice, to the Wexler-Theodorakis mansion to spend Saturday afternoons with her aunt.
There she was, waiting for her in the library. Baba had tied red ribbons in the one long pigtail down her back.
“Hi there, Alice,” T. R. Wexler said. “Ready for a game of chess?”
About the Author
Ellen Raskin was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and grew up during the Great Depression. She was the author of several novels, including the Newbery Medal-winning The Westing Game, the Newbery Honor-winning Figgs & Phantoms, The Tattooed Potato and other clues, and The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel). She also wrote and illustrated many picture books and was an accomplished graphic artist. She designed dust jackets for dozens of books, including the first edition of Madeleine L’Engle’s classic A Wrinkle in Time. Ms. Raskin died at the age of fifty-six on August 8, 1984, in New York City.
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