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Authors: Ellen Raskin
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2C. THANK YOU. FLORA BAUMBACH (DRESSMAKING AND ALTERATIONS, REASONABLY PRICED)
FOUND: SIX CLUES
The following clues,
printed on squares of Westing Toilet Tissue,
were found in the third-floor hallway:
BRAIDED KICKING TORTOISE ‘SI A BRAT
I am having an informal party this evening from eight o’clock on. You are all invited. Please come.
J. J. Ford, apartment 4D
Turtle, wherever you are—
Be home at seven-thirty SHARP!!!
Your loving mother
“Mom, I’m home.” No one else was.
On reading Mrs. Wexler’s note in the elevator, Flora Baumbach had insisted, “You must do what your mother says.” When Turtle replied, “Like showing her our clues?” Flora Baumbach’s answer was “Perhaps so. After all, she is your mother.”
Flora Baumbach was sappy. Always smiling that dumb smile, always so polite to everybody. And so timid. When they had finally reached a snowbound broker, Flora Baumbach was so nervous she dropped the telephone. Turtle had to admit to some nervousness herself, but it was the first real order she had ever placed. For a minute there, she thought she might choke on the thumping heart that had jumped into her throat, but she had pulled off the transaction like a pro. Now if only the stock market would go up, she’d show Mr. Westing about refining gold. The next part of the will would read: “Whichsoever pair made the most money with the ten thousand dollars inherits the whole estate.” She was sure of it.
“Oh, there you are.” Grace Wexler acted as if Turtle was the tardy one, but she quickly sweetened. “Come, dear, let’s go to your room and I’ll fix your hair.”
Her mother sat behind her on the edge of the narrow bed, loosed the dark brown hair, and brushed it to a gloss. She had not done that with such care in a long, long time.
“Have you eaten?”
“Mrs. Baumbach made me a dinner.” Turtle felt the fingers dividing the hair into strands. Her mother was so warm, so close.
“Your poor father’s probably starving; he’s been so busy on the phone, changing appointments and all.”
“Daddy’s eating in the coffee shop; I just saw him there.” Turtle had dashed in shouting: “The braided tortoise strikes again!” and kicked a surprised Theo in the shin. (It was Doug Hoo, not Theo, who had made the sign.)
Her mother twisted the three strands into a braid. “I think you should wear your party dress tonight; you look so pretty in pink.”
Pretty? She had never used that word before, not about her. What’s going on?
“You know, sweetheart, I’m rather hurt that you won’t tell your own mother about your clues.”
So that was it. She should have known. “My lips are sealed,” Turtle said defiantly.
“Just one eensy-beensy clue?” Grace wheedled, winding a rubber band around the end of the braid.
“N-n-n,” Turtle replied through sealed lips.
Angela came into the small room and tugged Turtle’s braid (only her sister could get away with that).
Beaming on her favorite, Grace took her hand, then gasped. “Angela, where’s your engagement ring?”
“I have a rash on my finger.”
Thump, thump. Sydelle Pulaski appeared in the doorway. “Hi, what’s everybody doing in the closet?”
“See, I told you this is a closet,” Turtle said.
Grace ignored the complaint. It did no good being nice to that ungrateful child, never satisfied, always whining about something or other. “Oh, hello, Miss Pulaski.”
“I’ve been feeling a bit weakly, thank you, but nothing can keep me from a party.” Sydelle’s crutch was painted in black and white squares to match her black and white checkered dress. Her large hoop earrings were also black and white: the white one dangled from her left ear, the black from her right.
“The party is such a lovely idea,” Grace said, warming up to the owner of the shorthand notes. “When I saw the invitation in the elevator I suggested to Mr. Hoo that he call the judge to see if she needed hors d’oeuvres; and sure enough, he
FOUND: SIX CLUES
The following clues,
printed on squares of Westing Toilet Tissue,
were found in the third-floor hallway:
BRAIDED KICKING TORTOISE ‘SI A BRAT
I am having an informal party this evening from eight o’clock on. You are all invited. Please come.
J. J. Ford, apartment 4D
Turtle, wherever you are—
Be home at seven-thirty SHARP!!!
Your loving mother
“Mom, I’m home.” No one else was.
On reading Mrs. Wexler’s note in the elevator, Flora Baumbach had insisted, “You must do what your mother says.” When Turtle replied, “Like showing her our clues?” Flora Baumbach’s answer was “Perhaps so. After all, she is your mother.”
Flora Baumbach was sappy. Always smiling that dumb smile, always so polite to everybody. And so timid. When they had finally reached a snowbound broker, Flora Baumbach was so nervous she dropped the telephone. Turtle had to admit to some nervousness herself, but it was the first real order she had ever placed. For a minute there, she thought she might choke on the thumping heart that had jumped into her throat, but she had pulled off the transaction like a pro. Now if only the stock market would go up, she’d show Mr. Westing about refining gold. The next part of the will would read: “Whichsoever pair made the most money with the ten thousand dollars inherits the whole estate.” She was sure of it.
“Oh, there you are.” Grace Wexler acted as if Turtle was the tardy one, but she quickly sweetened. “Come, dear, let’s go to your room and I’ll fix your hair.”
Her mother sat behind her on the edge of the narrow bed, loosed the dark brown hair, and brushed it to a gloss. She had not done that with such care in a long, long time.
“Have you eaten?”
“Mrs. Baumbach made me a dinner.” Turtle felt the fingers dividing the hair into strands. Her mother was so warm, so close.
“Your poor father’s probably starving; he’s been so busy on the phone, changing appointments and all.”
“Daddy’s eating in the coffee shop; I just saw him there.” Turtle had dashed in shouting: “The braided tortoise strikes again!” and kicked a surprised Theo in the shin. (It was Doug Hoo, not Theo, who had made the sign.)
Her mother twisted the three strands into a braid. “I think you should wear your party dress tonight; you look so pretty in pink.”
Pretty? She had never used that word before, not about her. What’s going on?
“You know, sweetheart, I’m rather hurt that you won’t tell your own mother about your clues.”
So that was it. She should have known. “My lips are sealed,” Turtle said defiantly.
“Just one eensy-beensy clue?” Grace wheedled, winding a rubber band around the end of the braid.
“N-n-n,” Turtle replied through sealed lips.
Angela came into the small room and tugged Turtle’s braid (only her sister could get away with that).
Beaming on her favorite, Grace took her hand, then gasped. “Angela, where’s your engagement ring?”
“I have a rash on my finger.”
Thump, thump. Sydelle Pulaski appeared in the doorway. “Hi, what’s everybody doing in the closet?”
“See, I told you this is a closet,” Turtle said.
Grace ignored the complaint. It did no good being nice to that ungrateful child, never satisfied, always whining about something or other. “Oh, hello, Miss Pulaski.”
“I’ve been feeling a bit weakly, thank you, but nothing can keep me from a party.” Sydelle’s crutch was painted in black and white squares to match her black and white checkered dress. Her large hoop earrings were also black and white: the white one dangled from her left ear, the black from her right.
“The party is such a lovely idea,” Grace said, warming up to the owner of the shorthand notes. “When I saw the invitation in the elevator I suggested to Mr. Hoo that he call the judge to see if she needed hors d’oeuvres; and sure enough, he
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