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Authors: Ellen Raskin
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got an order for six dozen.” She turned to Angela. “Hadn’t you better get dressed, dear? It’s getting late. It’s too bad Doctor D. can’t escort you to the party, but your father and I will take you.”
“Angela and I are going together; we’re partners, you know.” Sydelle had it all planned. They were to appear in identical costumes; tonight was the night they would discover if one of the heirs was a twin.
“I’m going to the party with Mrs. Baumbach,” Turtle remarked. “The sign said everyone’s invited.”
Again Grace ignored her. “By the way, Miss Pulaski, I do hope you’ve changed your mind about showing me your notes.”
It was the secretary’s turn to seal her lips. She wouldn’t put it past that uppity Grace Windsor Wexler to steal the notebook from an unfortunate cripple and then rub it in.
Grace tried again, her voice dripping with honey. “You know, of course, that if I do win the inheritance, everything I own goes to Angela.”
Turtle bounded up. “Let me out of here: a person can’t breathe in this closet.” She kicked the bed, kicked the chair, kicked the desk, and elbowed past the disapproving secretary.
“What in the world is wrong with that child?” her mother said.
Judge Ford was instructing Theo in the art of bartending when the telephone rang. The snowbound newspaperman had found several items in the files.
“First, the engagement announcement of Angela Wexler to D. Denton Deere. Next, several clippings on a lawsuit brought against Sam Westing by an inventor named . . .”
“Hold on, please.” Mr. Hoo waddled in with a large tray of appetizers. The judge pointed him to the serving buffet and apologized to her caller. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that name.”
“James Hoo. He claimed Westing stole his idea of the disposable paper diaper.”
“One minute, please.” The judge cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Please don’t leave, Mr. Hoo. I was hoping you’d stay for the party, as a guest, of course. Your wife and son, too.”
Hoo grunted. He hated parties. He had seen his fill of people eating and drinking and acting like clowns, jabbering like . . . so that’s it: jabbering, dropping clues. “I’ll be right back.”
The receiver hissed with an impatient sigh, then the researcher went on. “I’ve got a thick file of sports items on another Hoo, a Doug Hoo. Seems he runs a pretty fast mile for a high-school kid. That’s all I could find on the names you gave me, but I still have stacks of Westing clippings to go through.”
“Thank you so much.”
The doorbell rang.
The party was about to begin.
10
THE LONG PARTY
“I HOPE WE’RE not too early.” Grace Windsor Wexler always arrived at parties fashionably late, but not tonight. She didn’t want to miss a thing, or a clue, or wait around in her apartment with a murderer on the loose. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Doctor Wexler.”
“Call me Jake.”
“Hello, Jake,” Judge Ford said. A firm handshake, laugh lines around his eyes. He needed a sense of humor with that social-climbing wife.
“What a lovely living room, so practically furnished,” Grace commented. “Our apartments are identical in layout, but mine looks so different. You must come see what I’ve done with it. I’m a decorator, you know. Three bedrooms do seem rather spacious for a single woman.”
What does she mean, three bedrooms? This is a one-bedroom apartment. “Would you care for an appetizer, Mrs. Wexler? I’m curious to know exactly how you are related to the Westing family.”
The judge had hoped to take the “heiress” by surprise, but Grace gained time by coughing. “Goodness, that ginger is spicy—it’s the Szechuan cooking style, you know. How am I related? Let me see, Uncle Sam was my father’s oldest brother, or was he the youngest brother of my father’s father?”
“Excuse me, I have to greet my other guests.” The judge left the prattling pretender.
“Angela and I are going together; we’re partners, you know.” Sydelle had it all planned. They were to appear in identical costumes; tonight was the night they would discover if one of the heirs was a twin.
“I’m going to the party with Mrs. Baumbach,” Turtle remarked. “The sign said everyone’s invited.”
Again Grace ignored her. “By the way, Miss Pulaski, I do hope you’ve changed your mind about showing me your notes.”
It was the secretary’s turn to seal her lips. She wouldn’t put it past that uppity Grace Windsor Wexler to steal the notebook from an unfortunate cripple and then rub it in.
Grace tried again, her voice dripping with honey. “You know, of course, that if I do win the inheritance, everything I own goes to Angela.”
Turtle bounded up. “Let me out of here: a person can’t breathe in this closet.” She kicked the bed, kicked the chair, kicked the desk, and elbowed past the disapproving secretary.
“What in the world is wrong with that child?” her mother said.
Judge Ford was instructing Theo in the art of bartending when the telephone rang. The snowbound newspaperman had found several items in the files.
“First, the engagement announcement of Angela Wexler to D. Denton Deere. Next, several clippings on a lawsuit brought against Sam Westing by an inventor named . . .”
“Hold on, please.” Mr. Hoo waddled in with a large tray of appetizers. The judge pointed him to the serving buffet and apologized to her caller. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that name.”
“James Hoo. He claimed Westing stole his idea of the disposable paper diaper.”
“One minute, please.” The judge cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Please don’t leave, Mr. Hoo. I was hoping you’d stay for the party, as a guest, of course. Your wife and son, too.”
Hoo grunted. He hated parties. He had seen his fill of people eating and drinking and acting like clowns, jabbering like . . . so that’s it: jabbering, dropping clues. “I’ll be right back.”
The receiver hissed with an impatient sigh, then the researcher went on. “I’ve got a thick file of sports items on another Hoo, a Doug Hoo. Seems he runs a pretty fast mile for a high-school kid. That’s all I could find on the names you gave me, but I still have stacks of Westing clippings to go through.”
“Thank you so much.”
The doorbell rang.
The party was about to begin.
10
THE LONG PARTY
“I HOPE WE’RE not too early.” Grace Windsor Wexler always arrived at parties fashionably late, but not tonight. She didn’t want to miss a thing, or a clue, or wait around in her apartment with a murderer on the loose. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Doctor Wexler.”
“Call me Jake.”
“Hello, Jake,” Judge Ford said. A firm handshake, laugh lines around his eyes. He needed a sense of humor with that social-climbing wife.
“What a lovely living room, so practically furnished,” Grace commented. “Our apartments are identical in layout, but mine looks so different. You must come see what I’ve done with it. I’m a decorator, you know. Three bedrooms do seem rather spacious for a single woman.”
What does she mean, three bedrooms? This is a one-bedroom apartment. “Would you care for an appetizer, Mrs. Wexler? I’m curious to know exactly how you are related to the Westing family.”
The judge had hoped to take the “heiress” by surprise, but Grace gained time by coughing. “Goodness, that ginger is spicy—it’s the Szechuan cooking style, you know. How am I related? Let me see, Uncle Sam was my father’s oldest brother, or was he the youngest brother of my father’s father?”
“Excuse me, I have to greet my other guests.” The judge left the prattling pretender.
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