“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?”