Ellen Raskin The Westing Game by T. Z. Faden

Author:T. Z. Faden
Language: eng
Format: mobi

16 ♦ The Third Bomb

“Boom!” Grace Wexler slammed the door on the delivery boy’s silly face and returned to her party with a pink-ribboned gift. The gossiping guests were sipping jasmine tea from Westing Paper Party Cups, nibbling on tidbits from Westing Paper Party Plates, and wiping their fingers on Westing Paper Party Napkins. Madame Hoo served in a tight-fitting silk gown slit high up her thigh, a costume as old-fashioned and impractical as bound feet. Women in China wore blouses and pants and jackets. That’s what she would wear when she got home.

Grace clapped her hands for attention. “Girls, girls! It’s time for the bride-to-be to open her presents. Angela, you sit here and everybody gather round.”

Angela did as her mother said. She lowered herself to a cushion on the floor, ringed by gift boxes and surrounded by vaguely familiar faces. She had not invited her few friends from college; they were bent on careers, this wasn’t their thing. These were her mother’s friends and the newly married daughters of her mother’s friends—and Turtle, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, smirking. Lucky Turtle, the neglected child.

“Read it out loud, dear,” Grace ordered, as Angela opened the card tied to the yellow-ribboned box.

To the bride-to-be in the kitchen stuck, An asparagus cooker and lots of luck. from Cookie Barfspringer “Thank you,” Angela said, wondering which one was the Barfspringer.

The next gift was an egg poacher.

The box in pink ribbons contained another asparagus cooker.

“I sure hope Doctor Deere likes asparagus,” someone remarked. The giver said she could return it for something else, although two might come in handy. “A Doctor’s wife has so much entertaining to do.”

Angela glanced at her watch and reached for the tall, thin carton wrapped in gold foil.

“Look how Angela’s hands are shaking; she’s as nervous as a groom.” Giggles. “Bride-to-be jitters.” More giggles.

Slowly, Angela unknotted the gold ribbon. Carefully, she unfolded the gold foil. How neatly she did everything, the perfect child; not like Turtle, who ripped off wrappings, impatient to see what was inside.

“Hurry up, Angela, you’re such a poke,” Turtle complained. Suddenly there she was, kneeling down to peek under the lid.

“Get away,” Angela cried, jerking the gift up and away from her sister as the lid blasted off with a shattering bang. Bang! Bang! A rapid rat-a-tat-tat. Rockets shooting, fireballs bursting, comets shrieking, sparks sizzling. Two dozen framed flower prints falling off the wall.

Then it was over. Screams hushed to whimpers and the trembling guests crawled out from under tables and peered out of closets.

“Is anyone hurt?” Grace Wexler asked nervously. Other than being scared out of ten years of their lives, thank you, they were fine. “Where’s Angela?”

Angela was still seated on the cushion in the middle of the floor. Fragments of the scorched box lay in her burned hands. Blood oozed from an angry gash on her cheek and trickled down her beautiful face.

Heirs, beware, Sam Westing had warned. They should have listened. Now it was too late. The suspicious heirs gathered in the lobby around the police Captain called in by Judge Ford.

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