The Westing Game Page 15

  “Sure,” Grace Wexler replied with a giggle, but Jake gave her a cup of strong black coffee instead.

  “We must keep our wits about us, Mr. McSouthers,” Judge Ford said, walking toward him. “Sam Westing has not made his final move.”

  “Nothing like Scotch to clear the head,” he replied. He took a long swig, coughed, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform, and glared at Crow with narrowed, watery eyes.

  Theo grinned down at the chess table. White had made another move, a careless move. He licked the cake crumbs from his fingers, wiped his hand on a Westing Paper Tea Napkin, and took his opponent’s queen from the board. At least he had won the chess game.

  Perched on a corner of table eight, the young lawyer tried to start a conversation with Angela, ignoring Sydelle Pulaski, who twice asked, “Surely you must have the answer, Mr. Plum?” She nudged her partner.

  “Surely you must have the answer, Mr. Plum,” Angela repeated sweetly.

  “Oh, of course; at least, I assume I do,” he replied. “My instructions are to open the documents one by one at the scheduled time.” He checked his watch. “Oops!” He was one minute late.

  Ed Plum hurried to the billiard table, tore open the next envelope, and pulled out the document, cutting his finger on the paper’s edge.

  FOURTEENTH • Go directly to the library. Do not pass Go.

  24

  WRONG ALL WRONG

  GRACE WEXLER CLUNG unsteadily to Mr. Hoo’s arm. “Where are we going?” “Who knows,” Hoo replied. “We didn’t even pass Go.” Partner sat with partner at the long library table, moaning with impatience as Ed Plum opened another envelope, removed a tagged key, tried to unlock the top right-hand desk drawer, reread the tag, unlocked the upper left-hand drawer, and found the next document:FIFTEENTH • Wrong! All answers are wrong!

  “What!” Sydelle Pulaski cried.

  I repeat: Wrong! All answers are wrong! Partnerships are canceled; you are on your own. Alone.

  The lawyer will leave and return with the authorities at the appointed time. And time is running out. Hurry, find the name before the one who took my life takes another.

  Remember: It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts.

  Madame Hoo knew from the shifting eyes that a bad person was in the room. She was the bad person. They would find out soon. The crutch lady had her writing-book back, but all those pretty things she was going to sell, they wanted them back, too. She would be punished. Soon.

  “How much time do we have?” Turtle asked.

  Ed Plum left the library without answering. And locked the door!

  “Oh my!” Flora Baumbach ran to the French doors. They opened.

  Sydelle Pulaski complained of a chill, and the dressmaker had to shut the doors, but she left them unlatched, just in case.

  Mr. Hoo said the tea tasted funny, maybe they had all been poisoned. Denton Deere diagnosed paranoia.

  The doorman, who was pacing the room, replied that anyone who was not paranoid, after being told that the murderer would kill again, was really crazy. He stopped to pat Turtle’s slumped shoulders. “Cheer up, my friend, the game’s not over yet,” Sandy whispered. “You still can win. I hope you do.”

  Otis Amber told everyone to sit where he could watch them.

  Theo rose. “I think it’s about time we played as a team and shared our clues and shared the inheritance.”

  With the murderer? Well, all right. Agreed.

  Sydelle Pulaski still thought the answer had something to do with “America, the Beautiful.” “Does anybody have a clue word that is not in the song?”

  “I’m not sure,” Doug said mischievously. “Sing it again.”

  No one cared for that idea. “It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts,” Jake Wexler reminded them. “Maybe some words in the song are missing from the clues.”

  That makes sense. “Does anyone have the word amber?” Mr. Hoo asked.

  “Not again,” Otis Amber groaned. “You heard the will, it said all answers were wrong. Well, I was one of the wrong answers.”

  “But Mr. Westing wrote the will before the game began.” Sydelle argued. “Perhaps he assumed we weren’t smart enough to find you out so soon.”

  Judge Ford did not interfere (Otis Amber could take care of himself). She had to be prepared to defend Crow when the time came.

  Crow sat with her head bowed, waiting.

  No one had the word amber, but two pairs had am in their clues. “Two ams do not an amber make,” Sydelle declared. “Two ams stand for America, America.”

  “I’ve got America,” Jake Wexler shouted. “I’ve got America.” Ravings of a madman, Mr. Hoo thought. The podiatrist, could he be the one?

  Jake explained in a calmer voice. “The two ams could not stand for America, America, because one of my clues is America.”

  Sandy stood, took a long swig from his flask, coughed, then spoke in a hoarse voice. “We’re getting nowhere. Why doesn’t everybody hand in their clues so Ms. Pulaski can arrange them in order and we can see what’s missing?”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, the judge watched Sandy collect the clues. “Just write them out again,” he said to Turtle, who had eaten the originals. Then he placed the paper squares before the secretary and resumed his seat. What was her partner doing? Why was he playing into Westing’s hands? He knows the answer, he knows he’s leading the heirs to Crow. Again the judge studied the doorman’s battered face: the scars; the bashed-in nose; the hard, blue eyes under those taped spectacles. The baggy uniform. Everyone was given the perfect partner, Chris said. Chris was right. She was paired with the one person who could confound her plans, manipulate her moves, keep her from the truth. Her partner, Sandy McSouthers, was the only heir she had not investigated. Her partner, Sandy McSouthers, was Sam Westing.

  The secretary quickly arranged the clues in order:

  “The missing words,” Sydelle Pulaski announced, “are ber, the, erica, and crow. Berthe Erica Crow!”

  Crow paled.

  Judge Ford stood. “May I have everyone’s attention? Thank you. Please listen very carefully to what I have to say.

  “We found the answer to Sam Westing’s puzzle, now what are we going to do? Remember: We have no evidence of any kind against this unfortunate woman. We don’t even have proof that Sam Westing was murdered.

  “Can we accuse an innocent woman of a murder that has never been proved? Crow is our neighbor and our helper. Can we condemn her to a life imprisonment just to satisfy our own greed? For money promised in an improbable and illegal will? If so, we are guilty of a far greater crime than the accused. Berthe Erica Crow’s only crime is that her name appears in a song. Our crime would be selling—yes, I said selling, selling for profit—the life of an innocent, helpless human being.”

  The judge paused to let her words sink in, then she turned to her partner. Her voice hardened. “As for the master of this vicious game . . .” She paused. What’s happening to him?

  “Uh—uh——UHHH!” Sandy’s hand flew to his throat. He struggled to his feet, red-faced and gasping, and crashed to the floor in eye-bulging agony.

  Jake Wexler and Denton Deere hurried to his aid. Theo pounded on the door, shouting for help. Ed Plum unlocked the door and two strange men rushed past him. One, carrying a doctor’s bag, quickly limped on crooked legs to the side of the writhing doorman. “I’m Doctor Sikes. Everyone, please move away.”

  The heirs heard a low groan, then a rasping rattle . . . then nothing.

  “Sandy! Sandy!” Turtle screamed, pushing through the restraining hands. She looked down on the doorman sprawled at her feet. His face was twisted in rigid pain; his mouth gaped over the chipped front tooth. The taped glasses had fallen from his blue eyes that were locked in an unseeing stare. Suddenly his body straightened in one last violent twitch. His right eye closed, then opened again, and Sandy moved no more.

  “He’s dead,” Doctor Sikes said, gently turni
ng her away.

  “Dead?” Judge Ford repeated numbly. How could she have been so wrong? So very wrong?

  A sob tore through Turtle’s soul as she ran to Baba’s comforting arms. “Baba, Baba, I don’t want to play anymore.”

  The second stranger, the sheriff of Westing county, herded them back to the game room. Without thinking, the heirs seated themselves at the assigned tables.

  Turtle sat quietly; it was Flora Baumbach’s turn to weep. Crow waited. Only the throbbing veins in her tightly clasped hands told of her torment.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Ed Plum said. “I realize this may seem inappropriate, but according to Samuel W. Westing’s will, I must read another document on the hour.”

  The sheriff checked his watch. What kind of a madhouse is this? And there’s something mighty fishy about this cocky kid-lawyer calling in the middle of dinner, insisting that I hurry right over. That was half an hour before anybody died. “Go ahead,” he grumbled.

  Plum cleared his throat three times under the sheriff’s suspicious glare.

  SIXTEENTH • I, Samuel W. Westing of Westingtown, born Sam “Windy” Windkloppel of Watertown (I had to change my name for business purposes. After all, who would buy a product called Windkloppel’s Toilet Tissues? Would you?) do hereby declare that if no one wins, this will is null and void.

  So hurry, hurry, hurry, step right up and collect your prize. The lawyer will count off five minutes.

  Good luck and a happy Fourth of July.

  “Windkloppel, did someone say Windkloppel?” Grace Wexler slurred.

  “I knew Westing wasn’t an immigrant’s name,” Sydelle Pulaski said. “I knew it.”

  “The man was insane,” Denton Deere diagnosed.

  Shhh! They were struggling with their conscience. Millions and millions of dollars just for naming her name.

  One minute is up!

  The heirs stared at the answer: Berthe Erica Crow. A religious fanatic, maybe even crazy, but a murderer? They had no evidence that Westing was murdered, the judge said so.

  Crow waited. She had not suffered enough for her sins, her penance was yet to begin.

  Two minutes are up!

  Two hundred million dollars, Turtle thought, but who gets it? The last part the lawyer read wasn’t very businesslike. Besides, she could never peach on anybody, not even Crow. Who cares about anything anyhow—Sandy is dead, Sandy was her friend, now she’ll never see him again—ever.

  Judge Ford tried not to look at the empty chair at her table, McSouthers’ chair. Her one concern was the safety of Crow. The judge watched the heirs and waited. Crow waited.

  Three minutes are up!

  Westing wasn’t murdered, the judge said so, but what about Sandy? He was drinking from the flask Crow filled and he died choking. Poison?

  Crow felt the eyes on her. The hating eyes. They scoffed at her beliefs, they joked about her soup kitchen. Only two people here mattered to her. She was so tired, so tired of waiting. Of waiting.

  Four minutes are up!

  “The answer is Berthe Erica Crow.”

  “No,” Angela cried. “No, no!”

  “She’s crazy,” Otis Amber shouted. “She don’t know what she’s saying.”

  “Yes I do, Otis,” Crow said flatly and repeated her statement: “The answer is Berthe Erica Crow.” She rose and turned to the confused lawyer. “I am Berthe Erica Crow. I am the answer and I am the winner. I give half of my inheritance to Otis Amber, to be used for the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen. I give the rest of the money to Angela.”

  25

  WESTING’S WAKE

  SANDY WAS DEAD.Crow had been arrested. The fourteen remaining heirs of Samuel W. Westing sat in Judge Ford’s living room wondering what had happened.

  “At least the guilt is not on our hands,” Mr. Hoo said, trying to convince himself that a clear conscience was worth two hundred million dollars.

  “Crow’s going to jail,” Otis Amber wailed, “and all you do is pat yourself on the back for not being a stoolie.”

  “Let me remind you that Crow confessed,” Sydelle Pulaski reminded him.

  “Crow only confessed to being the answer, nothing more,” Angela said, pressing her hand against the tearing pain in her cheek.

  “Even if Sam Westing wasn’t murdered, like the judge said,” Doug Hoo argued, “there was nothing wrong with Sandy until he drank from the flask Crow filled.”

  “If Crow is innocent,” Theo said, “that means the murderer is still here in this room.”

  Flora Baumbach tightened her grip on Turtle, who was nestled in her arms.

  “Poor Crow,” Otis Amber muttered, “poor Crow.”

  “Poor Sandy, you should say,” Turtle responded angrily. “Sandy’s the one who’s dead. Sandy was my friend.”

  “You should have remembered that before you kicked him,” Denton Deere remarked.

  “I never kicked Sandy, never.”

  The intern turned sideways in his chair in case of attack, but the kicker stayed slumped in sadness. “Well, someone kicked him today. That was one mean bruise he had on his shin.”

  “That’s a lie, that’s a disgusting lie,” Turtle shouted. “The only person I kicked today was Barney Northrup and he deserved it. I didn’t even see Sandy until tonight at the Westing house. Right, Baba?”

  “That’s right,” Flora Baumbach said, handing Turtle a Westing Facial Tissue.

  But Turtle was not about to cry again in front of everybody, like a baby. If only she could forget how he looked, suffering, dying: the twisted body, the chipped tooth, that horrible twitch, that one eye (that was the worst) that one eye blinking. Sandy used to wink at her like that when he was alive. When he was alive. Turtle blew her nose loudly to keep from sobbing.

  “Sandy was my friend, too,” Theo said. “I was playing chess with him in the game room, but he didn’t know I knew.”

  “Why is everybody lying?” Turtle slumped further into Flora Baumbach’s arm. Sandy was her friend, not Theo’s. And Sandy didn’t know how to play chess.

  The judge, too, was surprised. “How can you be certain it was Mr. McSouthers you were playing with, Theo?”

  “That’s what partners are for. Doug watched the chess table to see who was moving the white pieces,” Theo replied.

  Again the track star thrust his I’m-number-one fingers high in the air.

  Dumb jock, thought Mr. Hoo. Doesn’t he realize this is a wake? But he is the champ. My son’s the champ.

  “Doug win,” said Madame Hoo. They did not suspect her anymore. Good, very good. But it was so sad about the door guard.

  Theo went on in a mournful voice. “I’m sort of glad Sandy didn’t go back to the chessboard after my last move. He never knew he lost the game.”

  “Did you checkmate him?” the judge asked. Could she have been right about McSouthers after all? No. A disguise was one thing, but Sam Westing lose a game of chess? Never.

  “Well, not exactly checkmate,” Theo replied, “but Sandy would have had to resign. I took his queen.”

  The queen’s sacrifice! The famous Westing trap. Judge Ford was certain now, but there were still too many unanswered questions. “I’m afraid greed got the best of you, Theo. By taking white’s queen you were tricked into opening your defense. I know, I’ve lost a few games that way myself.”

  Theo recalled the position of the chessmen, thankful that his skin was too dark to reveal his blushing.

  Turtle almost smiled. That Theo thinks he’s so smart; well, Sandy showed him, Sandy beat him at chess. But Sandy didn’t play chess. And she never kicked him either. Bucktoothed Barney Northrup was the one she kicked, not Sandy. But Sandy had the sore shin. Bucktoothed, chip-toothed, the crooked false teeth in the dentist’s office (Sandy’s dentist). “Cheer up, my friend, the game’s not over. You still can win. I hope you do.” Those were the last words Sandy said to her. He winked when he said that. Winked! One eye winked! Dead Sandy had winked at her!

  Sandy had winked!


  “Oh my,” Flora Baumbach exclaimed as Turtle suddenly bolted from her arms.

  “Angela, could I see your copy of the will?”

  Angela handed it over (she could not refuse her sister anything, now).

  Turtle leaned against the dark window, poring over Sydelle Pulaski’s transcript of the will:FIRST. I returned to live among my friends and my enemies. I came home to seek my heir, aware that in doing so I faced death. And so I did.

  “To seek my heir,” Turtle repeated to herself.

  Today I have gathered together my nearest and dearest, my sixteen nieces and nephews (Sit down, Grace Windsor Wexler!) to view the body of your Uncle Sam for the last time.

  Tomorrow its ashes will be scattered to the four winds.

  Winds? “Windkloppel,” Turtle said aloud. Her mother had been right all along about being related to Sam Westing.

  “Windkloppel,” Grace mumbled. Jake patted her head.

  “Windkloppel,” the judge repeated. At least she could explain that. “Crow married a man named Windkloppel, who then changed his name to Westing. Berthe Erica Crow is the former wife of Samuel W. Westing. They had one child, a daughter, who drowned the night before her wedding. It was rumored that she killed herself rather than marry the man her mother had chosen for her. If Sam Westing blamed his wife for their daughter’s death, then the sole purpose of this game was to punish Crow.”

  Crow was Sam Westing’s ex-wife? The heirs found that hard to believe. “Then why would Mr. Westing give her a chance to inherit the estate?” Theo asked.

  “M-maybe he wanted his enemies to for-g-give him,” Chris said.

  “Ha!” said Mr. Hoo, one of the enemies.

  Turtle read on:SECOND. I, Samuel W. Westing, hereby swear that I did not die of natural causes. My life was taken from me—by one of you!

  The police are helpless. The culprit is far too cunning to be apprehended for this dastardly deed.