The Westing Game Page 17

  Why did Sam Westing have to play two roles, Turtle wondered. He had a big enough part as the doorman without playing the real-estate man as well. Why two roles? No, not two, three. Windy Windkloppel took three names; one: Samuel W. Westing; two: Barney Northrup; three: Sandy McSouthers.

  The judge had a question. “Surely Mr. McSouthers could have had his prescription refilled, or are you implying he committed suicide?”

  “Pardon me?” Turtle was searching the will.

  The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the

  FOURTH.

  That’s it, that has to be it: The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the fourth! Windy Windkloppel took four names, and she knew who the fourth one was! Keep calm, Turtle Alice Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. Slowly, very slowly, turn toward the judge, act dumb, and ask her to repeat the question. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, would you repeat the question?”

  Turtle knows something. The judge had seen that expression before. Sam Westing used to look like that just before he won a game. “I asked if you consider Sandy’s death a suicide.”

  “No, ma’am,” Turtle said sadly. Very sadly. “Sandy McSouthers-Sam Westing suffered terribly from a fatal disease. He was a dying man who chose his time to die. Let me read from the will:SIXTH. Before you proceed to the game room there will be one minute of silent prayer for your good old Uncle Sam.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, heirs (for we all inherited something), let us bow our heads in silent prayer for our benefactor Sam Westing, alias Sandy the doorman.”

  “Crow!” Otis Amber leaped to his feet as Ed Plum led the cleaning woman through the door.

  27

  A HAPPY FOURTH

  HIS AVIATOR’S HELMET again flapping over his ears, Otis Amber danced up to his soup-kitchen companion, flung his arms around the taut body, and squeezed her tightly. “Hey Crow old pal, old pal, old pal.”

  “They said I was innocent, Otis. They said I was innocent,” she replied vaguely.

  Angela, too, wanted to hug her in welcome, but closeness was not possible for either of them. Instead, Angela offered a crooked smile. Crow nodded and lowered her eyes, only to raise them to Madame Hoo, clutching a Mickey Mouse clock. “Things very good,” Madame Hoo said, extending her free hand and shaking Crow’s hand up and down.

  “It was all a regrettable mistake,” Ed Plum explained to the judge. “Can you imagine, that sheriff wanted to arrest me, not Crow—me, Edgar Jennings Plum—he wanted to arrest the attorney! Fortunately, the coroner determined that Mr. McSouthers died of a heart attack, as did Samuel W. Westing.”

  “Then Turtle’s right,” Theo said. “There was no murder. The coroner was part of the plot.”

  Ed Plum had no idea what Theo was talking about. Masking his ignorance with arrogance, he continued. “I had my suspicions about this entire affair from the start. I came here for one reason only: to announce my resignation from all matters regarding the Westing estate, with sincere apologies to all concerned.”

  “Wasn’t there a last document?” Judge Ford asked, knowing that Sam Westing had to make his last move.

  “Yes, but as I no longer take a legal interest . . .”

  “Please turn it over to the court.”

  Baffled by the word “court,” the lawyer set the envelope on the desk and found his way out of Sunset Towers.

  Without once clearing her throat, Judge Ford proceeded to read the final page of the will of Samuel W. Westing.

  SEVENTEENTH • Good-bye, my heirs. Thanks for the fun and games. I can rest in peace knowing I was loved as your jolly doorman.

  EIGHTEENTH • I, Samuel W. Westing, otherwise known as Sandy McSouthers and others, do hereby give and bequeath all the property and possessions in my name as follows:

  To all of you, in equal shares, the deed to Sunset Towers;

  And to my former wife, Berthe Erica Crow, the ten-thousand-dollar check forfeited by table one, and two ten-thousand-dollar checks endorsed by J. J. Ford and Alexander McSouthers.

  NINETEENTH • The sun has set on your Uncle Sam. Happy birthday, Crow. And to all of my heirs, a very happy Fourth of July.

  Judge Ford set the document down. “That’s it.”

  That’s it? What about the two hundred million dollars, the heirs wanted to know.

  “We lost the game,” the judge explained, staring at Turtle, her face a mask of sad, childlike innocence as she nestled once again in Flora Baumbach’s arms. “I think.”

  Turtle rose and walked to the side window, seeking the Westing house, which stood invisible in the moon-clouded night. (Hurry up, Uncle Sam, I can’t keep up this act much longer. The candle must have burned through the last stripe by now.)

  Behind her the discontented heirs grumbled: He made fools of us all. He played us like puppets. He was a g-good m-man. He was a vengeful man, a hateful man. Windkloppel? He tricked us, the cheat. A madman, stark raving mad.

  “Oh my, oh my, just listen to you,” Flora Baumbach said. “You each have ten thousand dollars more than you started with and an apartment building to boot. The man is dead, so why not think the best?”

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  “Happy Fourth of July,” Turtle shouted as the first rockets lit up the Westing house, lit up the sky.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  BOOM!!!

  The heirs gathered around Turtle at the window.

  BOOM! Stars of all colors bursting into the night, silver pin-wheels spinning, golden lances up-up-BOOM! crimson flashes flashing blasting, scarlet showers BOOM! emerald rain BOOM! BOOM! orange flames, red flames leaping from the windows, sparking the turrets, firing the trees. . . .

  “BOOM!” cried Madame Hoo, clapping her hands with delight.

  The great winter fireworks extravaganza, as it came to be called, lasted only fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes later the Westing house had burned to the ground.

  “Happy birthday, Crow,” Otis Amber said, reaching for her hand.

  The orange glow of the morning sun had just begun its climb up the glass front of Sunset Towers when Turtle set out to collect the prize. She pedaled north past the cliff, still smoldering with the charred remains of the Westing house. Reaching the crossroads, she turned into the narrow lane whose twisting curves mimicked the shoreline.

  The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the fourth. It was so simple once you knew what you were looking for. Sam Westing, Barney Northrup, Sandy McSouthers (west, north, south). Now she was on her way to meet the fourth identity of Windy Windkloppel. She could probably have figured out the address, too, instead of looking it up in the Westingtown phone book—there it was, number four Sunrise Lane.

  A long driveway, its privacy guarded by tall spruce, led to the modern mansion of the newly elected chairman of the board of Westing Paper Products Corporation. Turtle climbed the stairs, rang the bell, and waited. The door opened.

  Turtle felt her first grip of panic as she confronted the crippled doctor. Could she have been wrong? “I’d like to see Mr. Eastman, please,” she said nervously. “Tell him Turtle Wexler is here.”

  “Mr. Eastman is expecting you,” Doctor Sikes said. “Go straight down the hall.”

  The hall had an inlaid marble floor (no Oriental rugs). Reaching its end, she entered a paneled library (this one filled with books). There he was, sitting at the desk.

  Julian R. Eastman rose. He looked stern. And very proper. He wore a gray business suit with a vest, a striped tie. His shoes were shined. He limped as he walked toward her, not the crooked limp of Doctor Sikes, just a small limp, a painful limp. Again Turtle was gripped by panic. He seemed so different, so important. She shouldn’t have kicked him (the Barney Northrup him). He was coming closer. His watery-blue eyes stared at her over his rimless half-glasses. Hard eyes. His teeth were white, not quite even (no one would ever guess they were false). He was smiling. He wasn’t angry with her, he was smiling.


  “Hi, Sandy,” Turtle said. “I won!”

  28

  AND THEN . . .

  TURTLE NEVER TOLD. She went to the library every Saturday afternoon, she explained (which was partly true). “Make your move, Turtle, you don’t want to be late for the wedding.”

  The ceremony was held in Shin Hoo’s restaurant. Grace Wexler, recovered from a world-record hangover, draped a white cloth over the liquor bottles and set a spray of roses on the bar. No drinks would be served today.

  Radiant in her wedding gown of white heirloom lace, the bride walked down the aisle, past the tables of well-wishers, on the arm of Jake Wexler. Mr. Hoo, the best man, beamed with pride at her light footsteps as he supported the knee-knocking, nervous groom.

  A fine red line of a scar marked Angela’s check, but she looked content and lovely as ever in her pale blue bridesmaid’s gown. The other bridesmaid wore pink and yellow with matching crutches.

  The guests cried during the wedding and laughed during the reception. Flora Baumbach smiled and cried at the same time. “You did a good job altering the wedding dress, Baba,” Turtle said, which made the dressmaker cry even harder.

  “A toast to the bride and groom,” Jake announced, raising his glass of ginger ale. “To Crow and Otis Amber!”

  The heirs of Uncle Sam Westing clinked glasses with the members of the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen, sobered up for this happy occasion. “To Crow and Otis Amber!”

  Apartment 4D was bare. For the last time Judge Ford stared out the side window to the cliff where the Westing house once stood. She would never solve the Westing puzzle; perhaps it was just as well. Her debt would finally be repaid—with interest; the money she received from the sale of her share of Sunset Towers would pay for the education of another youngster, just as Sam Westing had paid for hers.

  “Hi, Judge Ford, I c-came to say g-good-bye,” Chris said, wheeling himself through the door.

  “Oh hello, Chris, that was nice of you, but why aren’t you studying? Where’s your tutor?” She looked at the binoculars hanging from his neck. “You haven’t been birdwatching again, have you? There will be plenty of time for birds later; first you must catch up on your studies if you want to get into a good school.” Good heavens, she was beginning to sound like Mr. Hoo.

  “Will you c-come to see m-me?” Chris asked. “It g-gets sort of lonely with Theo away at c-college.”

  The judge gave him one of her rare smiles. He was a bright youngster (“Real smart,” Sandy had said), he had a good future (Sandy had said that, too), he needed her influence and the extra money, but she might smother him with her demands. “I’ll see you when I can, and I’ll write to you, Chris. I promise.”

  Hoo’s Little Foot-Eze (patent pending) was selling well in drugstores and shoe repair shops.

  “Once we capture the Milwaukee market I’ll take you to China,” James Hoo promised his business partner.

  “Okay,” Madame Hoo replied, toting up accounts on her abacus. No hurry. She had many friends in Sunset Towers now. And no more cooking, no more tight dresses slit up her thigh. Her husband had bought her a nice pantsuit to wear when they called on customers, and for her birthday Doug had given her one of his medals to wear around her neck.

  The secretary to the president of Schultz Sausages was back on the job. Her ankle mended, Sydelle Pulaski had discarded her crutches. She had all the attention she could handle without them; after all, she was an heiress now. (It wasn’t polite to ask how much, but everyone knew Sam Westing had millions.) Of course she could retire to Florida, she said, but what would poor Mr. Schultz do without her? And then one unforgettable Friday Mr. Schultz, himself, took her to lunch.

  Jake Wexler had given up his private practice (both private practices) now that he had been appointed consultant to the governor’s inquiry panel for a state lottery (thanks to a recommendation by Judge Ford). Grace was proud of him, and his daughters were doing well. In fact everything was fine, just fine.

  Hoo’s On First was a great success. Grace Wexler, the new owner, offered free meals to the sports figures who came to town, and everyone wanted to eat where the athletes ate. The restaurant’s one windowless wall was covered with autographed photographs of Brewers, Packers, and Bucks. Grace straightened the framed picture of a smiling champion, signed: To Grace W. Wexler, who serves the number-one food in town—Doug Hoo. She certainly was a lucky woman: a respected restaurateur, wife of a state official, and mother of the cleverest kid who ever lived. Turtle was going to be somebody someday.

  A narrow scar remained, and would always remain, on Angela’s cheek. It was slightly raised, and she had developed a habit of running her fingers along it as she pored over her books. Enrolled in college again, she lived at home to save money for the years of medical school ahead. She had returned the engagement ring to Denton Deere; she had not seen him since Crow’s wedding. Ed Plum had stopped calling after ten refusals. Angela had neither the time nor the desire for a social life what with studying, her weekly shopping date with Sydelle, and Sundays spent helping Crow and Otis in the soup kitchen.

  “Study, study, study,” Turtle said.

  Angela saw little of her sister, who was either at school, in Flora Baumbach’s apartment, or at the library. “Hi, Turtle, how come you’re so happy today?”

  “The stock market jumped twenty-five points.”

  The newlyweds, Crow and Otis Amber, moved into the apartment above the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen. The storefront mission had been renovated and expanded with the money from the inheritance. Grace Wexler had supervised the decorations: copper pots hung from the ceiling; the pews were padded with flowered cushions and fitted with hymnbook pockets and drop-leaf trays. There was meat in the soup and fresh bread every day.

  29

  FIVE YEARS PASS

  THE FORMER DELIVERY boy danced into the Hoos’ new lakefront home. “Let’s give a cheer, the Ambers are here!” Otis came to celebrate Doug’s victory, wearing the old zippered jacket and aviator’s helmet. He had even let a stubble grow on his chin. The only thing missing was his delivery bike (they had come in the soup-kitchen van).

  “Thank you for the generous donation, Mr. Hoo. God bless you,” Crow said. “Otis and I distributed the innersoles among our people. It helped their suffering greatly.” She looked worn, her skin pulled tight against the fragile bones, and she still wore black.

  Mr. Hoo, on the other hand, was stouter and less angry. In fact, he was almost happy. Business was booming. Milwaukee loved Hoo’s Little Foot-Eze, and so did Chicago and New York and Los Angeles, but he still had not taken his wife to China.

  Theo Theodorakis, graduate of journalism school, cub reporter, held up the newspaper, hot off the press:OLYMPIC HERO COMES HOME

  Four columns were devoted to the history and achievement of the gold medal winner who had set a new record for the 1500-meter run. Theo had not actually written the article on the local hero, but he had sharpened pencils for the reporter who did.

  “Take a bow, Doug,” Mr. Hoo said, beaming.

  Doug leaped on a table and thrust his index fingers high in the air. “I’m number one!” he shouted. The Olympic gold medal hung from his neck, confetti from the parade dotted his hair. The Westing heirs cheered.

  “Hello, Jake, I’m so glad you could come,” Sunny (as Madame Hoo was now called) said, shaking the hand of the chairman of the State Gambling Commission.

  “Boom!” Jake Wexler replied.

  “Hello, Angela.” Denton Deere had grown a thick moustache. He was a neurologist. He had never married.

  “Hello, Denton.” Angela’s golden hair was tied in a knot on the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup. She was completing her third year of medical school. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Remember me?” Sydelle Pulaski wore a red and white polka-dot dress and leaned on a red and white polka-dot crutch. She had sprained her knee dancing a tango at the office party.

  “How could I ever forget you, Ms. Pulaski?” Denton said. />
  “I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Conrad Schultz, president of Schultz Sausages.”

  “How do you do.”

  “Judge Ford, I’d like you to meet my friend, Shirley Staver.” Chris Theodorakis was in his junior year at college. A medication, recently discovered, kept his limbs steady and his speech well controlled. He sat in a wheelchair, as he always would.

  “Hello, Shirley,” the judge said. “Chris has written so much about you. I’m sorry I’m such a poor correspondent, Chris; I found myself in a tangle of cases this past month.” She was a judge on the United States Circuit Court of Appeals.

  “Chris and I were both chosen to go on a birdwatching tour to Central America this summer,” Shirley said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  For old times’ sake Grace Wexler catered the party herself and passed among the guests with a tray of appetizers. She owned a chain of five restaurants now: Hoo’s On First, Hoo’s On Second, Hoo’s On Third, Hoo’s On Fourth, Hoo’s On Fifth.

  “Who’s that attractive young woman talking with Flora Baum bach?” Theo asked.

  “Why, that’s my daughter Turtle. She’s really grown up, hasn’t she? Second year of college and she’s only eighteen. Calls herself T. R. Wexler now.”

  T. R. Wexler was radiant. Earlier that day she had won her first chess game from the master.

  30

  THE END?