The Westing Game (19 page)

“Thanks,” Turtle replied. Now Angela had to love her forever.

Most of the heirs had to comment on Turtle’s hair. “You look like a real businesswoman,” Sandy said. “Well, that’s an improvement,” Denton Deere said. “You look n-nice,” Chris said. Only Theo, bent over the chessboard, said nothing. White had moved the king’s bishop since the last meeting. It was his move.

At last the stares turned from Turtle’s hair to a more surprising sight. Judge Ford strode in as regally as an African princess, her noble head swathed in a turban, her tall body draped in yards of handprinted cloth. She slipped a note to Denton Deere then sailed to her place at table four. Goggle-eyed Otis Amber was speechless; they all were, except for Sandy. “Gee, that’s a nifty outfit, Judge. Is that what you call ethnic?”

The judge did not reply.

Applaud, the local hero has arrived! Doug raised his arms, pointing his index fingers to the flaking gilt ceiling in the I’m-number-one sign, and acknowledged the clapping with a victory lap around the room.

“Here come the Wexlers,” Mr. Hoo remarked, seating his puzzled wife at table one.

Turtle exchanged an anxious glance with Angela. The last time they saw their mother she was crying her head off; now the tears were gone from her bleary eyes, but she was staggering, giggling, her hair was a mess.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jake apologized. “We lost track of time.” They had been clinking wineglasses in a small cafe (the cafe they used to go to before they were married), toasting good times. They had had many good times together, many good memories shared, it seems—three big wine bottles full.

Happy Grace waved at the heirs. She felt so wonderful, so overflowing with love for Jake, for everybody.

“Hi, Mom,” Turtle called.

Grace blinked at a young short-haired girl. “Who’s that?”

Jake greeted his partner with a “How are you this fine day?”

“Doug win,” replied Madame Hoo.

Having opened the door to the last of the heirs, a tense and troubled Crow took her seat next to Otis Amber. Ghost-threatened, she waited for the unseen.

“Hey, lawyer, can we open these?” Otis Amber shouted, waving an envelope. A similar envelope lay on each table.

His forehead creased with uncertainty, Ed Plum fumbled through his papers. “I guess so” was his opinion.

Cheers erupted as the heirs withdrew the checks.

Again Judge Ford signed her name to the ten-thousand-dollar check and handed it to the doorman. “Here you are, Mr. McSouthers, this should tide you over until you find another job.”

Sandy’s heartfelt thanks were muffled by Sydelle Pulaski’s loud “Shhhh!”

“Shhhhhhhh!” Grace Wexler mimicked, then she dropped her head into her crossed arms on the table and fell asleep to the sound of the lawyer’s throat-clearing coughs.

Bookie? He really must have been distracted when he signed that receipt. Jake studied the five clues on the table:

Even knowing his wife’s clues didn’t help; he’d have to gamble on a long shot. “Say something,” he said to his partner.

“Boom!” said Madame Hoo.

Ed Plum wrote
Table One: Boom.

Turtle read a prepared statement: “In spite of the fact that the stock market dropped thirty points since we received our ten thousand dollars, we have increased our capital to $11,587.50, an appreciation of twenty-seven point eight percent calculated on an annual basis.”

Flora Baumbach slapped a wad of bills on the table and two clinking quarters. “In cash,” she said.

Ed Plum asked them to repeat their answer.

“Table two’s answer is $11,587.50.”

Sandy applauded. Turtle took a bow.

Ornithologist? His brother must have given him that fancy title when he filled in the receipt. Maybe he would become an ornithologist someday. He was a lucky person, getting that medicine and all. He didn’t want to accuse anybody, not Judge Ford (apartment 4D), not Otis (grain) Amber, not the limper (just about everybody limped at one time or other—today Sandy was limping). “I think Mr. Westing is a g-good man,” Chris said aloud. “I think his last wish was to do g-good deeds. He g-gave me a p-partner who helped me. He g-gave everybody the p-perfect p-partner to m-make friends.”

“What is table three’s answer?” the lawyer asked.

Denton Deere replied. “Our answer is: Mr. Westing was a good man.”

“We don’t have an answer,” the ex-doorman responded as planned.

The judge looked at table three. Denton Deere, her note in his hand, shook his head, which meant: No, Otis Amber has not had plastic surgery done on his face. The judge turned to table six. Otis Amber could not be Sam Westing (she was right to have trusted him). But Crow is expecting something to happen. Crow knows she is the answer, she knows she is the one.

Grace raised her head. “Did someone say Windkloppel?”

“Never mind Windkloppel, it’s our turn,” Hoo snarled. The lawyer got names and positions all fouled up, and I’ve got a drunk for a partner. He prodded Grace to her feet.

Faces were swirling, the floor was swaying. Grace grabbed the edge of the floating table and gave her answer in a thick, slurred voice. “The newly decorated restaurant, Hoo’s On First, the eatery of athletes, will hold its grand reopening on Sunday. Specialty of the day: fruited sea bass on purple waves.”

Grace sat down where the chair wasn’t. Turtle gasped, Angela looked away, the heirs tittered as Jake helped his wife up from the floor.

“What is table five’s answer, please?” the lawyer pressed.

“Ed Plum,” said Mr. Hoo.

“Yes, sir?”

“That’s our answer: Ed Plum.”

“Oh.”

“Mother? Did I write
mother
?” Crow mumbled.

“Is that your answer?” Ed Plum asked.

“I don’t know,” Otis Amber replied. “Is ‘mother’ our answer, Crow?” He could have sworn she had again signed the receipt
Good Salvation Soup Kitchen.

Crow repeated “mother,” and that’s what the lawyer wrote down.

Their clues: a chemical formula for an explosive and the letters
o-t-i-s.
Doug, basking in glory, didn’t care. Theo stood, turned to the man he was about to accuse, and saw the scene in the soup kitchen, saw Otis Amber cooking soup for the dirty, hungry men. “No answer,” Theo said sitting down.

Sydelle was dressed for the occasion in red and white stripes. Leaning on crutches decorated with white stars on a field of blue to match the cast on her ankle, she hummed into a pitch pipe and began to sing one note above the pitch she played.

What a spectacle she made, her wide rear end sticking out, singing in that tuneless, nasal voice. The derisive smiles soon faded as, pair by pair, the heirs heard their code words sung.

“Such a beautiful song,” Grace Wexler slurred, but the others sat in somber silence. Even Turtle thought table eight had won.

“What is your answer?” Ed Plum asked.

“Our answer,” Sydelle Pulaski announced with certainty, “is Otis Amber.”

The heirs listened to the lawyer read the next document, but their eyes stayed fixed on table eight’s answer: Otis Amber.

Dazed with fear, Crow rose. The thirteenth section. Thirteen was an unlucky number.

Judge Ford told Sandy to follow her. “Hey, Crow, old pal, do me a favor and fill this for me,” he said, handing her his flask as they left through the door. “I’ll go on the wagon starting tomorrow. Promise.”

Angela left the room, too, concerned over Crow’s trance-like state. Turtle followed Angela to make sure she didn’t end up in the fireworks room again. The judge remained seated, watching the remaining heirs, who were watching Otis Amber. The delivery boy had had enough of their suspicions; he swept a pointed finger across their range, imitating the sound of a machine gun: “Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.”

Crow and Angela came back with two large trays; Turtle returned empty-handed, puzzled but much relieved.

The judge joined Denton Deere and Chris at table three, bringing a plate of small cakes with her. “None of the heirs have had plastic surgery as far as I can tell,” the intern remarked. “But your partner sure could have used some.”

The judge studied Sandy McSouthers’ prizefighter’s face as he leaned against the open doorway. Their eyes met and he lifted his flask in salute. “Anybody want a drink?”

“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.

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:

“What!” Sydelle Pulaski cried.

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.”