THE WESTING GAME

by Ellen Raskin

*

(1978)

1 ♦ Sunset Towers

The sun sets in the west (just about everyone knows that), but

Sunset Towers faced east. Strange!

Sunset Towers faced east and had no towers. This glittery,

glassy apartment house stood alone on the Lake Michigan

shore five stories high. Five empty stories high.

Then one day (it happened to be the Fourth of July), a

most uncommon-looking delivery boy rode around town

slipping letters under the doors of the chosen tenants-to-be.

The letters were signed Barney Northrup.

The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was

no such person as Barney Northrup.

Dear Lucky One:

Here it is—the apartment you’ve always dreamed of, at a

rent you can afford, in the newest, most luxurious building on

Lake Michigan:

SUNSET TOWERS

- Picture windows in every room

- Uniformed doorman, maid service

- Central air conditioning, hi-speed elevator

- Exclusive neighborhood, near excellent schools

- Etc., etc.

You have to see it to believe it. But these unbelievably

elegant apartments will be shown by appointment only. So

hurry, there are only a few left!!! Call me now at 276-7474 for

this once-in-a-lifetime offer.

Your servant,

Barney Northrup

P. S. I am also renting ideal space for:

- Doctor’s office in lobby

- Coffee shop with entrance from parking lot

- Hi-class restaurant on entire top floor

Six letters were delivered, just six. Six appointments were

made, and one by one, family by family, talk, talk, talk,

Barney Northrup led the tours around and about Sunset

Towers.

“Take a look at all that glass. One-way glass,” Barney

Northrup said. “You can see out, nobody can see in.”

Looking up, the Wexlers (the first appointment of the day)

were blinded by the blast of morning sun that flashed off the

face of the building.

“See those chandeliers? Crystal!” Barney Northrup said,

slicking his black moustache and straightening his hand-

painted tie in the lobby’s mirrored wall. “How about this

carpeting? Three inches thick!”

“Gorgeous,” Mrs. Wexler replied, clutching her husband’s

arm as her high heels wobbled in the deep plush pile. She, too,

managed an approving glance in the mirror before the elevator

door opened.

“You’re really in luck,” Barney Northrup said. “There’s

only one apartment left, but you’ll love it. It was meant for

you.” He flung open the door to 3D. “Now, is that

breathtaking, or is that breathtaking?”

Mrs. Wexler gasped; it was breathtaking, all right. Two

walls of the living room were floor-to-ceiling glass. Following

Barney Northrup’s lead, she ooh-ed and aah-ed her joyous

way through the entire apartment.

Her trailing husband was less enthusiastic. “What’s this, a

bedroom or a closet?” Jake Wexler asked, peering into the last

room.

“It’s a bedroom, of course,” his wife replied.

“It looks like a closet.”

“Oh, Jake, this apartment is perfect for us, just perfect,”

Grace Wexler argued in a whining coo. The third bedroom was

a trifle small, but it would do just fine for Turtle. “And think

what it means having your office in the lobby, Jake; no more

driving to and from work, no more mowing the lawn or

shoveling snow.”

“Let me remind you,” Barney Northrup said, “the rent

here is cheaper than what your old house costs in upkeep.”

How would he know that, Jake wondered.

Grace stood before the front window where, beyond the

road, beyond the trees, Lake Michigan lay calm and

glistening. A lake view! Just wait until those so-called friends

of hers with their classy houses see this place. The furniture

would have to be reupholstered; no, she’d buy new furniture—

beige velvet. And she’d have stationery made—blue with a

deckle edge, her name and fancy address in swirling type

across the top: Grace Windsor Wexler, Sunset Towers on the

Lake Shore.

Not every tenant-to-be was quite as overjoyed as Grace

Windsor Wexler. Arriving in the late afternoon, Sydelle

Pulaski looked up and saw only the dim, warped reflections of

treetops and drifting clouds in the glass face of Sunset Towers.

“You’re really in luck,” Barney Northrup said for the sixth

and last time. “There’s only one apartment left, but you’ll love

it. It was meant for you.” He flung open the door to a one-

bedroom apartment in the rear. “Now, is that breathtaking or is

that breathtaking?”

“Not especially,” Sydelle Pulaski replied as she blinked

into the rays of the summer sun setting behind the parking lot.

She had waited all these years for a place of her own, and here

it was, in an elegant building where rich people lived. But she

wanted a lake view.

“The front apartments are taken,” Barney Northrup said.

“Besides, the rent’s too steep for a secretary’s salary. Believe

me, you get the same luxuries here at a third of the price.”

At least the view from the side window was pleasant.

“Are you sure nobody can see in?” Sydelle Pulaski asked.

“Absolutely,” Barney Northrup said, following her

suspicious stare to the mansion on the north cliff. “That’s just

the old Westing house up there; it hasn’t been lived in for

fifteen years.”

“Well, I’ll have to think it over.”

“I have twenty people begging for this apartment,”

Barney Northrup said, lying through his buckteeth. “Take it or

leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Whoever, whatever else he was, Barney Northrup was a

good salesman. In one day he had rented all of Sunset Towers

to the people whose names were already printed on the

mailboxes in an alcove off the lobby:

Office ♦

Dr. Wexler

Lobby ♦

Theodorakis Coffee Shop

2C

♦

F. Baumbach

2D

♦

Theodorakis

3C

♦

S. Pulaski

3D

♦

Wexler

4C

♦

Hoo

4D

♦

J. J. Ford

5

♦

Shin Hoo’s Restaurant

Who were these people, these specially selected tenants? They

were mothers and fathers and children. A dressmaker, a

secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was

a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a

mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to

the wrong person.

2 ♦ Ghosts or Worse

On September first the chosen ones (and the mistake) moved

in. A wire fence had been erected along the north side of the

building; on it a sign warned:

NO TRESPASSING— Property of the Westing estate.

The newly paved driveway curved sharply and doubled back

on itself rather than breach the city-county line. Sunset Towers

stood at the far edge of town.

On September second Shin Hoo’s Restaurant, specializing

in authentic Chinese cuisine, held its grand opening. Only

three people came. It was, indeed, an exclusive neighborhood;

too exclusive for Mr. Hoo. However, the less expensive coffee

shop that opened on the parking lot was kept busy serving

breakfast, lunch, and dinner to tenants “ordering up” and to

workers from nearby Westingtown.

Sunset Towers was a quiet, well-run building, and (except

for the grumbling Mr. Hoo) the people who lived there seemed

content. Neighbor greeted neighbor with “Good morning” or

“Good evening” or a friendly smile, and grappled with small

problems behind closed doors.

The big problems were yet to come.

Now it was the end of October. A cold, raw wind whipped

dead leaves about the ankles of the four people grouped in the

Sunset Towers driveway, but not one of them shivered. Not

yet.

The stocky, broad-shouldered man in the doorman’s

uniform, standing with feet spread, fists on hips, was Sandy

McSouthers. The two slim, trim high-school seniors, shielding

their eyes against the stinging chill, were Theo Theodorakis

and Doug Hoo. The small, wiry man pointing to the house on

the hill was Otis Amber, the sixty-two-year-old delivery boy.

They faced north, gaping like statues cast in the moment

of discovery, until Turtle Wexler, her kite tail of a braid flying

behind her, raced her bicycle into the driveway. “Look! Look,

there’s smoke—there’s smoke coming from the chimney of

the Westing house.”

The others had seen it. What did she think they were

looking at anyway?

Turtle leaned on the handlebars, panting for breath.

(Sunset Towers was near excellent schools, as Barney

Northrup had promised, but the junior high was four miles

away.) “Do you think—do you think old man Westing’s up

there?”

“Naw,” Otis Amber, the old delivery boy, answered.

“Nobody’s seen him for years. Supposed to be living on a

private island in the South Seas, he is; but most folks say he’s

dead. Long-gone dead. They say his corpse is still up there in

that big old house. They say his body is sprawled out on a

fancy Oriental rug, and his flesh is rotting off those mean

bones, and maggots are creeping in his eye sockets and

crawling out his nose holes.” The delivery boy added a high-

pitched he-he-he to the gruesome details.

Now someone shivered. It was Turtle.

“Serves him right,” Sandy said. At other times a cheery

fellow, the doorman often complained bitterly about having

been fired from his job of twenty years in the Westing paper

mill. “But somebody must be up there. Somebody alive, that

is.” He pushed back the gold-braided cap and squinted at the

house through, his steel-framed glasses as if expecting the

curling smoke to write the answer in the autumn air. “Maybe

it’s those kids again. No, it couldn’t be.”

“What kids?” the three kids wanted to know.

“Why, those two unfortunate fellas from Westingtown.”

“What unfortunate fellas?” The three heads twisted from

the doorman to the delivery boy. Doug Hoo ducked Turtle’s

whizzing braid. Touch her precious pigtail, even by accident,

and she’ll kick you in the shins, the brat. He couldn’t chance

an injury to his legs, not with the big meet coming. The track

star began to jog in place.

“Horrible, it was horrible,” Otis Amber said with a

shudder that sent the loose straps of his leather aviator’s

helmet swinging about his long, thin face. “Come to think of

it, it happened exactly one year ago tonight. On Halloween.”

“What happened?” Theo Theodorakis asked impatiently.

He was late for work in the coffee shop.

“Tell them, Otis,” Sandy urged.

The delivery boy stroked the gray stubble on his pointed

chin. “Seems it all started with a bet; somebody bet them a

dollar they couldn’t stay in that spooky house five minutes.

One measly buck! The poor kids hardly got through those

French doors on this side of the Westing house when they

came tearing out like they was being chased by a ghost.

Chased by a ghost—or worse.”

Or worse? Turtle forgot her throbbing toothache. Theo

Theodorakis and Doug Hoo, older and more worldly-wise,

exchanged winks but stayed to hear the rest of the story.

“One fella ran out crazy-like, screaming his head off. He

never stopped screaming ’til he hit the rocks at the bottom of

the cliff. The other fella hasn’t said but two words since.

Something about purple.”

Sandy helped him out. “Purple waves.”

Otis Amber nodded sadly. “Yep, that poor fella just sits in

the state asylum saying, ‘Purple waves, purple waves’ over

and over again, and his scared eyes keep staring at his hands.

You see, when he came running out of the Westing house, his

hands was dripping with warm, red blood.”

Now all three shivered.

“Poor kid,” the doorman said. “All that pain and suffering

for a dollar bet.”

“Make it two dollars for each minute I stay in there, and

you’re on,” Turtle said.

Someone was spying on the group in the driveway.

From the front window of apartment 2D, fifteen-year-old

Chris Theodorakis watched his brother Theo shake hands (it

must be a bet) with the skinny, one-pigtailed girl and rush into

the lobby. The family coffee shop would be busy now; his

brother should have been working the counter half an hour

ago. Chris checked the wall clock. Two more hours before

Theo would bring up his dinner. Then he would tell him about

the limper.

Earlier that afternoon Chris had followed the flight of a

purple martin (Progne subis) across the field of brambles,

through the oaks, up to the red maple on the hill. The bird flew

off, but something else caught his eye. Someone (he could not

tell if the person was a man or a woman) came out of the

shadows on the lawn, unlocked the French doors, and

disappeared into the Westing house. Someone with a limp.

Minutes later smoke began to rise from the chimney.

Once again Chris turned toward the side window and

scanned the house on the cliff. The French doors were closed;

heavy drapes hung full against the seventeen windows he had

counted so many times.

They didn’t need drapes on the special glass windows

here in Sunset Towers. He could see out, but nobody could see

in. Then why did he sometimes feel that someone was

watching him? Who could be watching him? God? If God was

watching, then why was he like this?

The binoculars fell to the boy’s lap. His head jerked, his

body coiled, lashed by violent spasms. Relax, Theo will come

soon. Relax, soon the geese will be flying south in a V. Canada

goose (Branta canadensis). Relax. Relax and watch the wind

tangle the smoke and blow it toward Westingtown.

3 ♦ Tenants In and Out

Upstairs in 3D Angela Wexler stood on a hassock as still and

blank-faced pretty as a store-window dummy. Her pale blue

eyes stared unblinkingly at the lake.

“Turn, dear,” said Flora Baumbach, the dressmaker, who

lived and worked in a smaller apartment on the second floor.

Angela pivoted in a slow quarter turn. “Oh!”

Startled by the small cry, Flora Baumbach dropped the pin

from her pudgy fingers and almost swallowed the three in her

mouth.

“Please be careful, Mrs. Baumbach; my Angela has very

delicate skin.” Grace Windsor Wexler was supervising the

fitting of her daughter’s wedding dress from the beige velvet

couch. Above her hung the two-dozen framed flower prints

she had selected and arranged with the greatest of taste and

care. She could have been an interior decorator, a good one,

too, if it wasn’t for the pressing demands of so on and so forth.

“Mrs. Baumbach didn’t prick me, mother,” Angela said

evenly. “I was just surprised to see smoke coming from the

Westing house chimney.”

Crawling with slow caution on her hands and knees, Flora

Baumbach paused in the search for the dropped pin to peer up

through her straight gray bangs.

Mrs. Wexler set her coffee cup on the driftwood coffee

table and craned her neck for a better view. “We must have

new neighbors; I’ll have to drive up there with a

housewarming gift; they may need some decorating advice.”

“Hey, look! There’s smoke coming from the Westing

house!” Again Turtle was late with the news.

“Oh, it’s you.” Mrs. Wexler always seemed surprised to

see her other daughter, so unlike golden-haired, angel-faced

Angela.

Flora Baumbach, about to rise with the found pin, quickly

sank down again to protect her sore shin in the shag carpeting.

She had pulled Turtle’s braid in the lobby yesterday.

“Otis Amber says that old man Westing’s stinking corpse

is rotting on an Oriental rug.”

“My, oh my,” Flora Baumbach exclaimed, and Mrs.

Wexler clicked her tongue in an irritated “tsk.”

Turtle decided not to go on with the horror story. Not that

her mother cared if she got killed or ended up a raving lunatic.

“Mrs. Baumbach, could you hem my witch’s costume? I need

it for tonight.”

Mrs. Wexler answered. “Can’t you see she’s busy with

Angela’s wedding dress? And why must you wear a silly

costume like that? Really, Turtle, I don’t know why you insist

on making yourself ugly.”

“It’s no sillier than a wedding dress,” Turtle snapped

back. “Besides, nobody gets married anymore, and if they do,

they don’t wear silly wedding dresses.” She was close to a

tantrum. “Besides, who would want to marry that stuck-up-

know-it-all-marshmallow-face-doctor-denton…?”

“That’s enough of your smart mouth!” Mrs. Wexler

leaped up, hand ready to strike; instead she straightened a

framed flower print, patted her fashionable honey-blonde

hairdo, and sat down again. She had never hit Turtle, but one

of these days—besides, a stranger was present. “Doctor Deere

is a brilliant young man,” she explained for Flora Baumbach’s

ears. The dressmaker smiled politely. “Angela will soon be

Angela Deere; isn’t that a precious name?” The dressmaker

nodded. “And then we’ll have two doctors in the family. Now

where do you think you’re going?”

Turtle was at the front door. “Downstairs to tell daddy

about the smoke coming from the Westing house.”

“Come back this instant. You know your father operates

in the afternoon; why don’t you go to your room and work on

stock market reports or whatever you do in there.”

“Some room, it’s even too small for a closet.”

“I’ll hem your witch’s costume, Turtle,” Angela offered.

Mrs. Wexler beamed on her perfect child draped in white.

“What an angel.”

Crow’s clothes were black; her skin, dead white. She looked

severe. Rigid, in fact. Rigid and righteously severe. No one

could have guessed that under that stern facade her stomach

was doing flip-flops as Doctor Wexler cut out a corn.

Staring down at the fine lines of pink scalp that showed

through the podiatrist’s thinning light brown hair did nothing

to ease her queasiness; so, softly humming a hymn, she settled

her gaze on the north window. “Smoke!”

“Watch it!” Jake Wexler almost cut off her little toe along

with the corn.

Unaware of the near amputation, the cleaning woman

stared at the Westing house.

“If you will just sit back,” Jake began, but his patient did

not hear him. She must have been a handsome woman at one

time, but life had used her harshly. Her faded hair, knotted in a

tight bun on the nape of her gaunt neck, glinted gold-red in the

light. Her profile was fine, marred only by the jut of her

clenched jaw. Well, let’s get on with it, Friday was his busy

day, he had phone calls to make. “Please sit back, Mrs. Crow.

I’m almost finished.”

“What?”

Jake gently replaced her foot on the chair’s pedestal. “I

see you’ve hurt your shin.”

“What?” For an instant their eyes met; then she looked

away. A shy creature (or a guilty one), Crow averted her face

when she spoke. “Your daughter Turtle kicked me,” she

muttered, staring once again at the Westing house. “That’s

what happens when there is no religion in the home. Sandy

says Westing’s corpse is up there, rotting away on an Oriental

rug, but I don’t believe it. If he’s truly dead, then he’s roasting

in hell. We are sinners, all.”

“What do you mean his corpse is rotting on an Oriental rug,

some kind of Persian rug, maybe a Chinese rug.” Mr. Hoo

joined his son at the glass sidewall of the fifth floor restaurant.

“And why were you wasting precious time listening to an

overaged delivery boy with an overactive imagination when

you should have been studying.” It was not a question; Doug’s

father never asked questions. “Don’t shrug at me, go study.”

“Sure, dad.” Doug jogged off through the kitchen; it was

no use arguing that there was no school tomorrow, just track

practice. He jogged down the back stairs; no matter what

excuse he gave, “Go study,” his father would say, “go study.”

He jogged into the Hoos’ rear apartment, stretched out on the

bare floor and repeated “Go study” to twenty sit-ups.

Only two customers were expected for the dinner hour

(Shin Hoo’s Restaurant could seat one hundred). Mr. Hoo

slammed the reservations book shut, pressed a hand against

the pain in his ample stomach, unwrapped a chocolate bar and

devoured it quickly before acid etched another ulcer. Back

home again, is he. Well, Westing won’t get off so easy this

time, not on his life.

A small, delicate woman in a long white apron stood in

silence before the restaurant’s east window. She stared

longingly into the boundless gray distance as if far, far on the

other side of Lake Michigan lay China.

Sandy McSouthers saluted as the maroon Mercedes swung

around the curved driveway and came to a stop at the

entrance. He opened the car door with a ceremony reserved

only for Judge J. J. Ford. “Look up there, judge. There’s

smoke coming from the Westing house.”

A tall black woman in a tailored suit, her short-clipped

hair touched with gray, slipped out from behind the wheel,

handed the car keys to the doorman, and cast a disinterested

glance at the house on the hill.

“They say nobody’s up there, just the corpse of old man

Westing rotting away on an Oriental rug,” Sandy reported as

he hoisted a full briefcase from the trunk of the car. “Do you

believe in ghosts, judge?”

“There is certain to be a more rational explanation.”

“You’re right, of course, judge.” Sandy opened the heavy

glass door and followed on the judge’s heels through the

lobby. “I was just repeating what Otis Amber said.”

“Otis Amber is a stupid man, if not downright mad.” J. J.

Ford hurried into the elevator. She should not have said that,

not her, not the first black, the first woman, to have been

elected to a judgeship in the state. She was tired after a trying

day, that was it. Or was it? So Sam Westing has come home at

last. Well, she could sell the car, take out a bank loan, pay him

back—in cash. But would he take it? “Please don’t repeat

what I said about Otis Amber, Mr. McSouthers.”

“Don’t worry, judge.” The doorman escorted her to the

door of apartment 4D. “What you tell me is strictly

confidential.” And it was. J. J. Ford was the biggest tipper in

Sunset Towers.

“I saw someb-b-b…” Chris Theodorakis was too excited to

stutter out the news to his brother. One arm shot out and

twisted up over his head. Dumb arm.

Theo squatted next to the wheelchair. “Listen, Chris, I’ll

tell you about that haunted castle on the hill.” His voice was

soothing and hushed in mystery. “Somebody is up there,

Chris, but nobody is there, just rich Mr. Westing, and he’s

dead. Dead as a squashed June bug and rotting away on a

moth-eaten Oriental rug.”

Chris relaxed as he always did when his brother told him

a story. Theo was good at making up stories.

“And the worms are crawling in and out of the dead

man’s skull, in and out of his ear holes, his nose holes, his

mouth holes, in and out of all his holes.”

Chris laughed, then quickly composed his face. He was

supposed to look scared.

Theo leaned closer. “And high above the putrid corpse a

crystal chandelier is tinkling. It tinkles and twinkles, but not

one breath of air stirs in that gloomy tomb of a room.”

Gloomy tomb of a room—Theo will make a good writer

someday, Chris thought. He wouldn’t spoil this wonderful,

spooky Halloween story by telling him about the real person

up there, the one with the limp.

So Chris sat quietly, his body at ease, and heard about

ghosts and ghouls and purple waves, and smiled at his brother

with pure delight.

“A smile that could break your heart,” Sydelle Pulaski,

the tenant in 3C, always said. But no one paid any attention to

Sydelle Pulaski.

Sydelle Pulaski struggled out of the taxi, large end first. She

was not a heavy woman, just wide-hipped from years of

secretarial sitting. If only there was a ladylike way to get out

of a cab. Her green rhinestone-studded glasses slipped down

her fleshy nose as she grappled with a tall triangular package

and a stuffed shopping bag. If only that lazy driver would lend

her a hand.

Not for a nickel tip, he wouldn’t. The cabbie slammed the

back door and sped around the curved driveway, narrowly

missing the Mercedes that Sandy was driving to the parking

lot.

At least the never-there-when-you-need-him doorman had

propped open the front door. Not that he ever helped her, or

noticed her, for that matter.

No one ever noticed. Sydelle Pulaski limped through the

lobby. She could be carrying a high-powered rifle in that

package and no one would notice. She had moved to Sunset

Towers hoping to meet elegant people, but no one had invited

her in for so much as a cup of tea. No one paid any attention to

her, except that poor crippled boy whose smile could break

your heart, and that bratty kid with the braid—she’ll be sorry

she kicked her in the shin.

Juggling her load, earrings jingling and charm bracelet

jangling, Sydelle Pulaski unlocked the several locks to

apartment 3C and bolted the door behind her. There’d be

fewer burglaries around here if people listened to her about

putting in dead-bolt locks. But nobody listened. Nobody cared.

On the plastic-covered dining table she set out the

contents of the shopping bag: six cans of enamel, paint

thinner, and brushes. She unwrapped the long package and

leaned four wooden crutches against the wall. The sun was

setting over the parking lot, but Sydelle Pulaski did not look

out her back window. From the side window smoke could be

seen rising from the Westing house, but Sydelle Pulaski did

not notice.

“No one ever notices Sydelle Pulaski,” she muttered, “but

now they will. Now they will.”

4 ♦ The Corpse Found

The Halloween moon was full. Except for her receding chin

Turtle Wexler looked every inch the witch, her dark unbraided

hair streaming wild in the wind from under her peaked hat, a

putty wart pasted on her small beaked nose. If only she could

fly to the Westing house on a broomstick instead of

scrambling over rocks on all fours, what with all she had to

carry. Under the long black cape the pockets of her jeans

bulged with necessities for the night’s dangerous vigil.

Doug Hoo had already reached the top of the cliff and

taken his station behind the maple on the lawn. (The track star

was chosen timekeeper because he could run faster than

anyone in the state of Wisconsin.) Here she comes, it’s about

time. Shivering knee-deep in damp leaves that couldn’t do his

leg muscles much good, he readied his thumb on the button of

the stopwatch.

Turtle squinted into the blackness that lay within the open

French doors. Open, as though someone or some Thing was

expecting her. There’s no such thing as a ghost; besides, all

you had to do was speak friendly-like to them. (Ghosts, like

dogs, know when a person’s scared.) Ghosts or worse, Otis

Amber had said. Well, not even the “worse” could hurt Turtle

Wexler. She was pure of heart and deed; she only kicked shins

in self-defense, so that couldn’t count against her. She wasn’t

scared; she was not scared.

“Hurry up!” That was Doug from behind the tree.

At two dollars a minute, twenty-five minutes would pay

for a subscription to The Wall Street Journal. She could stay

all night. She was prepared. Turtle checked her pockets: two

sandwiches, Sandy’s flask filled with orange pop, a flashlight,

her mother’s silver cross to ward off vampires. The putty wart

on her nose (soaked in Angela’s perfume in the event she was

locked up with the stinking corpse) was clogging her nostrils

with sticky sweetness. Turtle took a deep breath of chill night

air and flinched with pain. She was afraid of dentists, not

ghosts or…don’t think about purple waves, think about two

dollars a minute. Now, one—two—three—three and a half—

GO!

Doug checked his stopwatch. Nine minutes.

Ten minutes.

Eleven minutes.

Suddenly a terrified scream—a young girl’s scream—

pierced the night. Should he go in, or was this one of the brat’s

tricks? Another scream, closer.

“E-E-E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!” Clutching the bunched cape

around her waist, Turtle came hurtling out of the Westing

house. “E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”

Turtle had seen the corpse in the Westing house, but it was not

rotting and it was not sprawled on an Oriental rug. The dead

man was tucked in a four-poster bed.

A throbbing whisper, “Pur-ple, pur-ple” (or was it “Tur-

tle, Tur-tle”—whatever it was, it was scary), had beckoned her

to the master bedroom on the second floor, and…

Maybe it was a dream. No, it couldn’t be; she ached all

over from the tumble down the stairs.

The moon was down, the window dark. Turtle lay in the

narrow bed in her narrow room, waiting (dark, still dark),

waiting. At last slow morning crept up the cliff and raised the

Westing house, the house of whispers, the house of death. Two

dollars times twelve minutes equals twenty-four dollars.

Thud! The morning newspaper was flung against the front

door. Turtle tiptoed through the sleeping apartment to retrieve

it and climbed back into bed, the dead man staring at her from

the front page. The face was younger; the short beard, darker;

but it was he, all right.

SAM WESTING FOUND DEAD

Found? No one else knew about the bedded-down corpse

except Doug, and he had not believed her. Then who found the

body? The whisperer?

Samuel W. Westing, the mysterious

industrialist who disappeared thirteen years

ago, was found dead in his Westingtown

mansion last night. He was sixty-five years

old.

The only child of immigrant parents,

orphaned at the age of twelve, self-educated,

hard-working Samuel Westing saved his

laborer’s wages and bought a small paper

mill. From these meager beginnings he built

the giant Westing Paper Products

Corporation and founded the city of

Westingtown to house his thousands of

workers and their families. His estate is

estimated to be worth over two hundred

million dollars.

Turtle read that again: two hundred million dollars. Wow!

When asked the secret of his success, the

industrialist always replied: “Clean living,

hard work, and fair play.” Westing set his

own example; he neither drank nor smoked

and never gambled. Yet he was a dedicated

gamesman and a master at chess.

Turtle had been in the game room. That’s where she picked up

the billiard cue she had carried up the stairs as a weapon.

A great patriot, Samuel Westing was

famous for his fun-filled Fourth of July

celebrations. Whether disguised as Ben

Franklin or a lowly drummer boy, he always

acted a role in the elaborately staged

pageants which he wrote and directed.

Perhaps best remembered was his surprise

portrayal of Betsy Ross.

Games and feasting followed the

pageant, and at sunset Mr. Westing put on

his Uncle Sam costume and set off

fireworks from his front lawn. The

spectacular pyrotechnic display could be

viewed thirty miles away.

Fireworks! So that’s what was in those boxes stamped

Danger—explosives stacked in the ground floor storeroom.

What a “pyrotechnic display” that would make if they all went

off at the same time.

The paper king’s later years were marred

by tragedy. His only daughter, Violet,

drowned on the eve of her wedding, and two

years later his troubled wife deserted their

home. Although Mr. Westing obtained a

divorce, he never remarried.

Five years later he was sued by an

inventor over rights to the disposable paper

diaper. On his way to court Samuel Westing

and his friend, Dr. Sidney Sikes, were

involved in a near-fatal automobile accident.

Both men were hospitalized with severe

injuries. Sikes resumed his Westingtown

medical practice and the post of county

coroner, but Westing disappeared from

sight.

It was rumored, but never confirmed,

that he controlled the vast Westing Paper

Products Corporation from a private island

in the South Seas. He is still listed as

chairman of the board.

“We are surprised as you are, and deeply

saddened,” a spokesman for Julian R.

Eastman, President and Chief Executive

Officer of the corporation, stated when

informed that Westing’s body was found in

his lakeside home. Dr. Sikes’ response was:

“A tragic end to a tragic life. Sam Westing

was a truly great and important man.”

The funeral will be private. The executor

of the Westing estate said the deceased

requested that, in place of flowers,

donations be sent to Blind Bowlers of

America.

Turtle turned the page of the newspaper, but that was all. That

was all?

There was no mention of how the body was found.

There was no mention of the envelope propped on the

bedside table on which a shaky hand had scrawled: If I am

found dead in bed. She had been edging her way against the

four-poster, reading the words in the beam of the flashlight,

when she felt the hand, the waxy dead hand that lay on the red,

white, and blue quilt. Through her scream she had seen the

white-bearded face. She remembered running, tripping over

the billiard cue, falling down the stairs, denting Sandy’s flask

and dropping everything else.

There was no mention of two suspicious peanut butter and

jelly sandwiches on the premises, or a flashlight, or a silver

cross on a chain.

There was no mention of prowlers; no mention of anyone

having seen a witch; no mention of footprints on the lawn:

track shoes and sneakers size six.

Oh well, she had nothing to fear (other than losing her

mother’s cross). Old Mr. Westing probably died of a heart

attack—or pneumonia—it was drafty in there. Turtle hid the

folded newspaper in her desk drawer, counted her black-and-

blue marks (seven), dressed, and set out to find the four people

who knew she had been in the Westing house last night: Doug

Hoo, Theo Theodorakis, Otis Amber, and Sandy. They owed

her twenty-four dollars.

At noon the sixty-two-year-old delivery boy began his rounds.

He had sixteen letters to deliver from E. J. Plum, Attorney-at-

Law. Otis Amber knew what the letters said, because one was

addressed to him:

As a named beneficiary in the

estate of Samuel W. Westing, your

attendance is required in the south

library of the Westing house

tomorrow at 4 P.M. for the reading

of the will.

“Means old man Westing left you some money,” he explained.

“Just sign this receipt here. What do you mean, what does

‘position’ mean? It means position, like a job. Most receipts

have that to make sure the right person gets the right letter.”

Grace Windsor Wexler wrote housewife, crossed it out,

wrote decorator, crossed it out, and wrote heiress. Then she

wanted to know “Who else? How many? How much?”

“I ain’t allowed to say nothing.”

The other heirs were too stunned by the unexpected

legacy to bother him with questions. Madame Hoo marked an

X and her husband filled in her name and position. Theo

wanted to sign the receipt for his brother, but Chris insisted on

doing it himself. Slowly, taking great pains, he wrote Christos

Theodorakis, bird-watcher.

By the time the sun had set behind the Sunset Towers

parking lot, Otis Amber, deliverer, had completed his rounds.

5 ♦ Sixteen Heirs

The marbled sky lay heavy on the gray Great Lake when

Grace Windsor Wexler parked her car in the Westing driveway

and strode up the walk ahead of her daughters. Her husband

had refused to come, but no matter. Recalling family gossip

about a rich uncle (maybe it was a great-uncle—anyway, his

name was Sam) Grace had convinced herself that she was the

rightful heir. (Jake was Jewish, so he could not possibly be

related to Sam Westing.)

“I can’t imagine what became of my silver cross,” she

said, fingering the gold-link necklace under her mink stole as

she paused to appraise the big house. “You know, Angela, we

could have the wedding right here.…Turtle, where are you

wandering off to now?”

“The letter said— Never mind.” Turtle preferred not to

explain how she knew the library could be entered from the

French doors on the lawn.

The front door was opened by Crow. Although the Sunset

Towers cleaning woman always wore black, here it reminded

Grace Wexler to dab at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. This

was a house of mourning.

The silent Crow helped Angela with her coat and nodded

approval of her blue velvet dress with white collar and cuffs.

“I’ll keep my furs with me,” Grace said. She did not want

to be taken for one of the poor relatives. “Seems rather chilly

in here.”

Turtle, too, complained of the chill, but her mother tugged

off her coat to reveal a fluffy, ruffly pink party dress two sizes

too large and four inches too long. It was one of Angela’s

hand-me-downs.

“Please sit anywhere,” the lawyer said without glancing

from the envelopes he was sorting at the head of the long

library table.

Mrs. Wexler took the chair to his right and motioned to

her favorite. Angela sat down next to her mother, removed a

trousseau towel from her large tapestry shoulder bag, and took

up embroidering the monogram D. Slumped in the third chair

Turtle pretended she had never seen this paneled library with

its bare and dusty shelves. Suddenly she sat up with a start. An

open coffin draped in bunting rested on a raised platform at

the far corner of the room; in it lay the dead man, looking

exactly as she had found him, except now he was dressed in

the costume of Uncle Sam—including the tall hat. Between

the waxy hands, folded across his chest, lay her mother’s

silver cross.

Grace Wexler was too busy greeting the next heir to

notice. “Why Doctor D., I had no idea you’d be here; but of

course, you’ll soon be a member of the family. Come, sit next

to your bride-to-be; Turtle, you’ll have to move down.”

D. Denton Deere, always in a hurry, brushed a quick kiss

on Angela’s cheek. He was still wearing his hospital whites.

“I didn’t know this was a pajama party,” Turtle said,

relinquishing her chair and stomping to the far end of the

table.

The next heir, short and round, entered timidly, her lips

pressed together in an impish smile that curved up to what

must be pointed ears under her straight-cut, steely hair.

“Hello, Mrs. Baumbach,” Angela said. “I don’t think

you’ve met my fiancé, Denton Deere.”

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Deere.”

“Doctor Deere,” Mrs. Wexler corrected her, puzzled by

the dressmaker’s presence.

“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry.” Sensing that she was

unwelcome at this end of the room, Flora Baumbach walked

on. “Hi, mind if I sit next to you? I promise not to pull your

braid.”

“That’s okay.” Turtle was hunched over the table, her

small chin resting between her crossed arms. From there she

could see everything except the coffin.

Grace Wexler dismissed the next heir with an audible

tongue click. That distasteful little man didn’t even have the

sense to remove his silly aviator’s cap. “Tsk.” And what in

heaven’s name was he doing here?

The delivery boy shouted: “Let’s give a cheer, Otis Amber

is here!” Turtle laughed, Flora Baumbach tittered, and Grace

Wexler again clicked her tongue, “Tsk!”

Doug Hoo and his father entered silently, but Sandy gave

a hearty “Hi!” and a cheery wave. He wore his doorman’s

uniform, but unlike Otis Amber, carried his hat in his hand.

Grace Windsor Wexler was no longer surprised at the odd

assortment of heirs. Household workers, all, or former

employees, she decided. The rich always reward servants in

their wills, and her Uncle Sam was a generous man. “Aren’t

your parents coming?” she asked the older Theodorakis boy as

he wheeled his brother into the library.

“They weren’t invited,” Theo replied.

“Itsss-oo-nn,” Chris announced.

“What did he say?”

“He said it’s snowing,” Theo and Flora Baumbach

explained at the same time.

The heirs watched helplessly as the invalid’s thin frame

was suddenly torn and twisted by convulsions. Only the

dressmaker rushed to his side. “I know, I know,” she simpered,

“you were trying to tell us about the itsy-bitsy snowflings.”

Theo moved her away. “My brother is not an infant, and

he’s not retarded, so please, no more baby talk.”

Blinking away tears, Flora Baumbach returned to her seat,

the elfin smile still painted on her pained face.

Some stared at the afflicted child with morbid fascination,

but most turned away. They didn’t want to see.

“Pyramidal tract involvement,” Denton Deere whispered,

trying to impress Angela with his diagnosis.

Angela, her face a mirror to the boy’s suffering, grabbed

her tapestry bag and hurried out of the room.

“Why hello, Judge Ford.” Proud of her liberalism, Grace

Windsor Wexler stood and leaned over the table to shake the

black woman’s hand. She must be here in some legal capacity,

or maybe her mother was a household maid, but of one thing

Grace was certain: J. J. Ford could no more be related to

Samuel W. Westing than Mr. Hoo.

“Can’t we get started?” Mr. Hoo asked, hoping to get

back in time to watch the football game on television. “I must

return to my restaurant,” he announced loudly. “Sunday is our

busy day, but we are still accepting reservations. Shin Hoo’s

Restaurant on the fifth floor of Sunset Towers, specializing

in…”

Doug tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Not here, dad; not in

front of the dead.”

“What dead?” Mr. Hoo had not noticed the open coffin.

Now he did. “Ohhh!”

The lawyer explained that several heirs had not yet

arrived. “My wife is not coming,” said Mr. Hoo. Grace said,

“Dr. Wexler was called away on an emergency operation.”

“An emergency Packers game in Green Bay,” Turtle

confided to Flora Baumbach, who scrunched up her shoulders

and tittered behind a plump hand.

“Then we are still waiting for one, no, two more,” the

lawyer said, fumbling with his papers, his hands shaking under

the strict scrutiny of the judge.

Judge Ford had recognized E. J. Plum. Several months

ago he had argued before her court, bumbling to the point of

incompetence. Why, she wondered, was a young,

inexperienced attorney chosen to handle an estate of such

importance? Come to think of it, what was she doing here?

Curiosity? Perhaps, but what about the rest of them, the other

tenants of Sunset Towers? Don’t anticipate, Josie-Jo, wait for

Sam Westing to make the first move.

Light footsteps were heard in the hall. It was only Angela,

who blushed and, hugging her tapestry bag close to her body,

returned to her seat.

The heirs waited. Some chatted with neighbors, some

looked up at the gilt ceiling, some studied the pattern of the

Oriental rug. Judge Ford stared at the table, at Theo

Theodorakis’ hand. A calloused hand, a healed cut, the shiny

slash of a burn on the deep bronze skin. She lowered her hands

to her lap. His Greek skin was darker than her “black” skin.

*

Thump, thump, thump. Someone was coming, or were there

two of them?

In came Crow. Eyes lowered, without a word, she sat

down next to Otis Amber. A dark cloud passed from her face

as she eased off a tight shoe under the table.

Thump, thump, thump. The last expected heir arrived.

“Hello, everybody. Sorry I’m late. I haven’t quite adjusted

to this”—Sydelle Pulaski waved a gaily painted crutch in the

air, tottered, and set it down quickly with another

thump—“this crutch. Crutch. What a horrible word, but I

guess I’ll have to get used to it.” She pursed her bright red

mouth, painted to a fullness beyond the narrow line of her lips,

trying to suppress a smile of triumph. Everyone was staring;

she knew they would notice.

“What happened, Pulaski?” Otis Amber asked. “Did you

pull Turtle’s braid again?”

“More likely she visited Wexler the foot butcher,” Sandy

suggested.

Sydelle was pleased to hear someone come to her defense

with a loud click of the tongue. She had not even blinked a

false eyelash at those offensive remarks (poise, they call it).

“It’s really nothing,” she reported bravely, “just some sort of

wasting disease. But pity me not, I shall live out my remaining

time enjoying each precious day to the full.” Thump, thump,

thump. The secretary kept to the side of the room, avoiding the

Oriental rug that might cushion the thump of her purple-

striped crutch, as she made her way to the end of the table. Her

exaggerated hips were even more exaggerated by the wavy

stripes of white on her purple dress.

Purple waves, Turtle thought.

Denton Deere almost fell off his chair, leaning back to

follow this most unusual case. First she favored her left leg,

then her right leg.

“What is it?” whispered Mrs. Wexler.

The intern did not have the least notion, but he had to say

something. “Traveling sporadic myositis,” he pronounced

quickly and glanced at Angela. Her eyes remained on her

embroidery.

The lawyer stood, documents in hand, and cleared his

throat several times. Grace Windsor Wexler, her chin tilted in

the regal pose of an heiress, gave him her full attention.

“One minute please.” Sydelle Pulaski propped her purple-

and-white-striped crutch against the table, then removed a

shorthand pad and pencil from her handbag. “Thank you for

waiting; you may begin.”

6 ♦ The Westing Will

“My name,” the young lawyer began, “is Edgar Jennings

Plum. Although I never had the honor of meeting Samuel W.

Westing, for some reason yet unexplained, I was appointed

executor of this will found adjacent to the body of the

deceased.

“Let me assure you that I have examined the documents at

hand as thoroughly as possible in the short time available. I

have verified the signatures to be those of Samuel W. Westing

and his two witnesses: Julian R. Eastman, President and Chief

Executive Officer of Westing Paper Products Corporation, and

Sidney Sikes, M.D., Coroner of Westing County. Although the

will you are about to hear may seem eccentric, I pledge my

good name and reputation on its legality.”

Breathless with suspense, the heirs stared popeyed at

Edgar Jennings Plum, who now coughed into his fist, now

cleared his throat, now rustled papers, and now, at last, began

to read aloud from the Westing will.

I, SAMUEL W. WESTING, resident of

Westing County in the fair state of

Wisconsin in the great and glorious United

States of America, being of sound mind and

memory, do hereby declare this to be my last

will and testament.

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.

Today I have gathered together my

nearest and dearest, my sixteen nieces and

nephews

“What!”

(Sit down, Grace Windsor Wexler!)

The lawyer stammered an apology to the still-standing

woman. “I was only reading; I mean, those are Mr. Westing’s

words.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, Mrs. Wexler,” Judge Ford

remarked with biting dignity, “I am just as appalled by our

purported relationship.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean…”

“Hey, Angela,” Turtle called the length of the table. “It’s

against the law to marry that doctor-to-be. He’s your cousin.”

D. Denton Deere, patting Angela’s hand in his best

bedside manner, pricked his finger on her embroidery needle.

“I can’t tell who said what with this chatter,” Sydelle

Pulaski complained. “Would you read that again, Mr.

Lawyer?”

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.

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!

“O-o-o-uggg.” Chris’s arm flailed the air, his accusing finger

pointed here, no there; it pointed everywhere. His exaggerated

motions acted out the confusion shared by all but one of the

heirs as they looked around at the stunned faces of their

neighbors to confirm what they heard. Rereading her notes,

Sydelle Pulaski now uttered a small shriek. “Eek!”

“Murder? Does that mean Westing was murdered?” Sandy

asked the heir on his left.

Crow turned away in silence.

“Does that mean murder?” he asked the heir on his right.

“Murder? Of course it means murder. Sam Westing was

murdered,” Mr. Hoo replied. “Either that or he ate once too

often in that greasy-spoon coffee shop.”

Theo resented Hoo’s slur on the family business. “It was

murder, all right. And the will says the murderer is one of us.”

He glared at the restaurant owner.

“Have the police been notified of the charge?” Judge Ford

asked the lawyer.

Plum shrugged. “I presume they will perform an autopsy.”

The judge shook her head in dismay. Autopsy? Westing

was already embalmed; tomorrow he would be cremated.

The police are helpless. The culprit is

far too cunning to be apprehended for this

dastardly deed.

“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach clapped a hand to her mouth on

hearing “dastardly.” First murder, now a swear word.

I, alone, know the name. Now it is up to

you. Cast out the sinner, let the guilty rise

and confess.

“Amen,” said Crow.

THIRD ♦ Who among you is worthy to be

the Westing heir? Help me. My soul shall

roam restlessly until that one is found.

The estate is at the crossroads. The heir

who wins the windfall will be the one who

finds the…

“Ashes!” the doorman shouted. Some tittered to relieve the

unbearable tension, some cast him a reproachful glance, Grace

Wexler clicked her tongue, and Sydelle Pulaski shhh-ed. “It

was just a joke,” Sandy tried to explain. “You know, ashes

scattered to the winds, so the one who wins the windfall

gets— Oh, never mind.”

FOURTH ♦ Hail to thee, O land of

opportunity! You have made me, the son of

poor immigrants, rich, powerful, and

respected.

So take stock in America, my heirs, and

sing in praise of this generous land. You,

too, may strike it rich who dares to play the

Westing game.

“Game? What game?” Turtle wanted to know.

“No matter,” Judge Ford said, rising to leave. “This is

either a cruel trick or the man was insane.

FIFTH ♦ Sit down, your honor, and read

the letter this brilliant young attorney will

now hand over to you.

It was uncanny. Several heads turned towards the coffin, but

Westing’s eyes were shut forever.

The brilliant young attorney fumbled through a stack of

papers, felt his pockets, and finally found the letter in his

briefcase.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Theo asked as the judge

resumed her seat and put the sealed envelope in her purse.

“No need. Sam Westing could afford to buy a dozen

certificates of sanity.”

“The poor are crazy, the rich just eccentric,” Mr. Hoo said

bitterly.

“Are you implying, sir, that the medical profession is

corrupt?” Denton Deere challenged.

“Shhh!”

SIXTH ♦ Before you proceed to the game

room there will be one minute of silent

prayer for your good old Uncle Sam.

Flora Baumbach was the only heir to cry. Crow was the only

one to pray. By the time Sydelle Pulaski could assume a pose

of reverence, the minute was up.

7 ♦ The Westing Game

Eight card tables, each with two chairs, were arranged in the

center of the game room. Sports equipment lined the walls.

Hunting rifles, Ping-Pong paddles, billiard cues (a full rack,

Turtle noticed), bows and arrows, darts, bats, racquets—all

looked like possible murder weapons to the jittery heirs who

were waiting to be told where to sit.

Theo wandered over to the chess table to admire the

finely carved pieces. Someone had moved a white pawn.

Okay, he’ll play along. Theo defended the opening with a

black knight.

On hearing Plum’s throat-clearing signal, Sydelle Pulaski

switched the painted crutch to her left armpit and flipped to a

fresh page in her notebook. “Shhh!”

SEVENTH ♦ And now, dear friends,

relatives, and enemies, the Westing game

begins.

The rules are simple:

- Number of players: 16, divided into 8

pairs.

- Each pair will receive $10,000.

- Each pair will receive one set of clues.

- Forfeits: If any player drops out, the

partner must leave the game. The pair must

return the money. Absent pairs forfeit the

$10,000; their clues will be held until the

next session.

- Players will be given two days’ notice

of the next session. Each pair may then give

one answer.

- Object of the game: to win.

“Did you hear that, Crow?” Otis Amber said excitedly. “Ten

thousand dollars! Now aren’t you glad I made you come,

huh?”

“Shhh!” That was Turtle. The object of the game was to

win, and she wanted to win.

EIGHTH ♦ The heirs will now be paired.

When called, go to the assigned table. Your

name and position will be read as signed on

the receipt.

It will be up to the other players to

discover who you really are.

1 ♦ MADAME SUN LIN HOO, cook

JAKE WEXLER, standing or sitting

when not lying down

Grace Wexler did not understand her husband’s joke about

position. Mr. Hoo did, but he was in no mood for humor; ten

thousand dollars was at stake. Both pleaded for their absent

spouses—“Emergency operation,” “My wife doesn’t even

speak English”—to no avail. Table one remained empty and

moneyless.

2 ♦ TURTLE WEXLER, witch

FLORA BAUMBACH, dressmaker

Sighs of relief greeted the naming of Turtle’s partner, but Flora

Baumbach seemed pleased to be paired with the kicking

witch. At least, her face was still puckered in that elfin grin.

Turtle had hoped for one of the high-school seniors, especially

Doug Hoo.

3 ♦ CHRISTOS THEODORAKIS, bird-

watcher

D. DENTON DEERE, intern, St.

Joseph’s Hospital, Department of

Plastic Surgery

Theo protested: He and his brother should be paired together;

Chris was his responsibility. Mrs. Wexler protested: Doctor D.

should be paired with his bride-to-be. D. Denton Deere

protested, but silently: If this had been arranged for free

medical advice, they (whoever they are) were mistaken. He

was a busy man. He was a doctor, not a nursemaid.

But Chris was delighted to be part of the outside world.

He would tell the intern about the person who limped into the

Westing house; maybe that was the murderer—unless his

partner was the murderer! This was really exciting, even better

than television.

4 ♦ ALEXANDER MCSOUTHERS,

doorman

J. J. FORD, judge, Appellate Division

of the State Supreme Court

The heirs watched the jaunty doorman pull out a chair for the

judge. It had never occurred to them that Sandy was a

nickname for Alexander, but that couldn’t be what Sam

Westing meant by It will be up to the other players to discover

who you really are. Or could it?

The judge did not return the chip-toothed smile.

Doorman, he calls himself, and the others had signed simple

things, too: cook, dressmaker. The podiatrist had even made

fun of his “position.” She must seem as pompous as that

intern, putting on airs with that title. Well, she had worked

hard to get where she was, why shouldn’t she be proud of it?

She was no token; her record was faultless.…Watch it, Josie-

Jo. Westing’s getting to you already and the game has barely

begun.

5 ♦ GRACE WINDSOR WEXLER, heiress

JAMES SHIN HOO, restaurateur

Grace Windsor Wexler ignored the snickers. If she was not the

heiress now, she would be soon, what with her clues, Angela’s

clues, Turtle’s clues, Denton’s clues, and the clues of Mr.

Hoo’s obedient son. Five thousand dollars lost! Oh well, who

needs Jake anyway? She’d win on her own. “You’ll be happy

to know that Mr. Westing was really my Uncle Sam,” she

whispered to her partner.

So what, thought Mr. Hoo. Five thousand dollars lost! He

should have told his wife about this meeting, dragged her

along. Sam Westing, the louse, has cheated him again.

Whoever killed him deserves a medal.

6 ♦ BERTHE ERICA CROW, Good

Salvation Soup Kitchen

OTIS AMBER, deliverer

The delivery boy danced a merry jig; but Crow, her sore foot

squeezed back into her tight shoe, headed for table six with a

grim face. Why were they watching her? Did they think she

killed Windy? Could the guilty know her guilt? Repent!

Crow limps, Chris Theodorakis noted.

7 ♦ THEO THEODORAKIS, brother

DOUG HOO, first in all-state high-

school mile run

They slapped hands, and Doug jogged to table seven. Theo

moved more slowly. Passing the chessboard he saw that white

had made a second move. He countered with a black pawn.

Maybe he should not have written brother, but like it or not,

that was his position in life. Chris was smiling at him in pure

sweetness, which made Theo feel even guiltier about his

resentment.

“I guess that makes us partners, Ms. Pulaski,” Angela

said.

“Pardon me, did you say something?”

8 ♦ SYDELLE PULASKI, secretary to the

president

ANGELA WEXLER, none

Angela stepped tentatively behind the secretary, not knowing

whether to ignore her disability or to take her arm. At least her

crippled partner could not be the murderer, but it was

embarrassing being paired with such a…no, she shouldn’t feel

that way. It was her mother who was upset (she could feel the

indignant anger without having to look at Grace); her perfect

daughter was paired with a freak.

What good luck, the hobbling Sydelle Pulaski thought.

Now she would really be noticed with such a pretty young

thing for a partner. They might even invite her to the wedding.

She’d paint a crutch white with little pink nosegays.

Denton Deere was troubled. What in the world did Angela

mean by “nun”?

Once again Edgar Jennings Plum cleared his throat.

“Nasal drip,” Denton Deere whispered, confiding the

latest diagnosis to his partner. Chris giggled. What’s the

crippled kid so happy about, the intern wondered.

NINTH ♦ Money! Each pair in attendance

will now receive a check for the sum of

$10,000. The check cannot be cashed

without the signatures of both partners.

Spend it wisely or go for broke. May God

thy gold refine.

A piercing shriek suddenly reminded the Westing heirs of

murder. While passing out the checks, the lawyer had stepped

on Crow’s sore foot.

“Is this legal, judge?” Sandy asked.

“It is not only legal, Mr. McSouthers,” Judge Ford

replied, signing her name to the check and handing it to the

doorman, “it is a shrewd way to keep everyone playing the

game.”

TENTH ♦ Each pair in attendance will

now receive an envelope containing a set of

clues. No two sets of clues are alike. It is

not what you have, it’s what you don’t have

that counts.

Placing the last of the envelopes on table eight, the young

lawyer smiled at Angela. Sydelle Pulaski smiled back.

“This makes no sense,” Denton Deere complained. Four

clues typed on cut squares of Westing Superstrength Paper

Towels lay on the table before him.

Arms and elbows at odds, with fingers fanned, Chris tried

to rearrange the words in some grammatical, if not logical,

order.

“Hey, watch it!” the intern shouted, as one clue wafted to

the floor.

Flora Baumbach leaped from her chair at the next table,

picked up the square of paper and set it face down before the

trembling youngster. “I didn’t see it,” she announced loudly. “I

really didn’t see it,” she repeated under the questioning gaze

of her partner, Turtle Wexler, witch.

The word she had seen was plain.

The players protected their clues more carefully now.

Hunched over the tables, they moved the paper squares this

way and that way, mumbling and grumbling. The murderer’s

name must be there, somewhere.

Only one pair had not yet seen their clues. At table eight

Sydelle Pulaski placed one hand on the envelope, raised a

finger to her lips and tilted her head toward the other heirs.

Just watch and listen, she meant.

She may be odd, but she’s smart, Angela thought. Since

each pair had a different set of clues, they would watch and

listen for clues to their clues.

“He-he-he.” The delivery boy slapped his partner on the back.

“That’s us, old pal: Queen Crow and King Amber.”

“What's this: on or no?” Doug Hoo turned a clue upside

down, then right side up again.

Theo jabbed an elbow in his ribs and turned to see if

anyone had heard. Angela lowered her eyes in time.

J. J. Ford crumpled the clues in her fist and rose in anger.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McSouthers. Playing a pawn in this foolish

game is one thing, but to be insulted with minstrel show

dialect…”

“Please, judge, please don’t quit on me,” Sandy pleaded.

“I’d have to give back all that money; it would break my

wife’s heart. And my poor kids.…”

Judge Ford regarded the desperate doorman without pity.

So many had begged before her bench.

“Please, judge. I lost my job, my pension. I can’t fight no

more. Don’t quit just because of some nonsensical words.”

Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will

never hurt me, she had chanted as a child. Words did hurt, but

she was no longer a child. Nor a hanging judge. And there was

always the chance…“All right, Mr. McSouthers. I’ll stay.” J. J.

Ford sat down, her eyes sparking with wickedness. “And we’ll

play the game just as Sam Westing would have played it.

Mean!”

Flora Baumbach squeezed her eyes together and screwed

up her face. She was concentrating.

“Haven’t you memorized them yet?” Turtle didn’t like the

way Otis Amber’s scrawny neck was swiveling high out of his

collar. And what was Angela staring at?

“Yes, I think so,” the dressmaker replied, “but I can’t

make heads or tails of them.”

“They make perfect sense to me,” Turtle said. One by one

she put the clues in her mouth, chewed and swallowed them.

“Jibberish,” Mr. Hoo muttered.

Grace Windsor Wexler agreed. “Excuse me, Mr. Plum, but

what are these clues clues to? I mean, exactly what are we

supposed to find?”

“Purple waves,” Sandy joked with a wink at Turtle.

Mrs. Wexler uttered a cry of recognition and changed the

order of two of her clues.

“It’s still jibberish,” Mr. Hoo complained.

Other players pressed the lawyer for more information.

Ed Plum only shrugged.

“Then could you please give us copies of the will?”

“A copy will be on file…” Judge Ford began.

“I’m afraid not, your honor,” the lawyer said. “The will

not, I mean the will will will…” He paused and tried again.

“The will will not be filed until the first of the year. My

instructions specifically state that no heir is allowed to see any

of the documents until the game is over.”

No copy? That’s not fair. But wait, they did have a copy.

A shorthand copy!

Sydelle Pulaski had plenty of attention now. She smiled

back at the friendly faces, revealing a lipstick stain on her

front teeth.

“Isn’t there some sort of a last statement?” Sandy asked

Plum. “I mean, like the intern says, nothing makes any sense.”

ELEVENTH ♦ Senseless, you say? Death

is senseless yet makes way for the living.

Life, too, is senseless unless you know who

you are, what you want, and which way the

wind blows.

So on with the game. The solution is

simple if you know whom you are looking

for. But heirs, beware! Be aware!

Some are not who they say they are, and

some are not who they seem to be. Whoever

you are, it’s time to go home.

God bless you all and remember this:

Buy Westing Paper Products!

8 ♦ The Paired Heirs

During the night Flora Baumbach’s itsy-bitsy snowflings

raged into a blizzard. The tenants of Sunset Towers awoke

from clue-chasing, blood-dripping dreams, bound in twisted

sheets and imprisoned by fifteen-foot snowdrifts.

No telephones. No electricity.

Snowbound with a murderer!

The slow procession looked like some ancient, mysterious

rite as partner sought out partner on the windowless stairs, and

silent pairs threaded through the corridors in the flickering

light of crooked, color-striped candles (the product of Turtle’s

stint at summer camp).

“These handmade candles are both practical and

romantic,” she said, peddling her wares from apartment door

to apartment door to frightened tenants at seven in the

morning. (Oh, it’s only Turtle.) “And the colored stripes tell

time, which is very handy if your electric clock stopped. Each

stripe burns exactly one-half hour, more or less. Twelve

stripes, six hours.”

“How much?”

“Not wishing to take advantage of this emergency, I’ve

reduced the price to only five dollars each.”

Outrageous. Even more so when the electricity came on

two hours after her last sale. “Sorry, no refunds,” Turtle said.

No matter. What was five dollars to heirs of an estate

worth two hundred million? Clues, they had to work on those

clues. Behind closed doors. Whisper, someone may be

listening.

Not all the heirs were huddled in plotting, puzzle-solving

pairs. Jake Wexler had retreated to his office after a long and

loud argument with his wife. He sure could have used half of

that ten thousand dollars, but he wouldn’t admit it, not to her.

The forfeited money upset her more than the murder of her

uncle, if he was her uncle.

Five floors above, Jake’s partner stood before the

restaurant’s front window staring at the froth on the angry

lake, and beyond. No one had bothered to tell Madame Hoo

about the Westing game.

Other players were snowbound elsewhere: Denton Deere

in the hospital, Sandy at home. No one gave a thought to

where Otis Amber or Crow might be.

But Sydelle Pulaski was there, thumping her crutch

against the baseboards as she limped through the carpeted

halls on the arm of her pretty partner. Not one, but seven

tenants had invited her to morning coffee or afternoon tea

(murderer or not, they had to see Pulaski’s copy of that will).

“Three lumps, please. Angela drinks it black.” Your

health? “Thank the lord I’m still able to hobble about.” Your

job? “I was private secretary to the president of Schultz

Sausages. Poor Mr. Schultz, I don’t know how he’ll manage

without me.” Your shorthand notes? “Thank you for the

refreshments. I must hurry back for my medication. Come,

Angela.”

One heir had not invited them in, but that didn’t stop Sydelle

Pulaski from barging into apartment 2D. “Hi, Chris. Just

thought we’d pop in to see how you’re doing. Don’t be scared.

I’m not the murderer, Angela is not the murderer, and we don’t

think you are the murderer. Mind if I sit down?” The secretary

toppled into a chair next to the invalid before he could reply.

“Here, I stole a macaroon for you. It’s so sticky you’ll be

tasting it all day; I must have six strands of coconut between

my upper molars.” Chris took the cookie. “Just look at that

smile, it could break your heart.”

Angela wished her partner had not said that; it seemed so

insensitive, so crude. But at least Sydelle was talking to him,

which was more than she was able to do. Angela, the fortunate

one, standing like a dummy. “Um, I know Denton wants to

work on the clues with you. He’s snowbound, too.”

“You ver-r pred-dy.” How did “pretty” come out? He

meant to say “nice.” Chris bent his curly head over the

geography book in his lap. She wasn’t laughing at him. It was

all right to ask her because she was going to marry his partner.

“Wha ar-r g-gra-annz?”

Angela did not understand.

Chris fanned the pages of the book to a picture of a wheat

field. “G-gra-annz.”

“Oh, grains. You want to know the names of some grains.

Let’s see, there’s wheat, rye, corn, barley, oats.”

“O-ohss!” Angela thought the boy was going into a fit,

but he was only repeating her last word: oats.

Sydelle was puffing her warm breath on the window and

wiping a frosted area clean with her sleeve. “There, now

you’ll be able to watch the birds again. Anything else we can

do for you, young man?”

Chris nodded. “Read m-me short-han n-noos.”

The pretty lady and the funny lady moved quickly out the

door. One limped, but it was a pretended limp (he could tell),

not like the limper on the Westing house lawn.

Oats. Chris closed his eyes to picture the clues:

FOR PLAIN GRAIN SHED

Grain = oats = Otis Amber. For + d (from shed) = Ford. But

neither the delivery boy nor the judge limped, and he still

hadn’t figured out she or plain. He’d have to wait for Denton

Deere; Denton Deere was smart; he was a doctor.

Chris raised his binoculars to the cliff. Windblown drifts

buttressed the house—something moved on the second floor—

a hand holding back the edge of a drape. Slowly the heavy

drape fell back against the window. The Westing house was

snowbound, too, and somebody was snowbound in it.

Only one of the players thought the clues told how the ten

thousand-dollar check was to be spent. Take stock in America,

the will said. Go for broke, the will said.

“In the stock market,” Turtle said. “And whoever makes

the most money wins it all, the whole two hundred million

dollars.” Their clues:

SEA MOUNTAIN AM O

stood for symbols of three corporations listed on the stock

exchange: SEA, MT (the abbreviation for mountain), AMO.

“But am and o are separate clues,” Flora Baumbach said.

“To confuse us.”

“But what about the murderer? I thought we were

supposed to find the name of the murderer?”

“To put us off the track.” If the police suspected murder,

she’d be in jail by now. Her fingerprints were all over

everything in the Westing house, including the corpse. “You

don’t really think one of us could have killed a living,

breathing human being in cold blood, do you, Mrs.

Baumbach? Do you?” Turtle did, but the dressmaker was a

cream puff.

“Don’t you look at me like that, Turtle Wexler! You know

very well I could never think such a thing. I must have

misunderstood. Oh my, I just wish Miss Pulaski had shown us

her copy of the will.”

Turtle returned to her calculations, multiplying numbers

of shares times price, adding a broker’s commission, trying to

total the sums to the ten thousand dollars they had to spend.

Flora Baumbach may have been wrong about the murder,

but she was not convinced of Turtle’s plan. “What about Buy

Westing Paper Products? I’m sure that was in the will.”

“Great!” Turtle exclaimed. “We’ll do just that, we’ll add

WPP to the list of stocks we’re going to buy.”

Flora Baumbach had watched enough television

commercials to know that Buy Westing Paper Products meant

that as soon as she could get to market, she’d buy all the

Westing products on the shelf. Still, it felt good having a child

around again. She’d play along, gladly. “You know, Turtle,

you may be right about putting our money in the stock market.

I remember the will said May God thy gold refine. That must

be from the Bible.”

“Shakespeare,” Turtle replied. All quotations were either

from the Bible or Shakespeare.

Mr. Hoo moved aside a full ashtray with a show of distaste

and rearranged the clues. “Purple fruited makes more sense.”

Grace Wexler looked across the restaurant to the lone

figure at the window. “Are you sure your wife doesn’t

understand English, I mean, after living here so long?”

“That’s my second wife. She came over from Hong Kong

two years ago.”

“She does look young, but it’s so hard to tell ages of

people of the Oriental persuasion,” Grace said. Why was he

glaring at her like that? “Your wife is quite lovely, you know,

so doll-like and inscrutable.”

Hoo bit off half a chocolate bar. He had enough problems

with the empty restaurant, a lazy son, and his nagging ulcer;

now he has to put up with this bigot.

Grace lit another cigarette and rearranged the clues to

read: purple waves. “You heard that doorman say ‘purple

waves’; it must mean something. And that ghastly secretary

was wearing a dress with purple waves last night, not to

mention her crutch.”

“You should not speak unkindly of those less fortunate

than you,” Hoo said.

“You’re quite right,” Grace replied. “I thought the poor

thing handled her infirmity with great courage—traveling

mimosa, my future son-in-law says; he’s a doctor, you know.

Anyhow, Pulaski couldn’t possibly be the murderer, not the

way she gimps around. Besides, how could my Uncle Sam

know she’d wear purple waves to his funeral?”

Hoo waved the cigarette smoke from his face. “The

murderer had to have a motive. How about this: A niece

murders her rich uncle to inherit his money?”

Good sport that she was, Grace tossed back her head and

uttered an amused “Ha-ha-ha.”

“Not that I care,” Hoo said. “That cheating moneybags

got what he deserved. What’s the matter?”

“Look!” Grace pointed to the clues.

FRUITED PURPLE WAVES FOR SEA

“For sea! The murderer lives in apartment 4C!”

“I live in 4C,” Hoo barked. “If Sam Westing wanted to

say 4C he would have written number 4, letter C. S-e-a means

sea, like what a turtle swims in.”

“Come now, Mr. Hoo, we are both being silly. Have you

spoken to your son about his clues?”

“Some son. If you can catch him, you can ask him.” Hoo

stuffed the rest of the candy bar in his mouth. “And some

business I’ve got here. Everybody orders up, nobody orders

down. That coffee shop is sending me to the poorhouse. And

your Angela and that Pulaski woman, they didn’t show us the

will, they didn’t give us their clues, they didn’t pay for three

cups of jasmine tea and six almond cookies, and you smoke

too much.”

“And you eat too much.” Grace threw her coin purse on

the table and stormed out of the restaurant. Change, that’s all

he’ll get from her; he’d have to beg on his knees before she’d

sign Grace Windsor Wexler on the ten-thousand-dollar check,

that madman. Some pair they made: Attila the Hun and Gracie

the useless. Gracie Windkloppel Wexler, heir pretender,

pretentious heir.

First, the money. They signed their names to the check; half

would go into Doug Hoo’s savings account; half would go to

Theo’s parents. Next, the clues:

HIS N ON TO THEE FOR

“Maybe they’re numbers: one, two, three, four,” Theo

guessed.

“I still say on is no,” the bored track star said. He clasped

his hands behind his head, leaned back in the coffee shop

booth and stretched his long legs under the opposite bench.

“And no is what we got: no real clues, no leads, no will.”

After three cups of coffee, two pastries and a bowl of rice

pudding with cream, Sydelle Pulaski had offered nothing in

return.

Theo refused to give up. “Are you sure you didn’t see

anything unusual at the Westing house that night?”

“I didn’t kill Westing, if that’s what you mean, and the

only unusual thing I saw was Turtle Wexler. I think the pest is

madly in love with me; how’s that for luck?”

“Get serious, Doug. One of the heirs is a murderer; we

could all get killed.”

“Just because somebody zapped the old man doesn’t

mean he’s going to kill again. Dad says…” Doug paused. His

father’s comment about awarding a medal to the murderer

might be incriminating.

Theo tried another tack. “I was playing chess with

somebody in the game room last night.”

“Who?”

“That’s what’s strange; I don’t know who. We’ll have to

find out which one of the heirs plays chess.”

“Since when is chess-playing evidence for murder?”

“Well, it’s something to go on,” Theo replied. “And

another thing: The will said no two sets of clues are alike.

Maybe all the clues put together make one message, a message

that points to the murderer. Somehow or other we’ll have to

get the heirs to pool the clues.”

“Oh, sure. The killer can’t wait to hand over the clues that

will hang him.” Doug rose. Snowbound or not, he had to stay

in shape for the track meet. For the rest of the day he jogged

through the hallways and up and down stairs, scaring the

nervous tenants half out of their wits.

Judge J. J. Ford had no doubt that the clues she shared with the

doorman were meant for her, but Sam Westing could toss off

sharper results than:

SKIES AM SHINING BROTHER

His choice of words must have been limited; therefore, these

clues were part of a longer statement. A statement that named

a name. The name of the murderer.

No. Westing could not have been murdered. If his life had

been threatened, if he had been in danger of any kind, he

would have insisted on police protection. He owned the

police; he owned the whole town. Sam Westing was not the

type to let himself get killed. Not unless he was insane.

The judge opened the envelope given her by the

incompetent Plum. A certificate of sanity, dated last week:

“Having thoroughly examined…keen mind and memory…

excellent physical condition…(signed) Sidney Sikes, M.D.”

Sikes. That sounded familiar. The judge scanned the

obituary she had cut from Saturday’s newspaper.

…Samuel Westing and his friend, Dr.

Sidney Sikes, were involved in a near-fatal

automobile accident. Both men were

hospitalized with severe injuries. Sikes

resumed his Westingtown medical practice

and the post of county coroner, but Westing

disappeared from sight.

Sikes was Westing’s friend (and, she remembered, a witness to

the will), but he was also a physician in good standing. She

would accept his opinion on Westing’s sanity, for the time

being at least.

Back to the clues. Look at her, the big-time judge, fussing

over scraps of Westing Superstrength Paper Towels. “Forget

the clues,” she said aloud, rising from her desk to putter about

the room.

Nibbling on a macaroon, she stacked the used coffee cups

on a tray. If only that Pulaski person had let her study the will.

That’s where the real clues were buried, among the veiled

threats and pompous promises, the slogans and stillness in that

hodgepodge of a will.

In his will Sam Westing implied (he did not state, he

implied) that (1) he was murdered, (2) the murderer was one

of the heirs, (3) he alone knew the name of the murderer, and

(4) the name of the murderer was the answer to the game.

The game: a tricky, divisive Westing game. No matter

how much fear and suspicion he instilled in the players, Sam

Westing knew that greed would keep them playing the game.

Until the “murderer” was captured. And punished.

Sam Westing was not murdered, but one of his heirs was

guilty—guilty of some offense against a relentless man. And

that heir was in danger. From his grave Westing would stalk

his enemy, and through his heirs he would wreak his revenge.

Which one? Which heir was the target of Westing’s

vindictiveness? In the name of justice she would have to find

Westing’s victim before the others did. She would have to

learn everything she could about each one of the heirs. Who

are they, and how did their lives touch Westing’s, these sixteen

strangers whose only connection with one another was Sunset

Towers? Sunset Towers—she’d start from there.

Good, the telephones were working again. The number

she dialed was answered on the first ring. “Hi there, this is a

recording of yours truly, Barney Northrup. I’m at your

service—soon as I get back in my office, that is. Just sing out

your problem to old Barney here when you hear the beep.”

Beep.

J. J. Ford hung up without singing out her problem to old

Barney. He, too, could be involved in Westing’s plot.

The newspaper, she would try the newspaper; surely

someone was snowbound there. After eight rings, a live voice

answered. “We usually don’t supply that kind of information

over the phone, but since it’s you, Judge Ford, I’ll be happy to

oblige. Just spell out the names and I’ll call back if I find

anything.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” It was a beginning. Sam

Westing was dead, but maybe, just once, she could beat him at

his own game. His last game.

Having found what she wanted in Turtle’s desk, Angela

returned to her frilly bedroom where Sydelle Pulaski, glasses

low on her nose, was perched on a ruffled stool at the vanity

table, smearing blue shadow on her eyelids.

“First we tackle our own clues,” the secretary said,

frowning at the result in the threefold mirror. Unlucky from

the day she was born, she now had a beautiful and well-loved

partner. There was always the chance that they alone had been

given the answer. She unsealed the envelope and held it out to

Angela. “Take one.”

Angela removed the first clue: good.

Now it was Sydelle’s turn. “Glory be!” she exclaimed,

thinking she had the name of the murderer. Her thumb was

covering the letter d. The word was hood.

Angela’s turn. The third clue was from.

Sydelle’s turn. The fourth clue was spacious.

The fifth and last clue was— Angela uttered a low moan.

Her hand shook as she passed the paper to her partner. The

fifth and last clue was grace.

“Grace, that’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?” Sydelle said.

“Well, don’t worry, that clue doesn’t mean your mother is the

murderer. The will says: It is not what you have, it’s what you

don’t have that counts.” The secretary had not yet transcribed

the shorthand, but she had read it through several times before

hiding the notebook in a safe place. “By the way, are you

really related to Mr. Westing?”

Angela shrugged. Sydelle assumed that meant no and

turned to the clues.

GOOD GRACE FROM HOOD SPACIOUS

“The only thing I can figure from these clues is: Good

gracious from hood space. As soon as the parking lot is

shoveled out, we’ll peek under the hoods of all the cars. A map

or more clues may be hidden there. Maybe even the murder

weapon. Now, let’s hear about the other clues.”

Angela reported on the clues gathered in the game room

and during the day’s comings and goings:

“King, queen. Otis Amber said, ‘King Otis and Queen

Crow.’

“Purple waves. Mother switched two clues around when

Sandy mentioned those words.

“On (or no). Doug and Theo could not decide whether

that clue was right side up or upside down.

“Grains. Chris Theodorakis thinks that clue refers to Otis

Amber. You know, grains—oats.

“MT.” Angela showed her partner the crumpled scrap of

paper she had picked up along with Sydelle’s dropped crutch

during Flora Baumbach’s tea party.

500 shares MT at $6 =

$3000

broker’s commission =

+90

---------

$3090

“I checked Turtle’s diary. She is not following any stock with

a symbol like MT, so it must be one of her clues. MT could

stand for either mountain or empty.”

“Excellent,” Sydelle Pulaski remarked. Her partner was

beautiful, but not dumb. “Read all the clues together now.”

GOOD HOOD FROM SPACIOUS GRACE

KING QUEEN PURPLE WAVES

ON(NO) GRAINS MOUNTAIN(EMPTY)

Sydelle was disappointed. “It is not what you have, it’s what

you don’t have that counts. And what we don’t have is a verb.

Nothing makes sense without a verb. What about the judge?”

“Judge Ford thought her clues were an insult, and she said

something about playing a pawn in Westing’s game. And she

had a clipping of the obituary on her desk. This obituary.”

Angela handed Sydelle the newspaper taken from Turtle’s

drawer.

“What’s that?”

It was a knock on the front door.

It was footsteps in the living room.

It was Theo. “Anyone for a game of chess?” he asked,

leaning through the bedroom doorway.

“No, thank you,” Sydelle replied, looking very busy.

Theo smiled shyly at Angela and left.

Sydelle read the obituary in Turtle’s newspaper. The

words two hundred million dollars were underlined, but she

found a more interesting item. “Sam Westing was a master at

chess; no wonder Theo’s so interested. Do you know anything

about the game, Angela?”

“A little,” she replied slowly, putting the pieces in order.

“The judge says she’s a pawn and Otis Amber says he’s the

king, Crow’s the queen— Oh well, it’s probably just a

coincidence.”

“We can’t leave any stone unturned,” Sydelle insisted.

“As the will says, Object of the game: to win.”

“What did you say?”

“Object of the game: to win.”

“How about: object of the game: twin. Maybe the

murderer is a twin.”

“Twin!” Sydelle liked that. The only problem would be

getting the murderer to admit that he (or she) is a twin. “Let’s

get back to my apartment. It’s time I transcribed those notes.”

Angela helped the invalid to her feet and nervously

peered in both directions before stepping into the hallway.

Sydelle chuckled at her timidity. “There’s nothing to be

scared of, Angela. Westing was murdered for his money, and

we’re not rich yet. We won’t be rich enough to be murdered

until we find the name, and by the time we get the money

from the estate, the murderer will be locked up in jail.”

In spite of the impeccable logic, Angela looked back over

her shoulder several times on the way to 3C.

“Strange.” Sydelle stood before her open apartment door.

She had slammed it shut on leaving, but had not locked

the dead bolt; after all, not even a burglar could get into a

snowbound building. Unless…

Angela, too frightened to notice that Sydelle ran through

the apartment with her crutch in the air, found her partner in

the bathroom frantically tossing soiled towels from the

hamper.

Sydelle Pulaski stared at the bare wicker bottom, then

sank to the rim of the bathtub, shaking her head in disbelief.

Someone in Sunset Towers had stolen the shorthand notebook.

9 ♦ Lost and Found

Early the next morning a typed index card was tacked to the

elevator’s back wall:

LOST: Important business papers of

no value to anyone but the owner.

Please return to Sydelle Pulaski,

3C. No questions asked.

The shorthand notebook was not returned, but the idea of a

bulletin board was an instant success. By late afternoon the

elevator was papered with notices and filled with tenants

facing sideways and backwards, reading as they rode up and

down.

Lost: Silver cross on filigree chain, topaz

pin and earrings, gold-filled cuff links.

Return to Grace Windsor Wexler, 3D.

REWARD!

Al players wil ing to discuss

sharing their clues

come to the cof ee shop tomorrow 10 A.M.

WHOEVER STOLE MY MICKEY MOUSE CLOCK BETTER GIVE

IT BACK. JUST LEAVE IT IN THE HALL IN FRONT OF

APARTMENT 3D WHEN NO ONE’S LOOKING.

TURTLE WEXLER

ORDER DOWN, NOT UP!

Or come on up to the fifth floor and dine in

elegance at

SHIN HOO’S RESTAURANT

Specializing in exquisite Chinese cuisine.

LOST: STRING OF PEARLS. SENTIMENTAL VALUE. IF

FOUND, PLEASE BRING THEM TO APARTMENT 2C. THANK

YOU, FLORA BAUMBACH (DRESSMAKING AND

ALTERATIONS, REASONABLY PRICED)

FOUND: SIX CLUES

The following clues, printed on squares of

Westing Toilet Tissue, were found in the

third floor hallway:

BRAIDED KICKING TORTOISE ’SI A BRAT

I am having an informal party this evening from

eight o’clock on. You are all invited. Please

come.

J. J. Ford, apartment 4D

Turtle, wherever you are—

Be home at seven-thirty SHARP!!!

Your loving mother

“Mom, I’m home.” No one else was.

On reading Mrs. Wexler’s note in the elevator, Flora

Baumbach had insisted, “You must do what your mother

says.” When Turtle replied, “Like showing her our clues?”

Flora Baumbach’s answer was “Perhaps so. After all, she is

your mother.”

Flora Baumbach was sappy. Always smiling that dumb

smile, always so polite to everybody. And so timid. When they

had finally reached a snowbound broker, Flora Baumbach was

so nervous she dropped the telephone. Turtle had to admit to

some nervousness herself, but it was the first real order she

had ever place. For a minute there, she thought she might

choke on the thumping heart that had jumped into her throat,

but she had pulled off the transaction like a pro. Now if only

the stock market would go up, she’d show Mr. Westing about

refining gold. The next part of the will would read:

“Whichsoever pair made the most money with the ten

thousand dollars inherits the whole estate.” She was sure of it.

“Oh, there you are.” Grace Wexler acted as if Turtle was

the tardy one, but she quickly sweetened. “Come, dear, let’s go

to your room and I’ll fix your hair.”

Her mother sat behind her on the edge of the narrow bed,

loosed the dark brown hair and brushed it to a gloss. She had

not done that with such care in a long, long time.

“Have you eaten?”

“Mrs. Baumbach made me a dinner.” Turtle felt the

fingers dividing the hair into strands. Her mother was so

warm, so close.

“Your poor father’s probably starving; he’s been so busy

on the phone, changing appointments and all.”

“Daddy’s eating in the coffee shop; I just saw him there.”

Turtle had dashed in shouting: “The braided tortoise strikes

again!” and kicked a surprised Theo in the shin. (It was Doug

Hoo, not Theo, who had made the sign.)

Her mother twisted the three strands into a braid. “I think

you should wear your party dress tonight; you look so pretty in

pink.”

Pretty? She had never used that word before, not about

her. What’s going on?

“You know, sweetheart, I’m rather hurt that you won’t tell

your own mother about your clues.”

So that was it. She should have known. “My lips are

sealed,” Turtle said defiantly.

“Just one eensy-beensy clue?” Grace wheedled, winding a

rubber band around the end of the braid.

“N-n-n,” Turtle replied through sealed lips.

Angela came into the small room and tugged Turtle’s

braid (only her sister could get away with that).

Beaming on her favorite, Grace took her hand, then

gasped. “Angela, where’s your engagement ring?”

“I have a rash on my finger.”

Thump, thump. Sydelle Pulaski appeared in the doorway.

“Hi, what’s everybody doing in the closet?”

“See, I told you this is a closet,” Turtle said.

Grace ignored the complaint. It did no good being nice to

that ungrateful child, never satisfied, always whining about

something or other. “Oh, hello, Miss Pulaski.”

“I’ve been feeling a bit weakly, thank you, but nothing

can keep me from a party.” Sydelle’s crutch was painted in

black and white squares to match her black and white

checkered dress. Her large hoop earrings were also black and

white: the white one dangled from her left ear, the black from

her right.

“The party is such a lovely idea,” Grace said, warming up

to the owner of the shorthand notes. “When I saw the

invitation in the elevator I suggested to Mr. Hoo that he call

the judge to see if she needed hors d’oeuvres; and sure

enough, he got an order for six dozen.” She turned to Angela.

“Hadn’t you better get dressed, dear? It’s getting late. It’s too

bad Doctor D. can’t escort you to the party, but your father and

I will take you.”

“Angela and I are going together; we’re partners, you

know.” Sydelle had it all planned. They were to appear in

identical costumes; tonight was the night they would discover

if one of the heirs was a twin.

“I’m going to the party with Mrs. Baumbach,” Turtle

remarked. “The sign said everyone’s invited.”

Again Grace ignored her. “By the way, Miss Pulaski, I do

hope you’ve changed your mind about showing me your

notes.”

It was the secretary’s turn to seal her lips. She wouldn’t

put it past that uppity Grace Windsor Wexler to steal the

notebook from an unfortunate cripple and then rub it in.

Grace tried again, her voice dripping with honey. “You

know, of course, that if I do win the inheritance, everything I

own goes to Angela.”

Turtle bounded up. “Let me out of here: a person can’t

breathe in this closet.” She kicked the bed, kicked the chair,

kicked the desk, and elbowed past the disapproving secretary.

“What in the world is wrong with that child?” her mother

said.

Judge Ford was instructing Theo in the art of bartending when

the telephone rang. The snowbound newspaperman had found

several items in the files.

“First, the engagement announcement of Angela Wexler

to D. Denton Deere. Next, several clippings on a lawsuit

brought against Sam Westing by an inventor named…”

“Hold on, please.” Mr. Hoo waddled in with a large tray

of appetizers. The judge pointed him to the serving buffet and

apologized to her caller. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that

name.”

“James Hoo. He claimed Westing stole his idea of the

disposable paper diaper.”

“One minute, please.” The judge cupped her hand over

the mouthpiece. “Please don’t leave, Mr. Hoo. I was hoping

you’d stay for the party, as a guest, of course. Your wife and

son, too.”

Hoo grunted. He hated parties. He had seen his fill of

people eating and drinking and acting like clowns, jabbering

like…so that’s it: jabbering, dropping clues. “I’ll be right

back.”

The receiver hissed with an impatient sigh, then the

researcher went on. “I’ve got a thick file of sports items on

another Hoo, a Doug Hoo. Seems he runs a pretty fast mile for

a high-school kid. That’s all I could find on the names you

gave me, but I still have stacks of Westing clippings to go

through.”

“Thank you so much.”

The doorbell rang.

The party was about to begin.

10 ♦ The Long Party

“I hope we’re not too early.” Grace Windsor Wexler always

arrived at parties fashionably late, but not tonight. She didn’t

want to miss a thing, or a clue, or wait around in her apartment

with a murderer on the loose. “I don’t think you’ve met my

husband, Doctor Wexler.”

“Call me Jake.”

“Hello, Jake,” Judge Ford said. A firm handshake, laugh

lines around his eyes. He needed a sense of humor with that

social-climbing wife.

“What a lovely living room, so practically furnished,”

Grace commented. “Our apartments are identical in layout, but

mine looks so different. You must come see what I’ve done

with it. I’m a decorator, you know. Three bedrooms do seem

rather spacious for a single woman.”

What does she mean, three bedrooms? This is a one-

bedroom apartment. “Would you care for an appetizer, Mrs.

Wexler? I’m curious to know exactly how you are related to

the Westing family.”

The judge had hoped to take the “heiress” by surprise, but

Grace gained time by coughing. “Goodness, that ginger is

spicy—it’s the Szechuan cooking style, you know. How am I

related? Let me see, Uncle Sam was my father’s oldest

brother, or was he the youngest brother of my father’s father?”

“Excuse me, I have to greet my other guests.” The judge

left the prattling pretender. Father’s brother or father’s father’s

brother, if the relationship was on the paternal side her maiden

name would be Westing.

The party went on and on. No one dared be first to leave.

(Safety in numbers, especially with a judge there.) So the

guests ate and drank and jabbered; and they watched the other

guests eat and drink and jabber. No one laughed.

“I guess murder isn’t very funny,” Jake Wexler said.

“Neither is money,” Mr. Hoo replied glumly.

Deciding that his wife had found the perfect partner, the

podiatrist moved on to the two women standing in silence at

the front window. “Cheer up, Angie-pie, you’ll see your

Denton soon enough.” His daughter twisted out of his

embrace. “Are you all right, Angela?”

“I’m fine.” She was not fine. Why did they ask about

Denton all the time, as though she was nobody without him?

Oh, it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t even the humiliation of her

mother chiding her about the “twin” costume (in front of

everybody) and sending her back to their apartment to change

clothes. It was more than that, it was everything.

Jake turned to Madame Hoo. “Hi there, partner.”

“She doesn’t speak English, dad,” Angela said flatly.

“And she never will, Angela, if no one talks to her.”

“Snow,” said Madame Hoo.

Jake followed her pointing finger. “That’s right, snow.

Lots and lots of snow. Snow. Trees. Road. Lake Michigan.”

“China,” said Madame Hoo.

“China? Sure, why not,” Jake replied. “China.”

Angela left the chatting couple. Why couldn’t she have

made some sort of friendly gesture? Because she might do the

wrong thing and annoy her mother. Angela-the-obedient-

daughter did only what her mother told her to do.

“Hello, Angela. One of these tidbits might cheer you up.”

Judge Ford held the tray before her. “I hear you’ll be getting

married soon.”

“Some people have all the luck,” Sydelle Pulaski said,

appearing from nowhere to lean over the tray to spear a cube

of pork. “Of course, not all us women have opted for

marriage, right, Judge Ford? Some of us prefer the

professional life, though I must say, if a handsome young

doctor like Denton Deere proposed to me, I might just change

my mind. Too bad he doesn’t happen to be twins.”

“Excuse me.” The judge moved away.

“I’m not having any luck at all, Angela,” Sydelle whined.

“If only your mother hadn’t made you change clothes

someone surely would have mentioned ‘twin.’ It’s much

harder to judge reactions when I have to bring up the subject

myself. You shouldn’t let your mother boss you like that;

you’re a grown woman, about to be married.”

“Excuse me.” Angela moved away.

“Yes, thank you, I would like a refill,” Sydelle said to

nobody and hobbled to the bar. “Something non-alcoholic,

please, doctor’s orders. Make it a double—twins.”

Twins? What’s she talking about, Theo wondered, staring

at the black and white checkered costume. “Two ginger ales

for the chessboard coming right up.”

Hidden among her guests, the judge studied the two people

standing off in the corner, the only pair in Sunset Towers who

were not Westing heirs.

George Theodorakis placed his hand on the shoulder of

his invalid son. A large, bronze, hard-working hand. Like

Theo’s. Theo resembled him in so many ways: tall, wide

shoulders, slim-waisted, the same thick straight black hair; but

age had chiseled the father’s face into sharper planes. His

troubled eyes stared across the room at Angela.

Catherine Theodorakis, a slight, careworn woman, gazed

down on her younger son with tired, dark-circled eyes.

From his wheelchair Chris watched legs. Other than the

funny lady with the shorthand notes, the only limpers were his

brother Theo (Turtle had kicked him again) and Mrs. Wexler,

who stood on one leg rubbing her stockinged foot against her

calf. A high-heeled shoe stood alone on the carpet beneath her.

Judge Ford didn’t limp; besides, she couldn’t be a murderer, in

spite of his clues. Nobody here looks like a murderer, they’re

all nice people, even this fat Chinese man who grumbles all

the time.

George Theodorakis greeted Mr. Hoo with “How’s

business?” Hoo spun around and stomped off from his fellow

restaurant owner in a huff of anger.

James Hoo, inventor, that’s who the judge wanted to talk

to, but there was a problem at the bar. A long line had formed

and it wasn’t moving.

“There are sixteen white pieces and sixteen black pieces

in chess,” Theo was explaining to Sydelle Pulaski. “Do you

play chess, Judge Ford?”

“A bit, but I haven’t played in years.” The judge led the

secretary away from the crowded bar. Theo must think the

Westing game has something to do with chess. He may be

right, it certainly is as complicated as a chess game.

“But I did study,” Doug was arguing.

The judge interrupted. “I haven’t had a chance to thank

you for the delicious food, Mr. Hoo. How long have you been

in the restaurant business?”

“Running up and down stairs is not studying,” Hoo said.

Sydelle Pulaski butted in. “Father and son? You look

more like twins.”

“You’re equal partners with that Theodorakis kid,” Hoo

continued. “Why didn’t you insist on holding the meeting in

our restaurant instead of that greasy coffee shop?”

“Because some people don’t like chow mein for

breakfast,” Sydelle Pulaski replied.

“There you are, dear.” Grace patted a stray wisp of

Angela’s hair into place. “We must do something about your

coiffure. I’ll make an appointment for you with my hairdresser

once the snow is cleared; long hair is too youthful for a

woman about to be married. I can’t understand what got into

you, Angela, coming to this party in that old checkered dress

and those awful accessories. Just because your partner dresses

like a freak…”

“She’s not a freak, mother.”

“I was just speaking to Mr. Hoo about catering the

wedding shower on Saturday; I arranged for little Madame

Hoo to serve in one of those slinky Chinese gowns. Where are

you going? Angela!”

Angela rushed into Judge Ford’s kitchen. She had to get

away, she had to be alone, by herself, or she’d burst out

crying.

She was not alone. Crow was there. The two women

stared at each other in surprise, then turned away.

Poor baby. Crow wanted to reach out to the pretty child;

she wanted to take her in her arms and say: “Poor, poor baby,

go ahead and cry.” But she couldn’t. All she could say was

“Here.”

Angela took the dish towel from the cleaning woman and

bunched it against her face to muffle the wrenching sobs.

The guests jabbering on and on about the weather, about

food, about football, about chess, about twins. Turtle was

slumped on the couch, scornful of dumb grown-up parties.

You’d think one of them would know something about the

stock market. She missed Sandy. Sandy was the only one in

this dumb building she could talk to.

“Remember that quotation: May God thy gold refine?”

Flora Baumbach asked. “Let’s take a poll. I’ll bet ten cents it’s

from the Bible.”

“Shakespeare,” Turtle argued, “and make it ten dollars.”

“Oh my! Well, all right, ten dollars.”

Together they made the rounds. Four votes for the Bible,

three for Shakespeare and one abstention (Madame Hoo did

not understand the question).

Sydelle Pulaski voted for the Bobbsey twins. “And how

do you know those words were in the will?” she asked

suspiciously. Too suspiciously.

So that’s what “Lost: Important business papers” meant.

Somebody stole the shorthand notes. Turtle smiled at the

delicious nastiness of it all. “I remember, that’s all.”

“If you remember so well, tell me what comes before

that,” Sydelle challenged.

“I don’t know, what?”

The secretary had an audience now. “I don’t mind telling

you, but not if you ask like that.”

Theo said, “Please?” not Turtle.

Sydelle turned toward him with what should have been a

gracious manner, but she grimaced when the top of the crutch

poked her in the chest. “The exact quotation,” she announced

loudly, hoping she was right, “is Spend it wisely and may God

thy gold refine.”

Right or wrong, her guess was received with groans of

disappointment. The heirs had expected more: a hint, a clue,

something. It was time to go home.

11 ♦ The Meeting

A pale sun rose on the third snowbound morning. Lake

Michigan lay calm, violet, now blue, but the tenants of Sunset

Towers on waking turned to a different view. Lured by the

Westing house they stood at their side windows scoffing at the

danger, daring to dream. Should they or shouldn’t they share

their clues? Well, they’d go to the meeting in the coffee shop

just to see what the others intended to do.

Waiting in her closet of a room Turtle stared at the white-

weighted branches of the maple on the hill. A twig snapped in

silence, a flurry speckled the crusted snow. Sometimes when

her mother was too busy to do her hair she sent Angela in, but

today no one came. They had forgotten about her.

Brush and comb clutched in her fists like weapons, she

stormed into apartment 2C. “Do you know how to braid hair?”

Flora Baumbach’s pudgy fingers, swift with a needle,

were clumsy with a comb, but after several tangled attempts

she ended up with three equal strands. “My, what thick hair

you have. I tried braiding my daughter’s hair once, but it was

too fine, soft and wispy like a baby’s, even in her teens.”

That was the last thing Turtle wanted to hear. “Was she

pretty, your daughter?”

“All mothers think their children are beautiful. Rosalie

was an exceptional child, they said, but she was the lovingest

person that ever was.”

“My mother doesn’t think I’m beautiful.”

“Of course she does.”

“My mother says I looked just like a turtle when I was a

baby, sticking my head out of the blanket. I still look like a

turtle, I guess, but I don’t care. Where’s your daughter now?”

“Gone.” Flora Baumbach cleared the catch in her throat.

“There, that braid should hold for the rest of the day. By the

way, you’ve never told me your real name.”

“Alice,” Turtle replied, swinging her head before the

mirror. Not one single hair escaped its tight bind. Mrs.

Baumbach would make a good braider if only she’d stop

yakking about her exceptional child. Rosalie, what a dumb

name. “You’d better get to the meeting now. Remember, don’t

say a word to anyone about anything. Just listen.”

“All right, Alice. I promise.”

Theo wheeled his brother into the elevator and read the new

message on the wall:

$25 REWARD for the return of a gold

railroad watch inscribed: To Ezra

Ford in appreciation of thirty

years’ service to the Milwaukee

Railroad.

J. J. Ford, apartment 4D

“Fod-d-d, fo—de,” Chris said.

“That’s right, Judge Ford. Must be her father’s watch.

Probably lost it. I don’t think it could have been stolen by

anyone at the party last night.”

Chris smiled. His brother had not understood him. Good.

This might be an important discovery—Judge Ford’s name

was the same as her apartment number: Ford, 4D.

Theo led the waiting tenants through the kitchen where

Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis handed out cups of tea and coffee.

“Sorry, we’ve run out of cream and lemons. Please help

yourself to some homemade pastries.”

Walking into a coffee shop was like entering a cave. A

wall of snow pressed against the plate-glass window, sealing

the door that once opened to the parking lot.

“I’ve got a car buried out there,” Grace Wexler said,

slipping into a booth opposite her partner. “Hope I find it

before the snowplows do.”

“If they ever get here,” Mr. Hoo replied. “Good thing this

meeting wasn’t held in my restaurant, I’d go broke passing out

free tea, if you call this tea.” He held up a tea bag with

contempt, then groaned on seeing his sweat-suited son jog in

with a sweet roll between his teeth and vault over his hands

onto a stool. “Where’s your daughter the turtle?”

Grace Wexler looked around. “I don’t know, maybe she’s

helping her father with his bookkeeping.”

“Bookkeeping!” Mr. Hoo let out a whoop. Grace had no

idea what was so funny, but she joined him in loud laughter.

Nothing stirred people’s envy more than a private joke.

Thinking she was being laughed at, Sydelle Pulaski

dropped her polka dot crutch and spilled her coffee on

Angela’s tapestry bag before managing a solid perch on the

counter stool.

Clink, clink. Theo tapped a spoon against a glass for

attention. “Thank you for coming. When the meeting is over

you are all welcome to stay for a chess tournament.

Meanwhile, I’d like to explain why my partner and me…my

partner and I…called this meeting. I don’t know about your

clues, but our clues don’t make any sense.” The heirs stared at

him with blank faces, no one nodded, no one even blinked.

“Now then, if no two sets of clues are alike, as the will says,

that could mean that each set of clues is only part of one

message. The more clues we put together, the better chance we

have of finding the murderer and winning the game. Of

course, the inheritance will be divided into equal shares.”

Sydelle Pulaski raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “What

about the clues that are in the will itself?”

“Yes, we’d appreciate having a copy of the will, Ms.

Pulaski,” Theo replied.

“Well, equal shares doesn’t seem quite fair, since I’m the

only one here who thought of taking notes.” Sydelle turned to

the group, one penciled eyebrow arched high over her red

sequined spectacles.

Her self-congratulatory pose was too much for Mr. Hoo.

Grunting loudly, he squeezed out of the booth and slapped the

shorthand pad on the counter.

“Thief!” the secretary shrieked, nearly toppling off the

stool as she grabbed her notebook. “Thief!”

“I did not steal your notebook,” the indignant Hoo

explained. “I found it on a table in my restaurant this morning.

You can believe me or not, I really don’t care, because those

notes you so selfishly dangled under our noses are completely

worthless. My partner knows shorthand and she says your

shorthand is nothing but senseless scrawls. Jibberish.”

“Pure jibberish,” Grace Wexler added. “Those are

standard shorthand symbols all right, but they don’t translate

into words.”

“Thief!” Sydelle cried, now accusing Mrs. Wexler.

“Thief! Larcenist! Felon!”

“Don’t, Sydelle,” Angela said softly, her eyes set on the D

she was embroidering.

“You wouldn’t understand, Angela, you don’t know what

it’s like to be.…” Her voice broke. She paused then lashed out

at her enemies, all of them. “Who cares a fig about Sydelle

Pulaski? Nobody, that’s who. I’m no fool, you know. I knew I

couldn’t trust any one of you. You can’t read my shorthand

because I wrote in Polish.”

Polish?!?!

When the meeting was again called to order Mr. Hoo

suggested they offer Ms. Pulaski a slightly larger share of the

inheritance in exchange for a transcript of the will—in

English. “However, I repeat, neither my partner nor I stole the

notes. And if anyone here suspects us of murder, forget it, we

both have airtight alibis.”

Doug choked on his sweet roll. If it got around to alibis,

they’d find out where he was the night of the murder. On the

Westing house lawn.

Mr. Hoo went on. “And to prove our innocence, my

partner and I agree to share our clues.”

“One minute, Mr. Hoo.” Judge Ford stood. It was time for

her to speak before matters got out of hand. “Let me remind

you, all of you, that a person is innocent until proven guilty.

We are free to choose whether or not to share our clues

without any implication of guilt. I suggest we postpone any

decision until we have given the matter careful thought, and

until the time all of the heirs can attend. However, since we

are assembled, I have a question to ask of the group; perhaps

others do, too.”

They all did. Wary of giving away game plans, the heirs

decided the questions would be written out, but no names were

to be signed. Doug collected the scraps of paper and handed

them to Theo.

“Is anyone here a twin?” he read.

No one answered.

“What is Turtle’s real name?” Doug Hoo was planning

another nasty sign.

“Tabitha-Ruth,” replied Mrs. Wexler with a bewildered

look at Flora Baumbach, who said “Alice.”

“Well, which is it?”

“Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. I should know, I’m her mother.”

Doug changed his mind about the sign. He couldn’t spell

Tabitha-Ruth.

Theo unfolded the next question. “How many here have

actually met Sam Westing?”

Grace Wexler raised her hand, lowered it, raised it

halfway, then lowered it again, torn between her claim as Sam

Westing’s relative and being accused of murder. Mr. Hoo (an

honest man) held up his hand and kept it up. His was the only

one. Judge Ford did not think it necessary to respond to her

own question.

Theo recognized the sprawling handwriting of the next

question: “Who got kicked last week?” Chris did not receive

an answer. The meeting was adjourned due to panic.

12 ♦ The First Bomb

It was so sudden: the earsplitting bangs, the screams, the

confusion. Theo and Doug ran into the kitchen; Mrs.

Theodorakis ran out. Her hair, her face, her apron were

splattered with dark dripping red.

“Blood,” Sydelle Pulaski cried, clutching her heart.

“Don’t just sit there,” Catherine Theodorakis shouted,

“somebody call the fire department.”

Angela hurried to the pay phone on the wall and stood

there trembling, not knowing whether to call or not. They were

snowbound, the fire engines could not reach Sunset Towers.

Theo leaned through the kitchen doorway. “Everything’s

okay. There’s no fire.”

“Chris, honey, it’s all right,” Mrs. Theodorakis said,

kneeling before the wheelchair. “It’s all right, Chris, look! It’s

just tomato sauce.”

Tomato sauce! Mrs. Theodorakis was covered with

tomato sauce, not blood. The curious heirs now piled into the

kitchen, except for Sydelle Pulaski, who slumped to the

counter. She could have a heart attack and no one would

notice.

Mr. Hoo surveyed the scene, trying to conceal his delight.

“What a mess,” he said. “That row of cans must have

exploded from the heat of the stove.” The entire kitchen was

splattered with tomato sauce and soaked in foam from the fire

extinguishers. “What a mess.”

George Theodorakis regarded him with suspicion. “It was

a bomb.”

Catherine Theodorakis thought so, too. “There was

hissing, then bang, bang, sparks flying all over the kitchen, red

sparks, purple sparks.”

“Cans of tomato sauce exploded,” Doug Hoo said,

defending his father. The others agreed. Mrs. Theodorakis was

understandably hysterical. A bomb? Ridiculous. Sam Westing

certainly did not appear to have been killed by a bomb.

Judge Ford suggested that the accident be reported to the

police immediately in order to collect on the insurance.

“You might as well redecorate the entire kitchen,” Grace

Wexler, decorator, proposed. “It should be functional yet

attractive, with lots of copper pots hanging from the ceiling.”

“I don’t think there’s any real damage,” Catherine

Theodorakis replied, “but we’ll have to close for a few days to

clean up.”

Mr. Hoo smiled. Angela offered to help.

“Angela, dear, you have a fitting this afternoon,” Grace

reminded her, “and we have so much to do for the wedding

shower on Saturday.”

In thumped Sydelle Pulaski. “I’m fine now, just a bit

woozy. Goodness, what a nasty turn.”

Having recovered from the nasty turn, Sydelle Pulaski settled

down to transcribing her shorthand to Polish, then from Polish

to English. Startled by loud banging on her apartment door,

she struck the wrong typewriter key.

“Open up!”

Recognizing the voice, Angela unbolted the door to a

furious Turtle. “All right, Angela, where is it?”

“What?”

“The newspaper you took from my desk.”

Angela carefully dug through the embroidery, personal

items, and other paraphernalia in her tapestry bag and pulled

out the newspaper folded to the Westing obituary. “I’m sorry,

Turtle. I would have asked for it, but you weren’t around.”

“You don’t also happen to have my Mickey Mouse clock

in there, too, do you?” Turtle softened on seeing her sister’s

hurt expression. “I’m only kidding. You left your engagement

ring on the sink again. Better go get it before somebody steals

that, too.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about anyone stealing Angela’s

ring,” Sydelle Pulaski remarked. “No mother would stoop that

low.”

The thought of Grace being the burglar was so funny to

Turtle, she plopped down on the sofa and rolled about in

laughter. It felt good to laugh; the stock market had fallen five

points today.

“Angela, please tell your sister to get her dirty shoes off

my couch. Tell her to sit up and act like a lady.”

Turtle rose with a tongue click very much like her

mother’s, but she was not about to leave without striking back.

Arms folded, she leaned against the wall and let them have it.

“Mom thinks Angela was the one who stole the shorthand

notebook.” That got them. Look at those open mouths.

“Because mom asked to see it, and Angela does everything she

says.”

“Anyone could have stolen my notebook; I didn’t double

lock my door that day.” If Sydelle couldn’t trust her own

partner, she was alone, all alone.

“Did mom really say that?” Angela asked.

“No, but I know how she thinks, I know what everybody

thinks. Grown-ups are so obvious.”

“Ridiculous,” scoffed Sydelle.

“For instance, I happen to know that Angela doesn’t want

to marry that sappy intern.”

“Ridiculous. You’re just jealous of your sister.”

“Maybe,” Turtle had to admit, “but I am what I am. I

don’t need a crutch to get attention.” Oh, oh, she had gone too

far.

“Turtle didn’t mean it that way, Sydelle,” Angela said

quickly. “She used the word crutch as a symbol. She meant,

you know, that people are so afraid of revealing their true

selves, they have to hide behind some sort of prop.”

“Oh, really?” Sydelle replied. “Then Turtle’s crutch is her

big mouth.”

No, Angela thought, hurrying her sister out of the door

and back to their apartment, Turtle’s crutch is her braid.

The newspaperman called again to say he had found some

photographs taken at Westingtown parties twenty years ago.

“One of those names appears in a caption as Violet Westing’s

escort: George Theodorakis.”

“Go on,” the judge said.

“That’s all.” He promised to send her the clippings in the

Westing file as soon as he was shoveled out.

The judge now knew of four heirs with Westing

connections: James Hoo, the inventor; Theo’s father; her

partner, Sandy McSouthers, who had been fired from the

Westing paper mill; and herself. But she had to learn more,

much more about each one of the heirs if she hoped to protect

the victim of Sam Westing’s revenge.

She would have to hire a detective, a very private

detective, who had not been associated with her in her practice

or in the courts. J. J. Ford flipped through the yellow pages to

Investigators—Private.

“Good grief!” Her finger stopped near the top of the list.

Was it a coincidence or dumb luck? Or was she playing right

into Sam Westing’s hand? No choice but to chance it. The

judge dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently

waiting for an answer.

“Hello. If you’re looking for a snowbound private

investigator, you’ve got the right number.”

Yes, she had the right number. It may be a trick, but it was

no coincidence. The voices were one and the same.

13 ♦ The Second Bomb

No one was in the kitchen of Shin Hoo’s Restaurant when the

bomber set a tall can labeled “Monosodium glutamate” behind

similar cans on a shelf. The color-striped candle would burn

down to the fuse at six-thirty; whoever was working there

would be at the other end of the room. No one would be hurt.

Due to the unfortunate damage to the coffee shop

SHIN HOO’S RESTAURANT

is prepared to satisfy all dinner accommodations.

Order down, or ride up to the fifth floor.

Treat your taste buds to a scrumptious meal

while feasting your eyes on the stunning snowscape

before it melts away. Reasonable prices, too.

Grace Wexler tacked her sign to the elevator wall as she rode

up to her new job. She was going to be the seating hostess.

“Where’s the cook?” Mr. Hoo shouted (meaning his wife).

He found Madame Hoo in their rear fourth-floor apartment

kneeling before her bamboo trunk, fingering mementoes from

her childhood in China. He hurried her up to the kitchen, too

harried to find the words that would explain what was

happening. Now where was that lazy son of his?

Doug jogged in from a tiring workout on the stairs. How

was he supposed to know the restaurant would open early?

Nobody bothered telling him.

“Some student you are; anyone with the brain of an

anteater could have figured that out: people are short of food,

the coffee shop is closed for repairs. Stop arguing, go take a

shower, and put on your busboy outfit. Get moving!”

“Don’t you think you’re rather hard on the boy?” Grace

commented.

“Somebody’s got to give him a shove. If he had his way

he’d do nothing but run,” Hoo replied between bites of

chocolate. “You’re not so easy on Angela, either.”

“Angela? Angela was born good, the perfect child. As for

the other one, well…”

“It’s not easy being a parent,” Hoo said woefully.

“You can say that again.” Grace held her breath. Her

husband would have done just that, said it again, but Mr. Hoo

only nodded in shared sympathy. What a gentleman.

Only Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis ordered down. The other

tenants of Sunset Towers lined up at the reservations desk,

waiting for Grace Windsor Wexler to lead the way. Oversized

menus clutched in her arms, Grace felt the first proud stirrings

of power rush up from her pedicured toes to the very top curl

on her head. If Uncle Sam could pair off people, so could she.

“You see your brother every day, Chris, how about eating

with someone else for a change?” She wheeled the boy to a

window table without waiting for an answer. It would have

been yes.

The two cripples together, Sydelle Pulaski thought. She’d

show that high and mighty hostess, she’d show them all. She

and Chris could have private jokes, too, and everybody would

be sorry they weren’t sitting with them.

“Whas moo g-goo g-gipn?” Chris asked, baffled by the

strange words on the menu.

“I think it’s boiled grasshopper.” Sydelle screwed up her

face and Chris laughed. “Or chocolate-covered moose.”

“Frenssh-fry m-mouse,” Chris offered. Now Sydelle

laughed. They both laughed heartily, but no one envied them.

“Your brother seems to be enjoying Ms. Pulaski.”

Theo nodded, awed by the beautiful Angela, three years

older than he, so fair-skinned and blonde, so unattainable.

Here he was sitting at the very same table with her, just the

two of them, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that

wasn’t stupid or childish or childishly stupid.

Usually the quiet one, Angela tried again. “Are you

planning to go to college next year?”

Theo nodded, then shook his head. Say something, idiot.

“I got a scholarship to Madison, but I’m not going. I’m going

to work instead.” What big, worried, sky-blue eyes. “The

operation for Chris will be very expensive.” That was worse,

now she’s feeling sorry for him. “If Chris had been born that

way, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but he was a perfectly

normal kid, a great kid. And he’s smart, too. About four years

ago he started to get clumsy, just little things at first.”

“Perhaps my fiancé can help.” Angela bit her lip. Theo

was not asking for charity. And fiancé, what an old-fashioned,

silly word. “I went to college for a year. I wanted to be a

doctor, but, well, we don’t have as much money as my mother

pretends. Dad said he could manage if that’s what I really

wanted, but my mother said it was too difficult for a woman to

get into medical school.” Why was she gabbing like this?

“I want to be a writer,” Theo said. That really sounded

like kid stuff. “Would you go back to college if you won the

inheritance?”

Angela looked down. It was a question she did not want

to answer. Or could not answer.

Long before becoming a judge, Josie-Jo Ford had decided to

stop smiling. Smiling without good reason was demeaning. A

serious face put the smiler on the defensive, a rare smile put a

nervous witness at ease. She now bestowed one of her rare

smiles on the dressmaker. “I’m so glad we have this chance to

become acquainted, Mrs. Baumbach. I had so little time to

chat with my guests last night.”

“It was a wonderful party.”

Flora Baumbach appeared even smaller and rounder than

she was as she sat twisting her napkin with hands accustomed

to being busy. Was her face permanently creased from years of

pleasing customers, or was a tragedy lurking behind that grin?

“Have you always specialized in wedding gowns?”

“Mr. Baumbach and I had a shop for many years:

Baumbach’s for the Bride and Groom. Perhaps you’ve heard

of it?”

“I’m afraid not.” The judge would have said no in any

case to keep her witness talking.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of Flora’s Bridal Gowns? That’s

what I called my shop after my husband left. I don’t know

much about grooms’ clothes, they’re mostly rentals, anyway.”

Flora Baumbach lost her timidity; the judge let her chat away.

“I’m using heirloom lace on the bodice of Angela’s gown; it’s

been in my family for three generations. I wore it at my

wedding, and I dreamed that someday I’d have a daughter who

would wear it, too, but Rosalie didn’t come along until I was

in my forties, and…” The dressmaker stopped. Her lips

tightened into an even wider grin. “Angela will make such a

beautiful bride. Funny how she reminds me of her.”

“Angela reminds you of your daughter?” the judge asked.

“Oh my, no. Angela reminds me of another young girl I

made a wedding dress for: Violet Westing.”

The heavy charms on Sydelle Pulaski’s bracelet clinked and

clunked as she raised a full fork and flourished it in a practiced

ritual before aiming it at her open mouth. Chris’s movements

were even jerkier. She’s a good person, he thought, but she

thinks too much about herself. Maybe she never had anybody

to love.

“Here, let me help you to some of this delicious sweet and

sour ostrich.”

Their laughter drowned out the loud groan from another

table where Turtle sat alone, a transistor radio plugged in her

ear. The stock market had dropped another twelve points.

“I’m starved, let’s sit down to eat.” Head held high, Grace

Wexler led her husband across the restaurant. “All I want is a

corned beef sandwich, not a guided tour.”

“Would you prefer to sit alone or with that young lady

over there?”

“I thought I was going to sit with you.”

“Please be seated,” Grace replied. “Jimmy, I mean Mr.

Hoo, will take your order shortly.”

Jake snatched the menu from his wife and watched her

glide (gracefully, he had to admit) to the reservations desk and

whisper in Hoo’s ear. (Jimmy, she calls him.) “That’s a fine

kettle of fish,” he exclaimed, then turned to his dinner

companion. “Fine kettle of fish. I’m so hungry even that

sounds good, and from the looks of this menu that’s probably

what I’ll get.”

“I’m okay,” Turtle replied, the final prices of actively

traded stocks tumbling in her ear.

Mr. Hoo waddled over. “I recommend the striped bass.”

“See, what did I tell you, a kettle of fish.”

Turtle switched off the radio. She had heard enough bad

news for one day.

“How about spareribs done to a crisp,” Hoo suggested;

then he lowered his voice. “What’s the point spread on the

Packers game?”

“See me later,” Jake muttered.

“Go ahead and tell him, daddy,” Turtle said. “I know

you’re a bookie.”

“Can you stand on your legs?” Sydelle Pulaski asked. “Can

you walk at all?”

People never asked Chris those questions; they whispered

them to his parents behind his back. “N-n-no. Why?”

“What better disguise for a thief or a murderer than a

wheelchair, the perfect alibi.”

Chris enjoyed being taken for the criminal type. Now they

really were friends. “When you ree m-m-me nos?”

“What? Oh, read you my notes. Soon, very soon.” Sydelle

daintily touched the corners of her mouth with the napkin,

pushed back her chair and grabbed her polka dot crutch. “That

was a superb meal, I must give my compliments to the chef.”

She rose, knocking the chair to the floor, and clumped toward

the kitchen door.

“Where is she going?” Angela, starting up to help her

partner, was distracted by shouting in the corridor.

“Hello in there, anybody home?” Through the restaurant

door came a bundled and booted figure. He danced an

elephantine jig, stomping snow on the carpet, flung a long

woolen scarf from his neck and yelled, “Otis Amber is here,

the roads are clear!”

That’s when the bomb went off.

“Nobody move! Everybody stay where you are,” Mr. Hoo

shouted as he rushed into the sizzling, crackling kitchen.

“Just a little mishap,” Grace Wexler explained, taking her

command post in the middle of the restaurant. “Nothing to

worry about. Eat up before your food gets cold.”

A cluster of red sparks hissed through the swinging

kitchen door, kissed the ceiling and rained a shimmering

shower down and around the petrified hostess. Fireflies of

color faded into her honey-blonde hair and scattered into ash

at her feet. “Nothing to worry about,” she repeated hoarsely.

“Just celebrating the Chinese New Year,” Otis Amber

shouted, adding one of his he-he-he cackles.

Mr. Hoo leaned through the kitchen doorway, his shiny

straight black hair (even shinier and straighter) plastered to his

forehead, water dribbling down his moon-shaped face. “Call

an ambulance, there’s been a slight accident.”

Angela dashed past Mr. Hoo into the kitchen. Jake Wexler

made the emergency telephone call and sent Theo to the lobby

to direct the ambulance attendants.

“Why are you standing there like a statue,” Hoo shouted

at his son.

“You told everybody to stay where they were,” Doug said.

“You’re not everybody!”

Madame Hoo tried to make the injured woman as

comfortable as possible on the debris-strewn floor. Angela

found the sequined spectacles, wiped off the wet, crystalline

mess and placed them on her partner’s nose.

“Don’t look so worried, Angela. I’m all right.” Sydelle

was in pain, but she wanted attention on her own terms, not as

a hapless, foolish victim of fate.

“Looks like a fracture,” an ambulance attendant said,

feeling her right ankle. “Careful how you lift her.”

The secretary suppressed a grunt. It was bad enough being

drenched by the overhead sprinkler and draped with noodles;

now they were carrying her right past them all.

Grace pulled Angela away from the stretcher. “You can

visit your friend in a few days.”

“Angela, Angela,” Sydelle moaned. Pride or not, she

wanted her partner at her side.

Angela stood between her determined mother and her

distraught partner, paralyzed by the burden of choice.

“Go with your friend, Angie-pie,” Jake Wexler said. Other

voices chimed in. “Go with Pulaski.”

Grace realized she had lost. “Perhaps you should go to the

hospital, Angela, it’s been so long since you’ve seen your

Doctor D.” She winked mischievously, but only Flora

Baumbach smiled back.

The policeman and the fire inspector visiting the scene agreed

that it was nothing more than a gas explosion. Good thing the

sprinkler system worked or Mr. Hoo might have had a good

fire.

“What kind of a fire is a good fire,” Hoo wanted to know.

“And what about the burglaries?” Grace Wexler asked.

“I’m with the bomb squad,” the policeman explained.

“You’ll have to call the robbery detail for that.”

“And what about the coffee shop accident?” Theo asked.

“Also a gas explosion.”

Jake Wexler asked about the odds of having two

explosions in two days in the same building.

“Nothing unusual,” the fireman replied, “especially in

weather like this, no ventilation, snow packed over the ducts.”

He instructed the tenants to air out their kitchens before

lighting ovens.

Mrs. Wexler turned up the heat in her apartment and kept

the windows open for the next three days. She did not want

anything blowing up during Angela’s party.

But the Wexler apartment was exactly where the bomber

planned to set the next bomb.

14 ♦ Pairs Repaired

The snowplows plowed and a warm sun finished the job of

freeing the tenants of Sunset Towers (and the figure in the

Westing house) from their wintry prisons.

Angela, disguised in her mother’s old beaver coat and hat

and in Turtle’s red boots, was the first one out. Following

Sydelle’s instructions she hastily searched under the hood of

every car in the parking lot. Nothing was there (nothing, that

is, that didn’t seem to belong to an automobile engine). So

much for Good gracious from hood space.

Next came Flora Baumbach. Behind her a bootless Turtle

tiptoed through puddles. Miracle of miracles: the rusty and

battered Chevy started, but the dressmaker’s luck went

downhill from there. First, the hood of her car flew up in the

middle of traffic. Then, after two hours of watching

mysterious symbols move across the lighted panel high on the

wall of the broker’s office, her eyes began to cross. After three

hours the grin faded from her face. “I’m getting dizzy,” she

said, shifting her position on the hard wooden folding chair,

“and worse yet, I think I’ve got a splinter in my fanny.”

“Look, there goes one of our stocks,” Turtle replied.

__________________________________________________

SEA GM

LVI MGC T

AMI

I

5$8½ 5000$67 32¼ 2$14 1000$65¼ 3$19¼ 8$22½

__________________________________________________

Flora Baumbach caught a glimpse of SEA 5$8½ as it was

about to magically disappear off the left edge of the moving

screen. “Oh my, I’ve forgotten what that means.”

Turtle sighed. “It means five hundred shares of SEA was

traded at $8.50 a share.”

“What did we pay?”

“Never mind, just write down the prices of our stocks as

they cross the tape like I’m doing. Once school opens it’s all

up to you.” Turtle did not tell her partner that they had bought

two hundred shares of SEA at $15.25 a share. On that stock

alone they had a loss of $1,350, not counting commissions. It

took nerves of steel to play the stock market.

“The Mercedes is wiped clean and shiny like new,” the

doorman boasted. His face reddened around old scars as he

rejected a folded five dollar bill. “No tips, judge, please, not

after all you’ve done for the wife and me.” The judge had

given him the entire ten thousand dollars.

J. J. Ford pocketed the bill and, to make amends for her

thoughtless gesture, asked the doorman about his family.

Sandy perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair,

adjusted his round wire-framed glasses, repaired at the bridge

with adhesive tape, across his broken nose, and told about his

children. “Two boys still in high school, one daughter married

and expecting my third grandchild (her husband just lost his

job so they all moved in with us), another daughter who works

part-time as a typist (she plays the piano real good), and two

sons who work in a brewery.”

“It must have been difficult supporting such a large

family,” the judge said.

“Not so bad. I picked up odd jobs here and there after I

got fired from the Westing plant for trying to organize the

union, but mostly I boxed. I wasn’t no middleweight

contender, but I wasn’t bad, either. Got my face smashed up a

few times too many, though; still get some pretty bad

headaches and my brain gets sort of fuzzy. Some dummy of a

partner you got stuck with, huh, judge?”

“We’ll do just fine, partner.” Judge Ford’s attempt at

familiarity fell flat. “I did try to phone you, but your name was

not listed.”

“We don’t have a phone no more; couldn’t afford it with

the kids making so many calls. But I did make some headway

on our clues. Want to see?” Sandy removed a paper from the

inside of his cap and placed it on the desk. Judge Ford noticed

a flask protruding from the back pocket of his uniform, but his

breath smelled of peppermint.

The clues as figured out by Alexander

McSouthers:

SKIES AM SHINING BROTHER

SKIES— Sikes (Dr. Sikes witnessed the will)

AM BrothER— Amber (Otis Amber)

SHINing— Shin (the middle name of James

Shin Hoo or what Turtle kicks)

BROTHER— Theo or Chris Theodorakis

“Remarkable,” the judge commented to Sandy’s delight.

“However, we are looking for one name, not six.”

“Gee, judge, I forgot,” Sandy said dejectedly.

Judge Ford told him about Theo’s proposal, but Sandy

refused to go along. “It seems too easy, the clues adding up to

one message, especially for a shrewd guy like Westing. Let’s

stick it out together, just the two of us. After all, I got me the

smartest partner of them all.”

Shallow flattery for the big tipper, the judge thought.

McSouthers was not a stupid man; if only he was less

obsequious—and less of a gossip.

The doorman scratched his head. “What I can’t figure out,

judge, is why I’m one of the heirs. Unless Sam Westing just up

and died, and there is no murderer. Unless Sam Westing is out

to get somebody from his grave.”

“I agree with you entirely, Mr. McSouthers. What we

have to find out is who these sixteen heirs are, and which one,

as you say, was Westing ‘out to get.’”

Sandy beamed. They were going to play it his way.

“What you need is an advertising campaign.”

“What I need is my half of the ten thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars is what I estimate the redecorating

and the newspaper ads will cost.”

“Get out of here, get out!”

Grace stared at Hoo’s smooth, broad face, at the devilish

tufts of eyebrow so high above those flashing eyes, then she

turned her back and walked out. Sometimes she wondered

about that man—no, he couldn’t be the murderer, he couldn’t

even kill the waterbug in the sink this morning. Grace spun

around to see if she was being followed on the footstep-

hushing carpet in the third floor hall. No one was there, but

she heard voices. They were coming from her kitchen. It was

nothing, just Otis Amber shouting at Crow, something about

losing their clues.

“I remember them, Otis,” Crow replied in a soft voice.

She felt strangely at peace. Just this morning she had been

given the chance to hide her love in Angela’s bag, the big

tapestry shoulder bag she carries next to her heart. Now she

must pray that the boy comes back.

“I remember them, too, that’s not the point,” Otis Amber

argued. “What if somebody else finds them? Crow? Are you

listening to me, Crow?”

No, but Grace Wexler was listening. “Really, Mr. Amber,

can’t you find another time to discuss your affairs with my

cleaning woman. And where are you going, Crow?”

Crow was buttoned up in a black moth-eaten winter coat;

a black shawl covered her head.

“It’s freezing in here.” Otis Amber shut the window.

Grace opened the window. “The last thing I need is a gas

explosion,” she said peevishly.

“Boom!” he replied. The two women were so startled that

the delivery boy sneaked up on the unsuspecting for the rest of

the week, shouting “Boom!”

Besides shouting “Boom!” Otis Amber delivered

groceries from the shopping center to Sunset Towers, back and

forth, to and fro. Not only did the tenants have to restock their

bare shelves, they had to add Westing Paper Products by the

gross to their orders. “Idiots, just because the will said Buy

Westing Paper Products,” he muttered, hefting a bulky bag

from the compartment attached to his bike. Even Crow was

using Westing Disposable Diapers to polish the silver and

Westing Paper Towels to scrub the floors. (Is that what

happened to their clues?) Poor Crow, she’s taking this game

harder than he had expected. She’s been acting strange again.

“Boom!” Otis Amber shouted as the intern hurried by.

“Idiot,” muttered Denton Deere.

Denton Deere paced the floor. “Listen, kid, I’d like to help

you, but I’m only an intern specializing in plastic surgery. It

would be different if you wanted a nose job or a face-lift.” He

had meant to be amusing; it sounded cruel.

Chris had not asked for charity. All he wanted was to play

the game with the intern.

All the intern wanted was half of the ten thousand dollars.

“I hear your brother suggested sharing clues. Sounds like a

fine idea.” No response. Maybe the kid thinks I’m the

murderer. The tenants must think so, the way they peered over

their shoulders; and that delivery boy shouting like that. Why

me? I’m a doctor; I took an oath to save lives, not take them.

“I’m a very busy man, Chris, I have lots of sick people

depending on me. Oh well.” Plowing his fingers through his

stringy mouse-brown hair to keep it out of his eyes (when

would he find time for a haircut?), he seated himself next to

the wheelchair. “The clues are in my locker. What were they?

‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’?”

“F-for p-plain g-g-grain shed.” Chris spoke slowly. He

had practiced his recitation over and over, hour after lonely

hour. “G-grain—oats—Otis Amber. F-for, shed—she, F-Ford.

F-Ford lives in f-four D.”

“Ford, apartment 4D, good thinking, Chris.” The intern

rose. “Is that all?”

Chris decided not to tell him about the limper on the lawn,

not until the next time. His partner would have to visit him a

next time, and a next time, as long as he didn’t sign the check.

“Now, about signing the check,” Denton Deere said.

Chris shook his head. No.

On a bench in the lobby Angela embroidered her trousseau,

waiting for Denton. Dad had tried to teach her to drive, but she

was too timid; he, too impatient. Why bother with driving

lessons, her mother said, anyone as pretty as you can always

find a handsome young man to chauffeur you. She should

have insisted. She should have said no just once to her mother,

just once. It was too late now.

Theo came in with an armload of books. “Hi, Angela.

Hey, I found that quotation, or rather, the librarian found it.

You know: May God thy gold refine.”

“Really?” Angela thought it unnecessary to remind him

that it was Flora Baumbach and Turtle who had asked about

the quotation, not she.

What lush lips, what white teeth, what fine and shiny hair.

Theo fumbled between the pages of a chemistry book for the

index card. On it was written the third verse of “America, the

Beautiful”:

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

Till all success be nobleness

And every gain divine.

Theo had begun reading the refrain and ended up singing. He

shyly laughed off his foolishness. “I guess it doesn’t have

anything to do with money or the will, just Uncle Sam’s

patriotism popping up again.”

“Thank you, Theo.” Angela stuffed her embroidery in the

tapestry bag on seeing Denton Deere rush off the elevator.

“Hello, Doctor Deere, how about a game of chess?”

“Let’s go,” the intern said, ignoring Theo.

Sandy opened the front door for the couple, whistling

“America, the Beautiful.” The doorman was a good whistler,

thanks to his chipped front tooth.

“I can’t drive you home; I’m on duty tonight.”

“I’ll take a cab.”

“Why must you go back to the hospital? Your crazy

partner isn’t dying, you know.”

“She’s not crazy.”

“She made up her so-called wasting disease, I call that

crazy. Nothing was wrong with her legs until the explosion in

the Chinese restaurant.”

“You’re wrong.”

“First you ask me to look in on her, now you don’t want

my opinion. Anyhow, I called in a psychiatrist. Maybe you

should talk to him, too. I’ve never seen you so troubled.

What’s wrong, the wedding dress isn’t ready, the guest list is

too long? You’ll have to cope with more important matters

than that once we’re married. Unless you don’t want to get

married. Is that it?”

Angela twisted the engagement ring her mother made her

wear in spite of the rash. No, she did not want to get married,

not right away, but she couldn’t say it, she couldn’t tell him—

them, not like that. Denton would be so hurt, her mother…the

engagement was announced in the newspaper, the wedding

gown, the shower…but once they found out she wasn’t their

perfect Angela…

How long has she been sitting here in the hospital

corridor? A man in a business suit (the psychiatrist?) came out

of Sydelle’s room. “You must be Angela,” he said. How had

Sydelle described her—a pretty young thing? “I hear you’re

going to marry one of our interns.” She was going to get

married, her one claim to fame.

“How is Ms. Pulaski, doctor?”

“Do you mean is she crazy? No. No more or less than

anybody else in town.”

“But the crippling disease, she made that up?”

“So what? The woman was lonely and wanted some

attention, so she did something about it. And quite creatively,

too. Those painted crutches are a touch of genius.”

“Is that normal? I mean, it’s not insane to shock people

into noticing who you are?”

The doctor patted Angela’s cheek as though she were a

child. “No one was hurt by her little deception. Now, go in and

say hello to your friend.”

“Hello, Sydelle.”

Without makeup, without jewelry, clothed only in a white

hospital gown, she looked older, softer. She looked like a sad

and homely human being. You talk to the doctors?”

“It’s a simple fracture,” Angela replied.

“What else?” Sydelle turned her face to the wall.

“The doctor says your disease is incurable, but you could

have a remission lasting five years, even more, if you take

good care of yourself and don’t overdo it.”

“The doctor said that?” Maybe a few people could be

trusted. “Did you bring my makeup? I must look a mess.”

In the overstuffed tapestry bag, under Sydelle’s cosmetic

case, Angela found a letter. It was a strange letter, written in a

tense and rigid hand:

Forgive me, my daughter. God bless you, my

child. Delight in your love and the devil

take doctor dear. Hast thou found me, O

mine enemy? The time draws near.

Taped at the bottom were two clues:

THY BEAUTIFUL

15 ♦ Fact and Gossip

Friday was back to normal, if the actions of suspicious would-

be heirs competing for a two-hundred-million-dollar prize

could be considered normal.

At school, Theo studied, Doug Hoo ran, and Turtle was

twice sent to the principal’s office for having been caught with

a transistor radio plugged in her ear.

The coffee shop was full of diners.

Shin Hoo’s restaurant had reopened, too, but no one came.

J. J. Ford presided at the bench, and Sandy McSouthers

presided at the front door, whistling, chatting, collecting

tidbits of gossip and adding some of his own.

Flora Baumbach, her strained eyes shielded by dark

glasses, drove Turtle to school on her way to the broker’s

office and picked her up in the late afternoon with a sheet of

prices copied from the moving tape. They had lost $3,000 in

five days.

“Paper losses,” Turtle said. “Doesn’t mean a thing.

Besides, I didn’t pick these stocks. Mr. Westing did.”

Did he? The dressmaker thought of the clue Chris had

dropped; no stock symbol had five letters or even resembled

the word plain. But Flora Baumbach played fair and kept the

secret to herself.

Four people stood in the driveway’s melting snow, shivering

as the sun dropped behind Sunset Towers. The fifth jogged in

place. No smoke had risen from the chimney since that fateful

Halloween; still they stared up at the Westing house, murder

on their minds.

“He looked too peaceful to have been murdered,” Turtle

said. She sneezed and Sandy handed her a Westing tissue.

“How would you know?” Doug replied. “How many

people have you seen murdered?”

“Turtle’s right,” her friend Sandy said. “If Westing

expected it, he’d have seen it coming. His face would have

looked scared.”

“Maybe he didn’t see it coming,” Theo argued. “The

killer was very cunning, Westing said. I read a mystery once

where the victim was allergic to bee stings and the murderer

let a bee in through an open window.”

“The window wasn’t open,” Turtle said, wiping her nose.

“Besides, Westing would have heard the buzzing and jumped

out of bed.”

Doug had an idea. “Maybe the murderer injected bee

venom in his veins.”

Otis Amber flung his arms in the air. “Whoever said Sam

Westing was allergic to bees?”

Doug tried again. “How about snake venom? Or poison?

Doctors know lots of poisons that make it look like heart

attacks.”

Turtle almost kicked Doug, track meet or not. Her father

was a doctor. She would not have minded if he had said

“interns.”

“I once heard about a murderer who stabbed his victim

with an icicle,” the doorman said. “It melted leaving no trace

of a murder weapon.”

“That’s a good one,” Turtle exclaimed appreciatively.

Sandy had more. “Then there was a Roman who choked

on a single goat hair someone put in his milk. And there was

the Greek poet who was killed when an eagle dropped a

tortoise on his bald head.”

“Maybe Westing was just sleeping until Turtle stumbled

and fell on his head,” Doug suggested.

“That’s not funny, Doug Hoo.” How could she ever have

had a crush on that disgusting jerk?

Doug would not let up. “And who was that suspicious

person in red boots I saw opening the hoods of cars in the

parking lot the other morning?” He looked at Turtle’s booted

feet.

“The thief stole my boots and put them back again. They

leak.”

“A likely story, Tabitha-Ruth.” Doug pulled her braid and

ran into the lobby at full speed.

Sandy placed a large hand on Turtle’s shoulder, a

comforting hand, and a restraining one.

Otis Amber hopped on his bike. “Can’t stand around chit-

chatting about a murder that never happened. Sam Westing

was a madman. Insane. Crazy as a bedbug.” He pedaled off,

shouting back, “We ain’t murderers, none of us.”

Theo could not agree. If there was no murderer, there was

no answer; and without an answer, no one could win. “Sandy,

did anybody leave Sunset Towers on Halloween night, before

Turtle and Doug?”

The doorman scratched his head under his hat, thinking.

“One day seems like the next, people coming and going. I

can’t remember.”

“Try.”

Sandy scratched harder. “Only ones I recall are Otis

Amber and Crow. They left together about five o’clock.”

“Thanks.” Theo hurried into the building to check his

clues.

Turtle had no reason to suspect Otis Amber or Crow or

any of the heirs. Money was the answer. Her only problem

was that dumb stock market; it didn’t want to play the game.

“Sandy, tell me another story.”

“Okay, let’s see. Once, long ago in the olden days, there

was this soothsayer who predicted the day of his own death.

That day came, and the soothsayer waited to die and waited

some more, but nothing happened. He was so surprised and so

happy to be alive that he laughed and laughed. Then, at one

minute to midnight, he suddenly died. He died laughing.”

“He died laughing,” Turtle repeated thoughtfully. “That’s

profound, Sandy. That’s very profound.”

“Where’s everybody?” The apartment was empty, as usual.

Jake Wexler decided that Shin Hoo’s was going to have a

paying customer.

“I’d like a table, if you’re not too crowded.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” Hoo said, leading the

podiatrist through the empty restaurant. “You must have liked

those spareribs.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jake watched his wife slowly stack her

papers at the reservations desk. At last, seeming to recognize

him, she walked over. Jake returned his unlit cigar to his

pocket. (Grace hated the smell.)

“I’ve already eaten,” Grace said, sitting down.

“Hello to you, too,” Jake replied.

He probably thinks that’s funny. Since when do people go

around saying hello to their husbands?

“What’s new with you, Grace? Where are the kids? And

what are all those presents doing on the coffee table? It’s not

your birthday and it’s not our anniversary.” What was she so

upset about. “Or is it?”

“No, it isn’t. Those are gifts for Angela, the wedding

shower is tomorrow. Don’t worry, you’re not supposed to be

there, just the girls. The doorbell was ringing all morning, I

couldn’t leave the apartment for an instant; one at a time he

delivered them, the smirking fool, and each time he shouted

‘Boom!’”

She looked especially attractive today, Jake thought.

Between the ringing doorbell and the booms, she had managed

time for the beauty parlor and the sunlamp.

Mr. Hoo set the spareribs on the table and lowered

himself to a chair.

Grace lost her scowl. “Since you’re here, Jake, I’d like

your opinion on the advertising campaign I’m planning.

Jimmy and I are having a slight disagreement. I say that Shin

Hoo’s sounds like every other Chinese restaurant to English-

speaking ears.”

English-speaking ears? Jake bit his lip in an effort to keep

silent.

“I say the restaurant needs a name people won’t forget,”

Grace continued. “A name like Hoo’s On First.”

Jake could not help himself. He tried to cover a loud

guffaw with louder coughing. Hoo pounded him on the back

and apologized for the ginger.

“You remember that old baseball routine, Jake,” Grace

prompted.

Yes, he did. “Who’s on first? No, What’s on second;

Who’s on first.”

“It’s an idiotic name,” Hoo argued. “Hoo’s On First

sounds like my restaurant is on First Street, or worse yet, on

the first floor. Customers will end up in the coffee shop

drinking dishwater tea.”

“Not the way I’ll promote it, they won’t,” Grace insisted.

“Well, what’s your opinion, Jake?”

The podiatrist put down the sparerib he was about to bite

into. “Hoo’s On First is a dandy name.”

Before he could pick up the rib again, Hoo whisked the

plate off the table. “Who elected you judge, anyhow?”

The judge returned to Sunset Towers with clippings from the

newspaper’s files. Faithful Sandy was waiting.

Hoping to interrogate both George Theodorakis and

James Shin Hoo, they alternated their dinner orders. One night

they would order up, the next night they would order down. To

their disappointment Theo delivered up. They had no

questions to ask him, but he had one for the doorman.

“Chess?” Sandy replied. “Sorry, don’t know the game.

I’m a whiz at hearts, though. ‘Shooter,’ they call me.”

Theo left them to their sandwiches and their work.

The private detective the judge had hired was still

investigating the heirs, so tonight’s project would be the

Westing family.

Judge Ford opened the thin folder on Mrs. Westing. Mrs.

Westing—no first name, no maiden name. In the few

newspaper photographs in which she appeared, always with

her husband, the captions read: Mr. and Mrs. Samuel W.

Westing. A shadowy figure, a shy woman, she seemed to slip

behind her husband before the camera clicked, or had her face

masked by a floppy hat brim. A slim woman dressed in the

fashion of the time: long, loose chemise, narrow shoes with

sharply rounded toes and high spiked heels. A nervous woman,

her hands, especially in the later pictures, were blurred. In the

final photograph a black veil covered her face. She seemed to

lean unsteadily against the stocky frame of her husband as

they left the cemetery.

Sandy reported his findings. “Jimmy Hoo never met Mrs.

Westing. Neither did Flora Baumbach. She said Violet’s fiancé

brought her to the shop for fittings. She says it’s bad luck for a

groom to see the bride in the wedding gown before the

wedding; I guess she’s right. Well, that’s it. Nobody else

admits to having known Mrs. Westing, except me.”

“You knew her, Mr. McSouthers?” the judge asked.

“Well, not exactly, but I saw her once or twice.” The

doorman described Mrs. Westing as blonde, full-lipped, a

good figure though on the skinny side. “Mostly I recall those

full lips because she had a mole right here.” He pointed to the

right corner of his mouth.

Judge Ford did not remember a mole; she remembered

copper-colored hair and thin lips, but it was so long ago, and,

well—Mrs. Westing was white. Very white.

Next, Westing’s daughter. The judge studied the

photograph under the headline:

VIOLET WESTING TO MARRY SENATOR

The senator turned out to be a state senator, a hack politician,

now serving a five-year jail term for bribery. But Flora

Baumbach was right about the resemblance. Violet Westing

did look like Angela Wexler. And that was George

Theodorakis, all right, dancing with her in the society page

clippings.

“What does it all mean, judge?” Sandy asked, squinting at

the pictures through his smeared glasses. “Angela looks like

Westing’s daughter, and Theo looks like his father, the man

Violet Westing really wanted to marry.”

“How did you know that?”

Sandy shrugged. “It was common gossip at the time, that

Westing’s daughter killed herself rather than have to marry

that crooked politician.…”

Now the judge remembered; her mother had written her

about the tragedy. “Tell me, Mr. McSouthers, you seem to

know what’s going on in this building: Is Angela Wexler

involved with Theo in any way?”

“Oh no.” Sandy was certain of that. “Angela and her

intern seem happy enough with each other. At least, I hope so.

I mean, if Sam Westing wanted to replay that terrible drama,

Angela Wexler would have to die.”

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. One of them was a

murderer, they thought, and one of them was a bomber, and

one of them was a thief. But which was which and who was

who? Or could it be one and the same?

“Some game,” Mr. Hoo grumbled, unwrapping a

chocolate bar. One ulcer wasn’t enough, Sam Westing had to

give him three more. “Some game. The last one alive wins.”

(Now, there’s a likely suspect, Otis Amber thought. Hoo,

the inventor; Hoo, the angry man, the madman.)

“The last one alive wins,” Flora Baumbach repeated. “Oh

my, what a terrible thing to say.”

(Can’t trust that dressmaker, Mr. Hoo thought. How come

she’s grinning at a time like this?)

The captain offered no help at all. “Neither the bomb

squad nor the burglary detail has enough evidence to search

the apartments,” he explained.

“You call that justice?” Sandy asked.

(Good-natured Sandy couldn’t be the one. He wasn’t in

the building when the first two bombs went off, or when the

judge’s watch was stolen, Jake Wexler thought. On the other

hand, he sure did hate Sam Westing.)

“Yes, Mr. McSouthers, justice is exactly what I call it.”

(Not her, not the judge, in spite of the clues, Chris

thought. Unless she’s one of those Black Panthers in disguise.)

“Those weren’t gas explosions, those were bombs.

Right?” Theo pressed the captain.

(A nice kid, that Theo. Doug, too, Flora Baumbach

thought. But how often had she seen television interviews of

next-door neighbors saying: Can’t believe he killed thirteen

people, he was such a nice kid. Oh my, oh my, what’s gotten

into me, thinking such a thing?)

The captain would not call them bombs. “More like

childish pranks,” he said.

(Childish pranks! That brat’s capable of anything.)

Turtle stuck her tongue out at the sneering Doug Hoo.

“Evil pranks of the devil,” Crow muttered. Her blessed

Angela was almost killed.

“Crow could be the one. Bring hellfire down on all of us,”

Theo whispered to Chris, “but she wasn’t in the building when

the first two bombs went off.”

“Yes, s-she was.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

The captain described the so-called bombs. “Just a few

fireworks triggered by a squat striped candle set in a tall open

jar; the ribbon probably hid the air holes in the box. No one

would have been hurt if the young lady had not tilted the box

toward herself.”

“A time bomb,” Grace Wexler said, glaring at the person

who delivered the gifts.

(An unhappy woman, that self-appointed heiress, the

judge thought. Unfulfilled, possibly disturbed. Capable of the

burglaries, perhaps, but not the bombings. She wouldn’t have

hurt her own daughter—at least, not Angela.)

“Don’t look at me like that,” Otis Amber shouted at Mrs.

Wexler. “I don’t own no striped candles, or no fireworks,

neither.”

(That idiot is the likeliest of all, Grace thought. But he

wasn’t around when the coffee shop blew up.)

“O-o-o-ggg a-a-ahh.” The excitement was too much for

Chris Theodorakis.

(That was one heir no one suspected. And Angela, of

course, no one could suspect her.)

Otis Amber was not even sure of that. “Still waters run

deep,” he said. “He-he-he.”

Turtle could not let him get away with that, even if it was

true.

“Otis Amber limps,” Chris noted the next day.

Her family kept reassuring her. “You’re going to be fine,

Angela, just fine.”

The loud snore that erupted from the next hospital bed

was Sydelle Pulaski pretending to be asleep.

“I still don’t remember,” Angela mumbled. Her bandaged

cheek made speaking difficult. Her face hurt, her hands hurt—

hurt very much.

“Traumatic amnesia,” Jake Wexler said. “It happens after

sudden accidents. Don’t worry, Angie-pie, you’re going to be

fine.”

“You’re going to be fine, Angela, just fine,” Grace said

despondently. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Come, Turtle.”

“In a minute.” Turtle waited for the door to close. She

touched her sister’s bandaged hand. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Another snore from Sydelle.

“Just thanks. The fireworks would have gone off in my

face if you hadn’t pulled the box toward you. Here, I brought

your tapestry bag; I didn’t look at your notes or clues, honest.”

But she had removed the incriminating evidence.

“Turtle, tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

“The doctor had to take some glass out of your hands, but

no stitches. The burns will heal okay.”

“And my face?”

“Some scarring, not bad really, Angela. Besides, you

always said being pretty wasn’t important, it’s who you really

are that counts.”

Angela wondered about that. Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe pretty was important. Maybe she was crazy, she must

have been crazy.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty,” Turtle said. “But,

wow, that sure was a dumb thing to do.”

Sydelle Pulaski’s eyes popped open in surprise. Quickly

she squeezed them shut and uttered another loud snore. Well,

what do you know? Her sweet, saintly partner was the bomber.

Good for her!

17 ♦ Some Solutions

Monday was a gray, rainy day. Depressing. So was the stock

market, which fell another six points. Turtle was jittery.

All the heirs were jittery. The bomb squad was called in

several times to examine suspicious parcels. One turned out to

be a sealed vacuum cleaner bag full of dust that Crow had set

behind the incinerator door. Another was a box delivered to

Mrs. Wexler. In it were bonbons (her favorite) and a note:

Love and kisses, Jake.

“What do you mean, how come? Can’t I send candy to

my wife without getting the third degree? I thought you were

looking on the thin side, okay?”

Grace made him eat the first piece.

The next day Grace received a larger box. In it the bomb

squad found one dozen long-stemmed roses and a note: For

no reason at all, just love, Jake.

The bomb squad was called again when Turtle ran after

her partner through the lobby shouting “Mrs. BAUM-bach,

Mrs. BAUM-bach!” Someone thought she had shouted

“Bomb! Bomb!”

A hollow wind wailed through damp Tuesday. In the

morning the stock market rose three points. “Bullish,” said

Flora Baumbach. In the afternoon the market dropped five

points. “Bearish,” said Flora Baumbach. Those were the only

two trading terms she had learned.

Madame Hoo, a quicker student than the dressmaker, had

learned more words: partner, money, house, tree, road, pots,

pans, okay, football, good, rain, spareribs. Her teacher, Jake

Wexler, visited her in the kitchen before he sat down to his

daily lunch in the Chinese restaurant. Today his wife and

Jimmy Hoo agreed to eat with their only customer on the

promise that he would help them with their clues and not take

a share of the inheritance if they won.

Grace laid their five words on the table.

“These are clues?” Jake looked down on purple waves for

fruited sea. He switched two squares of Westing Superstrength

Towels. “Purple fruited makes more sense. How about grapes

or plums?”

Grace was about to insist on purple waves, but plums

reminded her of something. “Plum,” she said aloud. “Plum.

Wasn’t the lawyer’s name Plum?”

“You’re right, Grace,” Mr. Hoo said excitedly. “You’re

absolutely right.” He tore one of the clues in two: fruit/ed. “Ed

Purple-fruit. Ed Plum!”

“We got it, we got it,” Grace cried, leaping up to embrace

her partner.

“I never did trust lawyers,” Mr. Hoo shouted gleefully.

“What about the other clues: for sea waves?” Jake asked,

but the happy, hugging and dancing, celebrating pair did not

hear him.

“Boom!” said Madame Hoo, placing a plate of spareribs

on the table. That word she had learned from Otis Amber.

Sandy was proud of the notebook he bought, with its glossy

cover photograph of a bald eagle in flight (sort of appropriate,

he explained to the judge; fits in with Uncle Sam and all that).

In it he painstakingly entered the information culled from

reports the private detective delivered each day to Judge

Ford’s office: photostats of birth certificates, death notices,

marriage licenses, drivers’ licenses, vehicular accident reports,

criminal records, hospital records, school records. To these the

doorman added the results of his own snooping.

“My investigator is having a difficult time getting into the

not-so-public records of Westingtown,” the judge said. “We’ll

have to put the Westings aside and begin with the heirs.”

“Since we’re feasting on chicken with water chestnuts,”

Sandy said, “I’ll start off with the Hoos.” (Doug had delivered

down.) He read aloud from his entry:

♦ HOO

JAMES SHIN HOO. Born: James Hoo in

Chicago. Age: 50. Added Shin to his name

when he went into the restaurant business

because it sounded more Chinese. First wife

died of cancer five years ago. Married again

last year. Has one son: Douglas.

SUN LIN HOO. Age: 28. Born in China.

Immigrated from Hong Kong two years ago.

Gossip: James Hoo married her for her 100-

year-old sauce.

DOUGLAS HOO (called Doug). Age: 18.

High-school track star. Is competing in

Saturday’s track meet against college milers.

Westing connection: Hoo sued Sam

Westing over the invention of the disposable

paper diaper. Case never came to court

(Westing disappeared). Settled with the

company last year for $25,000. Thinks he

was cheated. Latest invention: paper

innersoles.

“I can take some credit for those paper innersoles,” Sandy

bragged. “My feet were killing me, standing at the door all

day, so I said to Jimmy: ‘Jimmy, if only somebody would

invent a good innersole that didn’t take up so much room like

those foam-rubber things.’ And sure enough, he did it. They’re

great, I got a pair in my shoes now, wanna see?”

“No, thank you.” The judge was eating.

It was past midnight when Theo finished his homework in the

dim light of the study lamp. The wind was still howling, and

something (a word? a phrase?) was still eluding him. He had

been studying solutions in chemistry. Solutions—that was it!

The solution is simple, the will said. He was sure of it.

By changing for and thee to the numbers four and three,

Theo was able to arrange the clues into a formula (whether or

not it was a chemical solution, let alone the Westing solution,

was another matter).

N H(IS) FOR NO THEE (TO) = NH4NO3

But four clue letters were left out: isto, osit, itso, otis. OTIS!

He had it: a formula for an explosive, and the name of the

murderer! He had to tell Doug.

“Where g-g-gogin?”

“Shhh!” Theo smoothed the blanket over his sleepy

brother in the next bed, struggled into his bathrobe and

stumbled over the wheelchair as he tiptoed out of the room.

The elevator made too much noise, use the stairs. The

cement was cold, he had forgotten his slippers. Two unmarked

doors, which one? Tap, tap. Tap. A grunting voice, dragging

footsteps. Please, let it be Doug, not Mr. Hoo or Judge Ford.

It was Crow. Clutching a robe about her gaunt frame, her

unknotted hair hanging long and limp, she tried to focus her

dulled eyes on the shocked face of her visitor. “Theo! Theo!

The wind, I heard the wind. I knew you would come.”

“Me?”

Grasping his hand she pulled him into the maid’s

apartment between 4C and 4D and shut the door. “We are

sinners, yet shall we be saved. Let us pray for deliverance,

then you must go to your angel, take her away.”

Theo found himself kneeling on the bare floor next to the

praying Crow. He must be dreaming.

“Amen.”

18 ♦ The Trackers

It was Flora Baumbach who braided Turtle’s hair now,

sometimes in three strands, sometimes four, sometimes twined

with ribbons, while Turtle read The Wall Street Journal.

“Listen to this: ‘The newly elected chairman of the board

of Westing Paper Products Corporation, Julian R. Eastman,

announced from London where he is conferring with

European management that earnings from all divisions are

expected to double in the next quarter.’”

“That’s nice,” Flora Baumbach said, not understanding a

word of it.

Turtle gave the order for the day. “Listen carefully. As

soon as you get to the broker’s office I want you to sell AMO,

sell SEA, sell MT, and put all the money into WPP. Okay?”

Oh my! That meant selling every stock mentioned in their

clues and buying more shares of Westing Paper Products—at a

loss of some thousands of dollars. “Whatever you say, Alice,

you’re the smart one.”

Flora Baumbach’s hands were gentle, they never hurried

or pulled a stray hair. Flora Baumbach loved her, she could

tell. “I like when you call me Alice,” Turtle said, “but I better

not call you Mrs. Baumbach anymore, because of the bomb

scare, you know.” Calling her Flora would spoil everything.

“Maybe I could call you Mrs. Baba?”

“Why not just Baba?”

That’s exactly what Turtle (Alice) wanted to hear. “Was

your daughter, Rosalie, very smart, Baba?”

“My, no. You’re the smartest child I ever met, a real

businesswoman.”

Turtle glowed behind The Wall Street Journal. “I bet

Rosalie baked bread and patched quilts and dumb stuff like

that.”

The dressmaker’s sure fingers fumbled over the red

ribbons she was weaving into a four-strand braid. “Rosalie

was an exceptional child. The friendliest, lovingest…”

Turtle crumpled the newspaper. “Let’s go. I’m late for

school and you’ve got that big trade to make.”

“But I haven’t finished tying the ribbons.”

“Never mind, I like them hanging.” Turtle felt like

kicking somebody, anybody, good and hard.

Sandy was not at the door when they left. He was in apartment

4D neatly writing in his patriotic notebook information

gathered on the next heir.

♦ BAUMBACH

FLORA BAUMBACH. Maiden name:

Flora Miller. Age: 60. Dressmaker. Husband

left her years ago, sends no money. She had

a retarded daughter, Rosalie, a Mongoloid

child. Sold bridal shop last year after

Rosalie died of pneumonia, age 19. Spends

most of her time at the stockbrokers.

Westing connection: Made wedding

gown for Violet Westing, which she never

got to wear.

Sandy turned to a fresh page, propped his feet on the judge’s

desk and began to read the data supplied by the private

investigator on Otis Amber. He laughed so hard he nearly fell

off the tilting chair.

*

Haunted by last night’s dream, Theo jogged behind his partner

halfway to the high school before he uttered a breathless

“Stop!”

Doug Hoo stopped.

“Who lives in the apartment next to yours?”

“Crow. Why?”

“Nothing.” How come he didn’t know that? Because no

one ever wonders where a cleaning woman lives, that’s why.

But he wasn’t like that, was he? Still, it must have been a

dream. In the dream, the nightmare, Crow had given him a

letter, but the only thing he found in his bathrobe pocket this

morning was a Westing Paper Hankie. “Hey, wait!” Doug had

started off again. “I figured out our clues. Ammonium nitrate.

It’s used in fertilizers, explosives, and rocket propellants.”

“I knew those clues were a pile of fertilizer,” Doug

replied, jogging easily. Only one thing mattered: Saturday’s

big track meet. If he won or came in a fast second he’d have

his pick of athletic scholarships. He didn’t need the

inheritance.

“Stand still and listen.” Theo grabbed Doug by the

shoulders and held him flat-footed to the ground. “Like it or

not we’re partners, and you’ve got to do your share.”

“Sure,” Doug replied. His father was angry, his partner

was angry, and a bomber was blowing up Sunset Towers floor

by floor. Some game! “What do you want me to do?”

“Follow Otis Amber.”

Head tilted back, Flora Baumbach squirted drops in her eyes,

blinked, and stared again at the moving tape.

__________________________________________________

HR WPP BRY TA Z WPP

1000$42½ 5000$39¼

27 5$17¼ 5000$27¼

5000$39½

__________________________________________________

“Oh my!” Westing Paper Products had jumped four and a

quarter, no, four and a half points. Her eyes must be blurry

from the medicine. The dressmaker sat on the edge of her

chair, biting her fingernails, waiting for WPP to cross the

board again. There: WPP $40. Oh my, oh my! This morning

she had paid thirty-five dollars a share. There it goes again:

WPP $40¼. Oh my, oh my, oh my!

After classes, instead of running around the indoor track,

Doug Hoo jogged out of the gym to the shopping center six

blocks away. There was Otis Amber, placing two cake boxes

in the compartment of his bike. He picked up a package from

the butcher shop, and pedaled off, unaware of the sweat-suited

figure trotting half a block behind him, and went into Sunset

Towers to make his deliveries.

“Hi, Doug. Gonna run the mile under four minutes on

Saturday?” the doorman asked.

“Sure hope so. Do me a favor, Sandy, give a loud whistle

when Otis Amber comes out. Okay?”

Chip-toothed Sandy gave such a loud whistle that Otis

Amber would have been deafened if the flaps of the aviator’s

helmet had not been snug against his ears.

Leaving his bicycle in the parking lot, Otis Amber

boarded a bus. Doug ran the five uphill miles to a house with

the placard: E. J. Plum, Attorney. He ran another three uphill

miles after the bus that took the delivery boy to the hospital

entrance.

Doug sank down in a waiting-room chair, wiped his face

on his sweatshirt and picked up a magazine. Fascinated by the

centerfold picture, he almost missed Otis Amber, who dashed

out of the hospital as though fleeing for his life.

Hiding behind parked cars, Doug followed the delivery

boy to another bus, ran four steep miles to a stockbroker’s

office (how is it that all roads go uphill?), from the broker to

the high school, from the high school (downhill, at last) back

to Sunset Towers.

The exhausted track star leaned against the side of the

building, thankful he was not a long-distance runner.

“I gotcha!” Otis Amber poked a skinny finger into Doug’s

ribs. “He-he-he,” he cackled, handing the startled runner a

letter. “It’s from that lawyer Plum. Says all the heirs gotta be

at the Westing house this Saturday night. Sign here.”

With his last ounce of energy he wrote Doug Hoo, miler

on the receipt, then slid down the wall to a weary squat. Some

miler. His feet were blistered; his muscles, sore; he could

barely breathe, he might never run another step in his life.

On receiving the notice of the Westing house meeting, Judge

Ford canceled her remaining appointments and hurried home.

Time was running out.

Sandy read to her from his notebook:

♦ AMBER

OTIS JOSEPH AMBER. Age: 62. Delivery

boy. Fourth-grade dropout. IQ: 50. Lives in

the basement of Green’s Grocery. A

bachelor. No living relatives.

Westing connection: Delivered letters

from E. J. Plum, Attorney, both times.

“I would’ve guessed Otis had an IQ of minus ten,” Sandy said

with a smile.

“Go on to the next heir,” the judge replied.

♦ DEERE

D. DENTON DEERE. Age: 25.

Graduate of UW Medical School. First-year

intern, plastic surgery. Parents live in Racine

(not heirs).

Westing connection: Engaged to Angela

Wexler (see Wexlers), who looks like Sam

Westing’s daughter, Violet, who was also

engaged to be married, but to a politician

not an intern.

“That’s awful complicated, I know,” the doorman apologized,

“but it’s the best I could do.”

♦ PULASKI

SYDELLE PULASKI. Age: 50. Education:

high school, one year secretarial school.

Secretary to the president of Schultz

Sausages. Is taking her first vacation in 25

years (six months’ saved-up time). Lived

with widowed mother and two aunts until

she moved to Sunset Towers. Walked with a

crutch even before she broke her ankle in

the second bombing. Now needs two

crutches (she paints them!).

Westing connection: ?

“We don’t have any medical reports on her muscular ailment,”

Sandy reported. “The nurse at Schultz Sausages said she was

in perfect health when she left on vacation.”

“Strange,” the judge remarked. A suspicious malady, no

apparent Westing connection, somehow Sydelle Pulaski did

not seem to fit in.

Sydelle Pulaski clasped the translated notes to her bosom.

“My little secret, mustn’t peek,” she said coyly, but the doctors

had come to see Angela.

The plastic surgeon loosed the tape from her cheek and

peered under the gauze. “One graft should do it, but we can’t

operate until the tissue heals,” he said to the intern, then spoke

to the patient. “Call my secretary for an appointment in two

months.” He strode out of the room leaving Denton Deere to

replace the bandage.

“I don’t want plastic surgery,” Angela mumbled. It still

hurt to talk.

“Nothing to be frightened of. He’s the best when it comes

to facial repairs, that’s why I brought him in.”

“We’ll have to postpone the wedding.”

“We can have a small informal wedding.”

“Mother wouldn’t like that.”

“How about you, Angela, what do you want?” He knew

her unspoken answer was “I don’t know.”

The door flew open and slammed against the adjacent

wall. “Where do you think you’re going?” Denton pulled

Turtle to a halt by one of the streaming ribbons twisted in her

braid. “The sign says No Visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor, I’m a sister. And get your germy hands

off my hair.”

Denton Deere hurried to seek first aid for his bleeding

shin and sent the biggest male nurse on the floor to take care

of Turtle, the same male nurse who chased Otis Amber out of

the hospital for sneaking up on a nurse’s aide carrying a

specimen tray and shouting, “Boom!”

Turtle had time for one question. “Angela, what did you

sign on the receipt this time after ‘position’?”

“Person.”

“I changed mine to victim,” Sydelle said.

Turtle paid no attention to the victim. She was more

interested in the two men entering the room: the burly male

nurse and that creep of a lawyer, Plum. “I gotta go. Don’t say

anything to anybody about anything, Angela, no matter what

happens. Not even to a lawyer. You know nothing, you hear?

Nothing!” She skirted Ed Plum, ducked under the outstretched

hairy hands of the male nurse, slid down the hall, scampered

down the stairs and out of the hospital.

“Hi, how are you?” Ed Plum smiled at Angela, ignoring

the patient in the other bed. He didn’t recognize Ms. Pulaski

without her painted crutch. “I’m sorry to hear about your

accident. Otis Amber told me about it. Just thought I’d drop in

for a chat.” The young lawyer, who had admired the pretty

heiress from the minute he first laid eyes on her, did not have a

chance to chat.

Grace Wexler entered the room, saw the answer to the

clues: Ed Purple-fruit, the murderer, standing over her

daughter, and uttered a blood-curdling shriek.

Three visitors in one day! The first was Otis Amber with a

letter and another receipt to sign. Chris had pretended to be

scared by the “Boom!” but he wasn’t really. He had twitched

because he was excited about going to the Westing house

again, even if he hadn’t figured out the clues.

Then Flora Baumbach came to see him. He wasn’t

nervous at all with that nice lady. She smiles that funny smile

because she’s sad inside. She once had a daughter named

Rosalie. She told him how Rosalie would sit in the shop and

say hello to the customers, and how she would feel the fabrics.

Mrs. Baumbach made wedding dresses, which are mostly

white, so she bought samples of materials with bright colors

and patterns because Rosalie loved colors best. Rosalie had

573 different swatches in her collection before she died. Mrs.

Baumbach said her daughter might have been an artist if

things had turned out differently.

What would I have been if things had turned out

differently?

The third visitor entered. Limping! His partner was

limping! Too much excitement, his stupid body was jerking all

over the place.

Denton Deere sat down next to the wheelchair. “Take it

easy, Chris. Calm down, kid, I’m not the creature from the

black lagoon, you know.”

His partner, a doctor, watched horror movies on

television, too. Slowly arms untangled, legs unsnarled. Slowly

Chris stuttered out his news: Flora Baumbach felt so guilty

about seeing their dropped clue that she told him one of her

clues: mountain. “But we m-mus-n t-tell T-Turtle.”

“Don’t worry,” the intern said, displaying a bruised shin.

Chris laughed, then stopped. “I s-sorry.”

“Mountain, hmmm.” Denton Deere thought about the

new clue. “If a treasure is hidden in a grain shed on a

mountain plain, I sure don’t have time to look for it. Do you?”

“N-n-n.”

“Let’s forget the clues, I have something more important

to tell you. Don’t get excited, okay?”

Chris nodded. His partner was going to ask for the money.

Denton Deere stood. “I’ll get your toothbrush and

pajamas, then we’ll go to the hospital. Don’t get excited.”

Chris got excited. How could he explain that what he

wanted from his partner was companionship, not more

probing, pricking doctors with their bad news that made his

mother cry?

“Listen, Chris, can you hear me? Just overnight. I found a

neurologist, a nerve doctor, who works on problems like

yours.”

“Op-p-pra-shn?”

“No operation. Did you hear me, Chris? No operation.

The doctor thinks a new medicine may help, but he has to

examine you, make some tests. I have your parents’

permission, but no one will touch you unless we talk it over

first, you and me, together. I promise.”

Chris grimaced trying to smile. His partner said talk it

over, the two of them, together. They were really partners now.

“You c-c-cn have m-money.”

“What? Oh, the money. Later. Here, let me take those,

you won’t need them in the hospital.” Chris clung to his

binoculars. “Well, I guess you do need them. Ready? Here we

go!”

All of a sudden he was leaving Sunset Towers, pushed by

his limping partner. Maybe Doctor Deere is not who and what

he says he is. Maybe he is being kidnapped for ransom. Maybe

he’s being held hostage. Oh boy, he hasn’t had so much fun in

years.

19 ♦ Odd Relatives

Thursday was a sunny day, a glorious day; the autumn air was

crisp and clear. None of the heirs noticed.

WPP crossed the tape at $44…$44½…$46. Forty-six

dollars a share! Oh my! (“Don’t sell until I give the word,

Baba,” Alice-Turtle had said.) Baba. The dressmaker smiled at

her new name and eased back in the chair, but not for long.

WPP $48¼. Oh my, oh my! Flora Baumbach bit her thumbnail

to the quick. If only the child was here.

The child was being examined by the school nurse,

having been caught again with a radio plugged in her ear.

Turtle blamed her misbehavior on a toothache. “The only

thing that soothes the horrendous pain is listening to music.”

“You should see a dentist,” the nurse said.

“I have an appointment next week,” Turtle lied. “Can I go

home now? The pain is truly unbearable.”

“No.” The nurse packed the tooth with foul-tasting cotton

and sent her back to class. So every half hour Turtle had to ask

permission to go to the lavatory in order to keep up with the

latest stock market reports. “Bladder infection,” she explained.

Crow polished Mrs. Wexler’s silver teapot with a Westing

Disposable Diaper for the third time. Two more days, the day

after next. It was too painful, going back to that house, but

Otis said she must, to collect her due. It was her penance to go

back, not her due. Blessed is he who expects nothing.

“Boom! Just a warning to keep doors locked,” the

delivery boy said, dumping a carton of Westing Paper

Products on the kitchen floor. “You know, Crow old pal, I

think I figured out who the bomber is.”

Crow stiffened as she stared at her distorted reflection in

the shining silver. “Who?”

“That’s right,” Otis Amber said. “James Shin Hoo. He

wanted to put the coffee shop out of business, right? Then he

had to bomb his own restaurant so nobody would suspect him,

right? And he catered the Wexler party. Nobody would notice

if the caterer brought in an extra box along with the food,

right?”

James Shin Hoo was the bomber. Crow’s hands trembled,

her face blotched with hate. That beautiful, innocent angel

reborn; Sandy said her face will be scarred for life. James Shin

Hoo, beware! Vengeance shall be mine.

The judge rearranged her docket in order to have these last

days free. (Leave it to Sam Westing to interfere with her

work.)

Sandy turned to his next entry. “It’s an interesting one.”

♦ CROW

BERTHE ERICA CROW. Age: 57. Mother

died at childbirth, raised by father

(deceased). Education: 1 year of high

school. Married at 16, divorced at 40. Ex-

husband’s name: Windy Windkloppel.

Hospital records: problems related to

chronic alcoholism. Police record: 3 arrests

for vagrancy. Gave up drinking when she

took up religion. Started the Good Salvation

Soup Kitchen on Skid Row. Works as

cleaning woman in Sunset Towers, lives in

maid’s apartment on fourth floor.

Westing connection: ?

“Yes, it is interesting,” Judge Ford replied, “but it hardly tells

us what we want to know.”

“You’ve got a customer.” Jake Wexler pointed a sparerib at the

black-clad figure standing at the restaurant door.

“Must be a bill collector,” Hoo said, frowning over his

account book.

Grace looked up, saw it was only the cleaning woman,

and returned to the sports photographs she was sorting. A

dozen or more superstars would be framed and hung on one

wall of Hoo’s On First.

“Come on over and join us,” Jake shouted.

Limping to their table, Crow heard Mrs. Wexler click her

tongue. Sinful woman, she’ll go to hell with her pride and her

covetousness, and take that foot-butcher of a husband with her.

And that one, the fat one, the glutton, the bomber, the

mutilator of innocent children.

Maybe she is a customer, Hoo thought, recognizing the

face clenched in righteous anger as that of a diner not being

served fast enough. He rose and pulled out a chair for Crow.

“My wife will be serving a Chinese tea lunch shortly.”

Madame Hoo placed a variety of dumplings on the table,

giggled at Jake and ran back to the kitchen.

That tittering Madame Hoo was a beautiful woman. And

quite young. Grace, casting a suspicious eye on her husband,

was suddenly seized by a surge of gnawing jealousy (maybe it

was just the fried dumpling).

Madame Hoo returned to pour the tea. Jake patted her

hand. Good, Grace noticed, she’s clutching her stomach, about

time she felt jealous. The podiatrist turned his smile to Crow.

“Nothing wrong with your appetite, I’m happy to see.”

“Nothing is wrong with my mouth,” the cleaning woman

replied, looking down at her plate, “it’s my feet that hurt. That

corn you cut out didn’t heal yet, I got a callus on the sole of

my left foot, and my ingrown toenail is growing in again.”

Grace clasped a hand over her mouth and ran out of the

restaurant. Mr. Hoo headed for the kitchen.

“Your trouble comes from years of wearing the wrong

kind of shoes,” Jake lectured.

Crow wasn’t listening. James Shin Hoo, the bomber, was

coming back. He had something in his hand.

“Here, Crow, try these. I invented them myself. Paper

innersoles. They’ll make you feel like you’re floating on air.

It’s tough standing on your feet all day. Here, take them.”

Crow examined the two pads of spongy folded paper.

“How much?”

“Nothing, compliments of the house.”

Still suspicious, Crow slipped the innersoles into her

shoes and tried walking. What a blessed relief. Otis Amber

was wrong. James Shin Hoo was a charitable man, he couldn’t

be the bomber. Crow floated out of the restaurant without

paying for her lunch.

“Oh no, not another victim,” Sydelle Pulaski cried, stuffing

her notes under the mattress.

The nurse wheeled Chris next to Angela’s bed and

explained that the boy was being tested for a new medication.

“Are you all right?” she asked, bending over the squirming

patient.

Chris was trying to remove a blank, sealed envelope from

his bathrobe pocket. He knew his brother had a crush on

Angela. He figured Theo must have sneaked upstairs in the

wrong bathrobe to slip this letter under Angela’s door, then

remembered she was in the hospital and was too shy to give it

to her in person.

“Look at that smile,” Sydelle exclaimed.

“F-from Theo,” he said. Chris hoped to watch Angela read

the love letter, but the nurse insisted he return to his room.

“Bye-bye, good luck,” Sydelle called. Angela waved a

bandaged hand.

“M-moun—t-tain,” Chris replied. “From T-Turtle.”

Serves her right for kicking his partner.

Mountain, Angela thought. Turtle’s MT stood for

mountain, not empty. And the letter was not from Theo:

Your love has 2, here are 2 for you.

Take her away from this sin and hate

NOW! Before it is too late.

Again two clues were taped at the bottom:

WITH MAJESTIES

“Crow and Otis Amber’s clues are not king and queen,” she

told Sydelle. “They are with thy beautiful majesties.”

*

Sandy and the judge were still at work on the heirs.

♦ WEXLER

JAKE WEXLER. Age: 45. Podiatrist.

Graduated from Marquette. Married 22

years, has two daughters (see below).

GRACE WINDSOR WEXLER. Born

Gracie Windkloppel. Age: 42. Married to

above. Claims to be an interior decorator.

Spends most of her time in the Chinese

restaurant or the beauty parlor. She and Jake

(see above) have two daughters (see below).

ANGELA WEXLER. Age: 20.

Engaged to marry D. Denton Deere (also an

heir). One year college (high grades). Victim

of third bombing. Embroiders a lot.

TURTLE WEXLER. Real name:

Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. Age: 13. Junior-high-

school student. Plays the stock market.

Smart kid, but kicks people. Flora

Baumbach calls her Alice.

Westing connection: Grace Windsor

Wexler claims that Sam Westing is her real

uncle. Angela looks like Violet Westing, so

does Grace in a way, except she’s older.

Sandy fidgeted with his pen. “There’s something I didn’t write

down. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, you being a judge and all,

but, well, Jake Wexler…he’s a bookie.”

No, he should not have told her. “A small-time operator,

I’m sure, Mr. McSouthers,” the judge replied coldly. “It can

have no bearing on the matter before us. Sam Westing

manipulated people, cheated workers, bribed officials, stole

ideas, but Sam Westing never smoked or drank or placed a bet.

Give me a bookie any day over such a fine, upstanding, clean-

living man.”

The doorman’s face reddened. He pulled the dented flask

from his hip pocket and downed several swigs.

She had been too harsh. “Would you like me to fix you a

drink, Mr. McSouthers?”

“No thanks, judge. I prefer my good old Scotch.”

“Windkloppel!” The judge’s outburst was so unexpected,

Sandy had a hard time keeping down the last swig.

“Grace Wexler’s maiden name is not Windsor, it’s

Windkloppel,” the judge exclaimed, riffling through the pages

of Sandy’s notebook. “Here it is: ‘Berthe Erica Crow. Ex-

husband’s name: Windy Windkloppel.”

Sandy stopped coughing, started laughing. “Grace

Windsor Wexler is related to somebody all right; she’s related

to the cleaning woman. Think she knows, judge?”

“I doubt it. Besides, we cannot be certain of the

relationship. I’d like to see the documents in Crow’s folder

again.”

“I’m sure it’s Windkloppel, judge, I checked all my

spellings three times over.”

Judge Ford reread the private investigator’s reports. “Mr.

McSouthers, it is Windkloppel, but look carefully at the name

of the woman in this interview.”

Berthe Erica Crow? Sure I knew her. She

and her pa lived in the upstairs flat.

We were best friends, almost like

sisters, but she was the pretty one with

her beautiful complexion and long gold-

red hair. She left school to marry a guy

named Windkloppel. Haven’t seen or heard

from her since. She’s not in any

trouble, is she?

Transcript of a taped interview

with Sybil Pulaski, November 12.

“Pulaski!” the doorman said.

“Not just Pulaski,” the judge pointed out. “Sybil Pulaski.

Sam Westing wanted Crow’s childhood friend, Sybil Pulaski,

to be one of his heirs. He got Sydelle Pulaski instead.”

“Gee, judge, I never noticed that; boy, am I dumb. But

what does it mean?”

“What it means, Mr. McSouthers, is that Sam Westing

made his first mistake.”

20 ♦ Confessions

Friday came quickly to the Westing heirs. Too quickly. Time

was running out.

Turtle skipped school. She was in trouble enough, but she

could build her own school and hire her own kind of teachers

once she became a millionaire.

In spite of having Turtle at her side, Flora Baumbach still

stared at the ever-changing, endless tape from the edge of the

chair, chewed what remained of her fingernails, and uttered an

“Oh my!” each time WPP went by. At two o’clock Westing

Paper Products sold at fifty-two dollars a share, its highest

price in fifteen years.

“Now, Baba. SELL!”

Doug Hoo had a legitimate excuse from classes: tomorrow

was the big track meet. He jogged, he sprinted, he ran at full

speed—not on the track, but on the trail of Otis Amber. Back

and forth from the shopping center to Sunset Towers, again

and again and again and…hey, this is a new direction.

Otis Amber parked his delivery bike in front of a rooming

house and went inside. Doug waited, hidden in a doorway

across the street. And waited. People came and went, but no

Otis Amber. Doug jogged up and down the block for two

hours. Still no sign of Otis Amber.

Doug was cold and hungry, but at least his feet didn’t hurt

anymore. Last night when he asked Doc Wexler about the

blisters, the podiatrist told him to see his father—his father, of

all people. But those paper innersoles really worked.

At five o’clock Otis Amber skipped out of the rooming

house, hopped on his bicycle, and returned to Sunset Towers

empty-handed. Doug’s assignment was over, well, almost

over. Where was Theo?

Theo was being patched up in the hospital emergency room

after a slight miscalculation in his “solution” experiment.

Fortunately, no one else was around when the lab blew up.

“You like playing with explosives, kid?” the bomb squad

detective asked. Accidents in high-school chemistry were not

unusual, but this student lived in Sunset Towers.

“I was experimenting on chemical fertilizers,” Theo

replied, wincing as the doctor probed his shoulder for a glass

shard.

“The first bomb went off in your folks’ coffee shop, right?

Your mother and father work you pretty hard, don’t they?”

“They work harder than I do. Why all the questions? Your

captain said the Sunset Towers explosions were just

fireworks.”

“Sure they were, but bombers have a funny habit of going

in for bigger and bigger bangs. Until they get caught.”

Theo had an alibi. He was nowhere near the Wexler

apartment the day the third bomb went off. The detective

grunted a warning about careless chemistry, but Theo had

already learned his lesson. “Ouch!”

At last the coffee shop owner himself delivered the up order.

The judge came right to the point. “Mr. Theodorakis, tell me

about your relationship with Violet Westing. I have reason to

believe a life is in danger or I would not ask.”

It was a question he had expected. “I grew up in

Westingtown where my father was a factory foreman. Violet

Westing and I were what you’d call childhood sweethearts. We

planned to get married someday, when I could afford it, but

her mother broke us up. She wanted Violet to marry somebody

important.”

The judge had to interrupt. “Her mother? Are you saying

it was Mrs. Westing who arranged the marriage, not Sam

Westing?”

George Theodorakis nodded. “That’s right. Sam Westing

tried to involve Violet in his business. I guess he hoped she’d

take over the paper company one day; but she had her heart set

on being a teacher. Besides, Violet didn’t have much of a

business sense. After that her father never paid her much

attention.”

“Go on.” The judge held the witness in her stare.

The subject was becoming painful, and Mr. Theodorakis

faltered several times in the telling. “Mrs. Westing handpicked

that politician—probably figured the guy would end up in the

White House and her daughter would be First Lady. But Violet

thought he was nothing but a cheap political hack, a cheap

crook. Violet was a gentle person, an only child. She couldn’t

turn against her mother, she couldn’t face marrying that guy.…

I guess she couldn’t find any way out, except… Mrs. Westing

sort of went off her rocker after Violet’s death, and I… well, it

was a long time ago.”

“Thank you, Mr. Theodorakis,” the judge said, ending the

interrogation. The man had a different life now, different

loves, different problems. “Thank you, you have been a big

help.”

Sandy was now able to complete the entry:

♦ THEODORAKIS

THEO THEODORAKIS. Age: 17. High-

school senior. Works in family coffee shop.

Wants to be a writer. Seems lonely; can’t

find anyone to play chess with.

CHRISTOS THEODORAKIS. Age: 15.

Younger brother of above. Confined to

wheelchair; disease struck about four years

ago. Knows a lot about birds.

Westing connection:

Father was

childhood sweetheart of Sam Westing’s

daughter (who looked like Angela Wexler).

Mrs. Westing broke up the affair. She

wanted daughter to marry somebody else,

but Violet Westing killed herself before the

wedding. Neither parents of above are heirs.

“I hear the new medicine they’re trying out on Chris is doing

some good,” Sandy reported. “But the poor kid needs more

help than medicine. He’s real smart, you know. Chris could

have a real future, be a scientist or a professor, even; but it will

take a pile of money, more money than his folks could ever

make, to put him through college with a handicap like that.”

“The parents interest me more,” the judge said. “Why are

they not heirs?”

Sandy had some thoughts on that, too. “Maybe Sam

Westing didn’t want to embarrass George Theodorakis, him

being married and all. Or maybe Westing figured he’d be too

busy with his coffee shop to stay in the game. Or maybe

Westing blamed him for his daughter’s death, figuring they

should have eloped.”

“No, if Sam Westing blamed Mr. Theodorakis, he would

have made him an heir in this miserable game,” the judge

replied. “There are too many maybes here, which is what Sam

Westing planned. We must not allow ourselves to be distracted

from the real issue: Which heir did Sam Westing want

punished?”

“The person who hurt him most?” Sandy guessed.

“And who would that be?”

“The person who caused his daughter’s death?”

“Exactly, Mr. McSouthers. Sam Westing plotted against

the person he held responsible for his daughter’s suicide, the

person who forced Violet Westing to marry a man she

loathed.”

“Mrs. Westing? But that’s not possible, judge. Mrs.

Westing is not one of the heirs.”

“I think she is, Mr. McSouthers. The former wife of Sam

Westing must be one of the heirs. Mrs. Westing is the answer,

and whoever she is, she is the one we have to protect.”

21 ♦ The Fourth Bomb

The door to apartment 2C opened. Flora Baumbach screamed,

and Turtle flung herself on the pile of money they had been

counting.

It was Theo, not the thief. “Can I borrow your bike for a

few hours? It’s very important.” Theo was not a runner like

Doug, who was fuming about his being so late. He needed the

bicycle to follow Otis Amber, right now.

Turtle stared at him in stony silence.

“I didn’t make that sign in the elevator; besides, you

already kicked me for it. Please, Turtle.” She still wouldn’t

answer, punk kid. “I had a long talk with the police today, but

I refused to tell them who the bomber was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

What does she think it means? It means that he and

everybody else knows that Turtle is the bomber. “Never mind.

Can I have your bike or not?”

“Why do you want it?”

Theo ground his teeth. Take it easy; anger won’t help any

more than blackmail did. Try being a good guy. “I saw Angela

in the hospital today. She sends her regards.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You let me have that bike, Turtle Wexler, or—or else!”

Turtle did not have to ask what “or else” meant: police—

bomber—Angela, but how did Theo find out? “Here!” She

threw the padlock key across the room and waited for him to

rush out before she let go of the money.

“He’s such a nice boy,” Flora Baumbach remarked.

“Sure,” Turtle replied, dialing the telephone number of the

hospital. “Angela Wexler, room 325.”

“Room 325 is not accepting any calls.”

Turtle hung up the phone. If Theo knew, others knew.

Angela had set off those fireworks wanting to get caught, but

it was different now. Now she was confused, now she was just

plain scared. They could force a confession out of her in no

time, the guilt was right there staring out of those big blue

eyes. Maybe they’re questioning her now. “Baba, I’m not

feeling so good; I think I’ll go home to bed.”

Weaving through rush hour traffic on Turtle’s bike, Theo

trailed the bus to a seamy downtown district across the

railroad tracks where Crow and Otis got off. Skid Row. The

pair wandered through the dimly lit, littered, and stinking

street, bending over grimy bums asleep in doorways, raising

them to their unsteady feet, and leading the ragtag procession

into a decaying storefront. Paint was peeling off the letters on

the window: Good Salvation Soup Kitchen.

A drunken wreck of a man lurched into Theo, who put a

quarter into the filthy outstretched hand, more out of fright

than charity.

Snatches of hymn-singing drifted toward him as the last

of the stragglers staggered through the door. Theo crossed the

narrow street and pressed his nose against the steamy soup-

kitchen window. Rows of wretched souls sat hunched on

wooden benches. Crow stood before them in her neat black

dress, her hands raised toward the crumbling ceiling. Behind

her Otis Amber stirred a boiling mess in a big iron pot.

Theo pedaled back to Sunset Towers at a furious pace.

Whatever brought Crow and Otis Amber to these lower depths

was none of his business. He hated himself for spying. He

hated Sam Westing and his dirty money and his dirty game.

Theo felt as dirty as the derelicts he spied on. Dirtier.

*

The judge thought they had finished with the heirs.

“Not quite,” the doorman said.

♦ McSOUTHERS

ALEXANDER McSOUTHERS. Called

Sandy. Age: 65. Born: Edinburgh, Scotland.

Immigrated to Wisconsin, age 3. Education:

eighth grade. Jobs: mill worker, union

organizer, prizefighter, doorman. Married,

six children, two grandchildren.

Westing connection: Worked in Westing

Paper plant 20 years. Fired by Sam Westing

himself for trying to organize the workers.

No pension.

Sandy turned to a blank page, pushed his taped glasses up the

broken bridge of his nose and looked at the judge. “Name?”

It had not seemed sporting to investigate one’s own

partner, but McSouthers was right, this was a Westing game.

Of course, she had kept some facts from him about the other

heirs, but only because she did not trust his blabbering.

“Josie-Jo Ford, with a hyphen between Josie and Jo.”

“Age?”

“Forty-two. Education: Columbia; law degree, Harvard.”

The judge waited for the doorman to enter the information in

his slow, cramped lettering. He had to be meticulous in order

to prove he was better than his eighth-grade education. It’s a

pity he had not gone further, he was quite a clever man.

“Jobs?”

“Assistant district attorney. Judge: family court, state

supreme court, appellate division. Appellate has two Ps and

two Ls. Never married, no children.”

“Westing connection?”

The judge paused, then spoke so rapidly Sandy had to

stop taking notes. “My mother was a servant in the Westing

household, my father worked for the railroad and was the

gardener on his days off.”

“You mean you lived in the Westing house?” Sandy asked

with obvious surprise. “You knew the Westings?”

“I barely saw Mrs. Westing. Violet was a few years

younger than I, doll-like and delicate. She was not allowed to

play with other children. Especially the skinny, long-legged,

black daughter of the servants.”

“Gee, you must have been lonely, judge, having nobody

to play with.”

“I played with Sam Westing—chess. Hour after hour I sat

staring down at that chessboard. He lectured me, he insulted

me, and he won every game.” The judge thought of their last

game: She had been so excited about taking his queen, only to

have the master checkmate her in the next move. Sam Westing

had deliberately sacrificed his queen and she had fallen for it.

“Stupid child, you can’t have a brain in that frizzy head to

make a move like that.” Those were the last words he ever

said to her.

The judge continued: “I was sent to boarding school when

I was twelve. My parents visited me at school when they

could, but I never set foot in the Westing house again, not until

two weeks ago.”

“Your folks must have really worked hard,” Sandy said.

“An education like that costs a fortune.”

“Sam Westing paid for my education. He saw that I was

accepted into the best schools, probably arranged for my first

job, perhaps more, I don’t know.”

“That’s the first decent thing I’ve heard about the old

man.”

“Hardly decent, Mr. McSouthers. It was to Sam Westing’s

advantage to have a judge in his debt. Needless to say, I have

excused myself from every case remotely connected with

Westing affairs.”

“You’re awfully hard on yourself, judge. And on him.

Maybe Westing paid for your education ’cause you were smart

and needy, and you did all the rest by yourself.”

“This is getting us nowhere, Mr. McSouthers. Just write:

Westing connection: Education financed by Sam Westing.

Debt never repaid.”

Theo, upset over his Skid Row snooping, took out his anger on

the UP button, poking it, jabbing it, until the elevator finally

made its way down to the lobby. Slowly the door slid open. He

stared down at the sparking, sputtering arsenal, yelled and

belly-flopped to the carpet as rockets whizzed out of the

elevator, inches above his head. Boom! Boom! A blinding

flash of white fire streaked through the lobby, through the

open entrance door, and burst into a chrysanthemum of color

in the night sky. Then the elevator door closed.

The bomber had made one mistake. The last rocket

blasted off when the elevator returned to the third floor.

Boom!

By the time the bomb squad reached the scene (by way of

the stairs), the smoke had cleared, but the young girl was still

huddled on the hallway floor, tears streaming down her turtle-

like face.

“For heaven’s sake, say something,” her mother said.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

The pain was too great to be put into words. Five inches

of Turtle’s braid were badly singed.

Grace Wexler attacked the policeman. “Nothing but a

childish prank, you said. Some childish prank; both my

children cruelly injured, almost killed. Maybe now you’ll do

something, now that it’s too late.”

Unshaken by the mother’s anger, the policeman held up

the sign that had been taped to the elevator wall:

THE BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN!!!

On the reverse side was a handwritten composition: “How I

Spent My Summer Vacation” by Turtle Wexler.

Grace grabbed the theme and shook it at her daughter,

who was being rocked in Flora Baumbach’s arms. “Somebody

stole this from you, didn’t they, Turtle? You couldn’t have

done such an awful thing, not to Angela, not to your own

sister, could you, Turtle? Could you?”

“I want to see a lawyer,” Turtle replied.

The bomb squad, faced with six hours’ overtime filling out

forms and delivering the delinquent to a juvenile detention

facility, decided it was best for all concerned to escort the

prisoner to apartment 4D and place her in the custody of Judge

Ford.

Judge Ford put on her black robe and seated herself

behind the desk. Before her stood a downcast child looking

very sad and very sorry. Not at all like the Turtle she knew.

“You surprise me, Turtle Wexler. I thought you were too smart

to commit such a dangerous, destructive, and stupid act.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Why did you do it, Turtle? To hurt someone, to get even

with someone?”

“No ma’am.”

Of course not. Turtle kicked shins, she was not the type to

bottle up her anger. “You do understand that a child would not

receive as harsh a penalty as an adult would? That there would

be no permanent criminal record?”

“Yes ma’am. I mean, no ma’am.”

She was protecting someone. She had set off the

fireworks in the elevator to divert suspicion from the real

bomber. But who was the real bomber? Nothing to do but drag

it out of her, name by name, starting with the least likely. “Are

you protecting Angela?”

“No!”

The judge was astounded by the excited response. Angela

could not be the bomber, not that sweet, pretty thing. Thing? Is

that how she regarded that young woman, as a thing? And

what had she ever said to her except ‘I hear you’re getting

married, Angela’ or ‘How pretty you look, Angela.’ Had

anyone asked about her ideas, her hopes, her plans? If I had

been treated like that I’d have used dynamite, not fireworks;

no, I would have just walked out and kept right on going. But

Angela was different. “What a senseless thing to do,” the

judge said aloud.

“Yes ma’am.” Turtle stared down at the carpet, wondering

if she had given Angela away.

Judge Ford rose and placed an arm around Turtle’s bony

shoulders. She had never wished for a sister until this moment.

“Turtle, will you give me your word that you will never play

with fireworks again?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“While we’re at it, do you have anything else to confess?”

“Yes ma’am. I was in the Westing house the night Mr.

Westing died.”

“Good lord, child, sit down and tell me.”

Turtle began with the purple-waves story, went on to the

whisperings, the bedded-down corpse, the dropped peanut

butter and jelly sandwiches and her mother’s cross, and ended

with the twenty-four dollars she had won.

“Did either you or Doug Hoo call the police?”

“No ma’am, we were too scared, we just ran. Is that a

crime?”

The judge said it was a criminal offense to conceal a

murder.

“But Mr. Westing didn’t look murdered,” Turtle argued.

“He looked asleep, like he did in the coffin. He looked like a

wax dummy.”

“A wax dummy?”

Now Turtle was the one surprised by the excited response.

The judge thinks it might have been a real wax dummy, not a

corpse at all. Then what happened to Sam Westing?

The judge regained her composure. “Not reporting a dead

body is a violation of the health code, but I wouldn’t worry

about it. Is there anything else, Turtle?”

“Yes ma’am,” Turtle replied, glancing at the portable bar.

“Could I have a little bourbon.”

“What?”

“Just a little. On a piece of cotton to put in my cavity. My

tooth hurts something awful.”

Relieved at not having a juvenile alcoholic on her hands,

Judge Ford prepared the home remedy. “Is that better? Good.

You may go home now.”

Home meant going to Baba. Baba loved her no matter

what, and Turtle didn’t care if the others thought she was the

bomber—except Sandy. He was walking toward her right now,

walking his bouncy walk, but not smiling. Sandy is

disappointed in her, he thinks she hurt her own sister, he

doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

“How’s my girl?” Sandy said, cupping his hand under her

chin and lifting her head. “Whew! Hitting the bottle again?”

“It’s just bourbon on cotton for my toothache.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

“Honest Saaan-eee.” Turtle was pointing inside her wide-

open mouth.

The doorman peered in. “Wow, that’s some cavity, it looks

like the Grand Canyon. Tomorrow morning you’re going to

see my dentist—no back talk. He’s very gentle, you won’t feel

a thing. Promise you’ll go?”

Turtle nodded.

Sandy smiled. “Good, then down to business. My wife’s

having a birthday tomorrow. I thought one of your gorgeous

striped candles would make a swell present.”

“There’s only one candle left,” Turtle replied. “It’s the

best of the lot. Six super colors. I spent a lot of time making it;

that’s why I wouldn’t part with it. But since it’s for your wife’s

birthday, Sandy, I’ll let you have it for only five dollars. And I

won’t charge you sales tax.”

“Try not to stick your fanny out so far,” Angela said from her

chair. Now that Sydelle Pulaski depended on crutches, she

lurched clumsily, hobbled by old habits.

“Just keep reading those clues.” The secretary

straightened, shoulders back, stomach in, until her next step.

With their telephone switched off and Contagious Disease

added to the No Visitors sign, the bomb victims had privacy at

last. Sydelle had twice read the entire will aloud. Now Angela,

her hands unbandaged, was reshuffling the collected clues.

GRAINS SPACIOUS GRACE GOOD HOOD

WITH BEAUTIFUL MAJESTIES FROM THY PURPLE

WAVES ON(NO) MOUNTAIN

“Again,” Sydelle ordered. “Change them around and read

either the word on or the word no; both together are

confusing.”

GOOD SPACIOUS GRAINS WITH GRACE

ON THY PURPLE MOUNTAIN HOOD WAVES

FROM MAJESTIES BEAUTIFUL

“Shh!” Someone was at the door. Angela picked up the note

that was slipped underneath.

My darling Angela: I guess the sign on the

door means I should stay away, too. I

understand. We both need time to think

things over. I’ll wait. I love you—Denton

“What does it say, what does it say?” Sydelle pressed, but

Angela read only the postscript aloud:

P.S. You have another admirer. Chris wants

to give you and Ms. Pulaski one of our

clues. (Flora Baumbach has seen it, too.)

The word is plain.

“Like an airplane?” Sydelle asked.

“No, plain, like ordinary. Like the wide open plains.”

“Plains, grains. Quick, Angela, read the clues again.”

GOOD HOOD FROM SPACIOUS PLAIN

GRAINS ON WITH WITH BEAUTIFUL WAVES

GRACE THY PURPLE MOUNTAIN MAJESTIES

“That’s it, Angela. We got it, we got it!” Sydelle could

barely control her excitement. “The will said, Sing in praise of

this generous land. The will said, May God thy gold refine.

America, Angela, America! Purple mountain majesties,

Angela. Whoopee!”

Fortunately Sydelle Pulaski was close to the bed when she

threw her crutches in the air.

22 ♦ Losers, Winners

Saturday morning a new message was posted in the elevator:

I, TURTLE WEXLER, CONFESS TO

THOSE FOUR BOMBS. I’M SORRY, IT

WAS A DUMB THING TO DO AND I

WON’T DO IT AGAIN. BUT! I AM NOT

THE BURGLAR AND I NEVER

MURDERED ANYBODY, EVER.

YOUR FRIEND, TURTLE

P.S. TO MAKE UP FOR SCARING YOU, I

WILL TREAT EVERYBODY HERE TO AN

EXQUISITE CHINESE CUISINE DINNER

WHEN I WIN THE INHERITANCE.

“Poor Grace,” Mr. Hoo said. “One daughter almost killed, the

other one a bomber. Smart-aleck kid, first she blows up my

kitchen, then she advertises my cuisine. Win the inheritance—

ha! Maybe I’m lucky my son is a dumb jock.”

“Boom,” Madame Hoo said happily. She knew where

they were going. Always on the day when Doug ate six eggs

for breakfast, he ran around and around a big track and people

clapped and gave him a shiny medal. Doug was so proud of

his medals. She would never take them, not even the gold one,

not even if it took her two more years to pay to go back to

China. No, she would never take Doug’s medals, and she

would never sell that wonderful clock with the mouse who

wears gloves and points to the time.

“You must be out of your mind, Jake Wexler. Go to a track

meet with all those people pointing at me, snickering, saying:

‘Look, there she is, the mother of Cain and Abel.’ I’m not even

sure I have the nerve to show my face at the Westing house

tonight.”

“Come on, Grace, it’ll do you good.” The podiatrist urged

his reluctant wife down the third floor hall. “Stop thinking

about yourself for a change, think how poor Turtle must feel.”

“Don’t ever mention that child to me again, not after what

she did to Angela. I never told you this, Jake, but I’ve always

had a sinking sensation that the hospital mixed up the babies

when Turtle was born.”

“It’s no wonder she wanted to blow us all up.”

Grace’s despair exploded in anger. “Oh, I get it, you’re

putting the blame on me. If you had given her a good talking

to about kicking people when I asked, she might not have

ended up a common criminal.”

“Whatever became of that fun-loving woman I married,

what was her name—Gracie Windkloppel?”

Grace quickly looked around to see if anyone had

overheard that ugly name, but they were in the elevator, alone.

“Oh, I know what people think,” she complained. “Poor Jake

Wexler, good guy, everybody’s friend, married to that uppity

would-be decorator. Well, Angela’s not going to have to

scrimp and save to make ends meet; she’s going to marry a

real doctor. I’ll see to that.”

“Sure you will, Grace, you’ll see that Angela doesn’t

marry a loser like her father.” A real doctor, she says. A

podiatrist is a “real” doctor—well, it is these days, but when

he went to school it was different. He could have gone back,

taken more courses, but he was married by then, a father—oh,

who’s he kidding, Gracie’s right, he is a loser. Next she’ll

mention having to give up her family because she married a

Jew—no, she never brings that up, Grace with all her faults

would never do that.

The elevator door opened to the lobby. Grace turned to

her silent, sad-eyed husband, the loser. “Oh, Jake, what’s

happening to us? What’s happening to me? Maybe they’re

right, maybe I’m not a nice person.”

Jake pressed the CLOSE DOOR button and took his

sobbing wife into his arms. “It’s all right, Gracie, we’re going

home.”

The doors opened on the second floor. “Mom! What’s the

matter with her, daddy, she’s crying? Gee, mom, I’m sorry, it

was just a few fireworks.” If her mother ever found out who

the real bomber was, she’d really go to pieces.

Turtle looked even more like a turtle today with her sad

little face peering out of the kerchief tied under her small chin.

“Let go of the door, Turtle,” Jake said. “And have a good time

at the track meet. You, too, Mrs. Baumbach.”

Track meet? They weren’t going to a track meet. And they

sure were not going to have a good time.

Grace was still sobbing on Jake’s shoulder as he led her

into their apartment.

“Mother, what’s the matter? What’s wrong with her, dad?”

“Nothing, Angela, your mother’s just having a good cry.

Why don’t you and Ms. Pulaski leave us alone for a while.”

“Come, Angela,” Sydelle said, prodding her with the tip

of one of her mismatched crutches. “We have some painting to

do.”

Angela looked back at the embracing couple; her father’s

face was buried in her weeping mother’s tousled hair. They

had not asked how she got home from the hospital (by taxi),

they had not asked if she was still in pain (not much), they had

not even peeked under the bandage to see if a scar was

forming on her cheek (there was). Angela was on her own.

Well, that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, yes it was! She

uttered a short laugh, and her hand flew up to the pain in her

face.

“Do I look funny or something?”

“No, I wasn’t laughing at you, Sydelle, I’d never laugh at

you. It’s just that suddenly everything seemed all right.”

“It’s all right, all right,” her partner replied, unlocking the

four locks on her apartment door. “Tonight’s the night we’re

going to win it all.”

Were they? The will said look for a name. They had a

song, not a name.

“‘O beautiful for spacious skies,’” Sydelle began to sing,

“‘For purple waves of grain.’”

“Not purple,” Angela corrected her, “amber. ‘For amber

waves of grain.’”

Amber!

*

Judge Ford paced the floor. Tonight Sam Westing would wreak

his revenge unless she could prevent it. If she was right, the

person in danger was the former Mrs. Westing. And if Turtle

was right about the wax dummy, Sam Westing himself might

be there to watch the fun.

There was a knock on her door. The judge was surprised

to see Denton Deere, even more surprised when he wheeled

Chris Theodorakis into her apartment. “Hello, judge.

Everybody else in the building is going to the track meet, it

seems. I passed Sandy on the way out and he said you

wouldn’t mind having Chris for part of the afternoon. I’ve got

to get back to the hospital.”

“Hello, Judge F-Ford.” Chris held out a steady hand

which the judge shook.

“You’re looking well, Chris.”

“The m-medicine helped a lot.”

“It’s a big step forward,” the intern said. Wrong word, the

kid may never leave that wheelchair. “An even more effective

medication is now in the developmental stage.” That really

sounded pompous. “Well, so long, Chris. See you tonight.

Thanks, judge.”

“He knows lots of b-big words,” Chris said.

“Yes, he certainly does,” Judge Ford replied. What was

she going to do with this boy here? She had so much to think

about, so much to plan.

“You c-can work, I’ll birdwatch,” Chris offered, wheeling

to the window, his binoculars banging against his thin chest.

“Good idea.” The judge returned to her desk to study the

newspaper clippings. Mrs. Westing: a tall, thin woman. She

may no longer be thin, but she would still be tall. About sixty

years old. If Sam Westing’s former wife was one of the heirs,

she had to be Crow.

“Look!” Chris shouted, startling the judge into dropping

her files to the floor. She rushed to his side, thinking he

needed help. “Look up there, judge. Isn’t it b-beautiful?”

High in the fall sky a V of geese was flying south. Yes, it

was a beautiful sight. “Those are geese,” the judge explained.

“C-Canada goose (Branta c-canadensis),” Chris replied.

The judge was impressed, but she had work to do.

Stooping to gather the dropped clippings, she was confronted

by the face of Sam Westing. The photograph had been taken

fifteen years ago. Those piercing eyes, the Vandyke beard, that

short beaked nose (like a turtle’s). The wax dummy in the

coffin had been molded in the former image of Sam Westing

as he had looked fifteen years ago—not as he looked now. She

searched the folder. No recent photographs, no hospital

records, no death certificate, just the accident report from the

state highway police: Dr. Sidney Sikes suffered a crushed leg

and Samuel W. Westing had severe facial injuries. Facial

injuries! It was the face that had disappeared fifteen years ago,

not the man. Westing had a different face, a face remodeled by

plastic surgery. A different face and a different name.

Now what? Her gaze rested on her charge at the window.

Feeling her eyes, Chris turned around. The boy has a nice

smile.

“I hope you are better at filling cavities than making false

teeth,” Turtle said, gripping the arms of the dentist’s chair. In a

glass cabinet against the wall three rows of dentures grinned at

her with crooked teeth, overlapping teeth, notched teeth.

“Those faults are what makes the dentures look real,” the

dentist explained. “Nothing in nature is quite perfect, you

know. Now, open your mouth wide. Wider.”

“Ow!” Turtle screamed before the probe touched tooth.

“Just relax, young lady, I’ll tell you when to say ‘Ow!’”

Turtle tried to think about other things. False teeth,

buckteeth—that rotten bucktoothed Barney Northrup stopped

by this morning to tell the Wexlers they would have to pay for

all the damage done by the bombs. Barney Northrup had

called her parents “irresponsible” and had called her

something worse, much worse. He sure was surprised by that

kick; it was her hardest one ever.

“Now you can say ‘Ow!’” The dentist unclipped the towel

from her shoulder.

Turtle passed her tongue over the drilled tooth. She had

not felt a thing, but the real pain was yet to come. Flora

Baumbach was taking her to the beauty parlor to have her

singed hair cut off.

College teams from five states competed in the first indoor

track meet of the season, but the big event, the mile run, was

won by a high-school senior.

“That’s my boy, that’s my Doug,” Mr. Hoo shouted, one

voice among thousands cheering the youngster on his victory

lap.

Cameras flashed as Doug posed, smiling broadly, index

fingers high in the air. “I owe it all to my dad,” he told

reporters, and cameras flashed again as Doug flung an arm

around the proud Mr. Hoo. Just wait until the next Olympics,

the inventor thought. With Doug’s feet and my innersoles,

he’ll run them all to the ground.

Later that evening Madame Hoo, chattering in

unintelligible Chinese, made it known that she wanted Doug

to wear his prize to the Westing house. Standing on tiptoe she

placed the ribbon over his bent head and patted the shiny gold

medal in place on his chest. “Good boy,” she said in English.

A saddened Sandy returned to apartment 4D. “Hi, Chris. Did

you talk to him, judge?”

“Talk to whom?”

“Barney Northrup. He was waiting at the front door when

I got back from the track meet, mad as a wet cat. Said he had

lots of complaints about me—never being on duty, drinking on

the job—lies like that. He fired me right on the spot. I told him

you wanted to see him, figuring you might put in a good word

so he’d let me stay on.”

“No, Mr. McSouthers, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen

Barney Northrup since I rented this apartment.” Barney

Northrup, was that Westing’s disguise: false buckteeth, slick

black wig, pasted-on moustache?”

“Well, it’s not the first time I got fired for no cause.” The

dejected doorman blew his nose loudly in a Westing Man-

Sized Hankie. “Hey Chris, bet you don’t know the Latin name

of the red-headed woodpecker.”

That was a hard one. Chris had to say Melanerpes

erythrocephalus very slowly.

“Some smart kid, hey, judge? Chris, the judge and I have

a little business to discuss. Excuse us for a minute.”

Judge Ford joined the doorman in the kitchen. “Our game

plan is this, Mr. McSouthers. We give no answer. No answer at

all. Our duty is to protect Westing’s ex-wife.”

“Crow?” Sandy guessed.

“That’s right.”

“There’s something else that’s been bothering me, judge. I

know it sounds crazy, but, well, I found out Otis Amber

doesn’t live in the grocer’s basement, and he’s not as dumb as

he pretends. He’s a snoop and a troublemaker and I don’t think

he is who he says he is?”

“And who do you think Otis Amber is?” the judge asked.

“Sam Westing!”

Judge Ford leaned against the sink and pressed her head

against the cabinet. If Sandy was correct, she had played right

into the man’s hands—Sam Westing’s hands.

“C’mon Crow, you always like to get there early to open the

door for people.”

Crow had stopped in the middle of the steep road to stare

up at the Westing house. “I’ve got a funny feeling that

something evil is waiting for me up there, Otis. It’s a bad

house, full of misery and sin. He’s still there, you know.”

“Sam Westing is dead and buried. Come on, if we don’t

go we gotta give the money back, and we already spent it on

the soup kitchen.”

“I feel his presence, Otis. He’s looking for a murderer,

Violet’s murderer.”

“Stop scaring yourself with crazy notions, you sound like

you’re on the bottle again.”

Crow strode ahead.

“I didn’t mean that, Crow, honest. Look up there at that

moon. Isn’t it romantic?”

“Somebody’s in real danger, Otis, and I think it’s me.”

23 ♦ Strange Answers

Lawyer Plum was there and one pair of heirs when Otis

Amber danced into the game room. “He-he-he, the Turtle’s

lost its tail, I see.”

Turtle slumped low in her chair. Flora Baumbach thought

the short, sleek haircut was adorable, especially the way it

swept forward over her little chin, but Turtle did not want to

look adorable. She wanted to look mean.

The dressmaker fumbled past the wad of money in her

handbag. “Here, Alice, I thought you might like to see this.”

Turtle glanced at the old snapshot. It’s Baba, all right,

except younger. Same dumb smile. Suddenly she sat upright.

“That’s my daughter, Rosalie,” Flora Baumbach said.

“She must have been nine or ten when that picture was taken.”

Rosalie was squat and square and squinty, her protruding

tongue was too large for her mouth, her head lolled to one

side. “I think I would have liked her, Baba,” Turtle said.

“Rosalie looks like she was a very happy person. She must

have been nice to have around.”

Thump-thump, thump-thump. “Here come the victims,”

Sydelle Pulaski announced.

Angela greeted her sister with a wave of her crimson-

streaked, healing hand. Turtle had convinced her not to

confess: It would mean a criminal record, it would kill their

mother, and no one would believe her anyhow. “I like your

haircut.”

“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.

TWELFTH ♦ Welcome again to the

Westing house. By now you have received a

second check for ten thousand dollars.

Before the day is done you may have won

more, much more.

Table by table, each pair will be called

to give one, and only one, answer. The

lawyer will record your response in case of

a dispute. He does not know the answer. It

is up to you.

1 ♦ MADAME SUN LIN HOO, cook

JAKE WEXLER, bookie

Bookie? He really must have been distracted when he signed

that receipt. Jake studied the five clues on the table:

OF AMERICA AND GOD ABOVE

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.

2 ♦ FLORA BAUMBACH, dressmaker

TURTLE WEXLER, financier

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.

3 ♦ CHRISTOS THEODORAKIS,

ornithologist

DENTON DEERE, intern

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.”

4 ♦ J. J. FORD, judge

ALEXANDER MCSOUTHERS, fired

“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.

5 ♦ GRACIE WINDKLOPPEL WEXLER,

restaurateur

JAMES HOO, inventor

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.”

6 ♦ BERTHE ERICA CROW, mother

OTIS AMBER, deliverer

“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.

7 ♦ DOUGLAS HOO, champ

THEO THEODORAKIS, writer

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.

8 ♦ SYDELLE PULASKI, victim

ANGELA WEXLER, person

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.

O beautiful for spacious skies

For amber waves of grain

For purple mountain majesties

Above the fruited plain.

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.

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea.

“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.

THIRTEENTH ♦ Okay, folks, there will be

a short break before the big winner is

announced. Berthe Erica Crow, please rise

and go to the kitchen for the refreshments.

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 the 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 can still 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:

O BEAUTIFUL FOR SPACIOUS SKIES

FOR AM WAVES OF GRAIN

FOR PURPLE MOUNTAIN MAJESTIES

ABOVE FRUITED PLAIN

AMERICA AM

GOD SHED HIS GRACE ON THEE

AND N THY GOOD WITH BROTHERHOOD

FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA

“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, 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 turning 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 doesn’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 arms. 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

doesn’t play chess. And she never kicked him either. Buck-

toothed Barney Northrup was the one she kicked, not Sandy.

But Sandy had the sore shin. Buck-toothed, chip-toothed, the

crooked false teeth in the dentist’s office (Sandy’s dentist).

“Cheer up, my friend, the game’s not over. You can still 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.

“What does dastardly mean?”

“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach was relieved to hear Jake

Wexler define the word as “cowardly.”

I, alone, know the name. Now it

is up to you. Cast out the sinner,

let the guilty rise and confess.

THIRD. Who among you is worthy to

be the Westing heir? Help me. My

soul shall roam restlessly until

that one is found.

For the first time since Sandy died, Turtle smiled.

Judge Ford sat in glassy-eyed thought, elbows propped on

the desk top, her chin resting on her folded hands. Why,

indeed, was Crow an heir? Sam Westing could have pointed

his clues at the Sunset Towers cleaning woman without

naming her an heir.

“Crow’s not going to inherit anything, not if she’s in jail

for murder,” Otis Amber complained bitterly. “All your talk

about chess and sacrificing queens. Crow’s the one who’s been

sacrificed.”

“What did you say?” the judge asked.

“I said Crow’s the one who’s been sacrificed.”

Uttering a low groan, Judge Ford sank her head in her

hands. The queen’s sacrifice! She had fallen for it again.

Westing had sacrificed his queen (Crow), distracting the

players from the real game. Sam Westing was dead, but

somehow or other he would make his last move. She knew it;

she felt it deep in her bones. Sam Westing had won the game.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

The heirs stared in amazement. First they are told that

Samuel W. Westing was married to their cleaning woman, now

a judge is calling herself stupid. It couldn’t be true.

“Sam Westing wasn’t stupid,” Denton Deere declared.

“He was insane. The last party of the will was sheer lunacy.

Happy Fourth of July, it said. This is November.”

“It’s November fifteenth,” Otis Amber cried. “It’s poor

Crow’s birthday.”

Turtle looked up from the will. Crow’s birthday? Sandy

had bought a striped candle for his wife’s birthday, a three-

hour candle. The game is still on! Sam Westing came back to

seek his heir. “You can still win. I hope you do,” he said.

How? How? It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have

that counts. Whatever it was she didn’t have, she’d have to

find it soon. Without letting the others know what she was

looking for. “Judge Ford, I’d like to call my first witness.”

26 ♦ Turtle’s Trial

Hoo was furious. “Haven’t we had enough game-playing,” he

complained. “And led by a confessed bomber, no less.”

Judge Ford rapped for silence with the walnut gavel

presented to her by associates on her appointment to a higher

court. Higher court? This was the lowest court she had ever

presided at: a thirteen-year-old lawyer, a court stenographer

who records in Polish, and the judge in African robes. Oh

well, she had played Sam Westing’s game, now she would

play Turtle’s game. The similarity was astounding; Turtle not

only looked like her Uncle Sam, she acted like him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle began, “I stand before this

court to prove that Samuel W. Westing is dead and that Sandy

McSouthers is dead, but Crow didn’t do it.”

Pacing the floor, hands behind her back, she confronted

each of the heirs in turn with a hard stare. The heirs stared

back, not knowing if they were the jury or the accused.

Grace Wexler blinked up at her daughter. “Who’s that?”

“The district attorney,” Jake replied. “Go back to sleep.”

Now frowning, now smiling a secret smile, Turtle acted

the part of every brilliant lawyer she had seen on television

who was about to win an impossible case. The only flaw in her

imitation was an occasional rapid twist of her head. (She liked

the grown-up feeling of shorter hair swishing around her face.)

“Let me begin at the beginning,” she began. “On

September first we moved into Sunset Towers. Two months

later, on Halloween, smoke was seen rising from the chimney

of the deserted Westing house.” Her first witness would be the

person most likely to have watched the house that day. “I call

Chris Theodorakis to the stand.”

Chris lay a calm hand on the Bible and swore to tell the

truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. What fun!

“You are a birdwatcher, Mr. Theodorakis, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Were you birdwatching on October thirty-first?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone enter the Westing house?”

“I s-saw s-somebody who limped.”

Good, now she was getting somewhere. “Who was that

limping person?”

“It was D-Doctor Sikes.”

“Thank you, you are excused.” Turtle turned to her

audience. “Doctor Sikes was Sam Westing’s friend, a witness

to the will, and his accomplice in this game. On the day in

question he limped into the Westing house to build a fire in the

fireplace. Why?” Her next witness might answer that.

Judge Ford instructed the witness to remove his aviator’s

helmet. His gray hair was tousled but barbered. “And place

your gun in the custody of the court.”

“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach gasped as Otis Amber

unzipped his plastic jacket, pulled a revolver from his shoulder

holster and handed it over to the judge, who locked the gun in

her desk drawer.

Turtle was as startled as the other tenants. “Mr. Amber,”

she began bravely, “it seems that we are not all who we say we

are. In other words, who exactly are you?”

“I am a licensed private investigator.”

“Then why were you disguised as an idiot delivery boy?”

“It was my disguise.”

Turtle was dealing with a practiced witness. “Mr. Amber,

who employed you?”

“That’s privileged information.”

The judge interceded. “It would be best to cooperate, Mr.

Amber. For Crow’s sake.”

“I had three clients: Samuel W. Westing, Barney

Northrup, and Judge J. J. Ford.”

Turtle stumbled over her next question. “What were you

hired to do and when and what did you find out? Tell us

everything you know.” It was unsettling to see Otis Amber act

like a normal human being.

“Twenty years ago, after his wife left him, Samuel W.

Westing hired me to find Crow, keep her out of trouble, and

make sure she never used the Westing name. I assumed this

disguise for that purpose. I mailed in my reports and received

a monthly check from the Westingtown bank until last week,

when I was notified that my services were no longer needed.

But Crow still needs me, and I’ll stick by her, no matter what.

I’ve grown fond of the woman; we’ve been together such a

long time.”

“How and why did Barney Northrup hire you?”

“Amber is second in the phone book under Private

Investigators; maybe Joe Aaron’s phone was busy that day.

Anyhow, Barney Northrup wanted me to investigate six

people.”

“What six?”

“Judge J. J. Ford, George Theodorakis, James Hoo,

Gracie Windkloppel, Flora Baumbach, and Sybil Pulaski. I

made a mistake on the last one; I wasn’t aware of the mix-up

until I looked into Crow’s early life for the judge. It seems I

confused a Sybil Pulaski with a Sydelle Pulaski.”

“Would you please repeat that,” the court stenographer

asked.

“Sydelle Pulaski,” Otis Amber repeated, then turned to the

judge. “I couldn’t tell you about Crow’s relationship to Sam

Westing—conflict of interest, you understand.

Judge Ford understood very well. Sam Westing had

predicted every move she would make. That’s why Otis

Amber, with his privileged information, was one of the heirs;

that and to convince Crow (the queen) to play the game.

Turtle had more questions. “Are you saying that Barney

Northrup didn’t ask you to investigate Denton Deere or Crow

or Sandy?”

“That’s right. Denton Deere turned up in my report on

Gracie Windkloppel—the Wexlers. Barney Northrup said he

was looking to hire a cleaning woman for Sunset Towers,

good pay and a small apartment, so I recommended Crow. I

don’t know how Sandy got the doorman’s job.”

“Mr. Amber, you were also hired by Judge Ford, I assume

to find out who everybody really was. Did you investigate all

sixteen heirs for the judge?”

“I didn’t investigate the judge or her partner.”

The judge bristled at the reminder of her stupidity.

“Therefore,” Turtle continued, “you have never

investigated the man we knew as Sandy McSouthers for any

of your clients?”

“Never.”

“One more question.” It was the question she had planned

to ask before learning that Otis Amber was not who he seemed

to be. “On the afternoon of Halloween, when we were

watching the smoke in the Westing house chimney, you told a

story about a corpse on an Oriental rug.”

“I saw it,” Grace Wexler cried, “I saw him.”

Turtle forgot the rules of the court and hurried to her

mother. “Who did you see, mom? Who? Who?”

(Terrified by the whos, Madame Hoo slipped away.)

“The doorman,” Grace replied, lifting her dazed face to

her husband. “He was dead. On an Oriental rug, Jake. It was

awful.”

Jake stroked his wife’s hair. “I know, Gracie, I know.”

Turtle returned to her witness. “Mr. Amber, did you tell

that spooky story to dare one of us to go to the Westing house

that night?”

“Not really. Sandy told me the story that morning, and we

decided to scare you kids with it, being Halloween.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amber, you may step down.” (Step

down was a term used in court; the floor was level here.)

Turtle turned to her baffled audience. “A fire was started in the

fireplace to call attention to the deserted house. Then a spooky

story was told to dare someone to go into the house. That

someone was me. I sneaked in the house, followed Dr. Sikes’

whispers, and found the corpse of Samuel W. Westing in bed. I

now call D. Denton Deere to the stand.”

Turtle stared at her most unfavorite heir. “Intern Deere, you

saw the body of Samuel W. Westing in the coffin. Did he

appear to have been poisoned?”

“I could not say; he was embalmed.”

“You are under oath, Intern Deere. Do you swear that the

body of Samuel W. Westing was embalmed?”

What kind of a trick question was that? “I cannot swear to

it, no. I did not examine the body in the coffin.”

“Could the body in the coffin, which you did not examine,

have been no body at all? Could it have been a wax dummy

dressed in the costume of Uncle Sam?”

“I am not an expert on wax dummies.”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, it’s possible, anything is possible.” What’s the brat

driving at? Or is she just trying to make a fool of me?

“Intern Deere, you may not be an expert in wax dummies,

but you are an expert in medical diagnosis, and you did

examine the body of Sandy McSouthers. Correct?”

“Yes to the first question, no to the second. I did not

examine Sandy; I tried to make him comfortable until help

arrived. He was still alive when Doctor Sikes took over.”

Turtle turned quickly to conceal her smile. “But surely

you saw enough symptoms to make one of your famous

diagnosises.” She peered at the judge from the corner of her

eye. That last word didn’t sound right.

“Coronary thrombosis,” the intern diagnosed, “but that’s

just an educated guess. In simple language: heart attack.”

“Then Sandy could not have died of an overdose of lemon

juice, which is what I saw Crow put in his flask?” Turtle could

have called on Angela to testify to that, but she didn’t want her

screwy sister confessing all over the place.

“I never heard of anyone dying as a result of lemon juice

consumption,” the expert replied.

“One more question, Intern Deere. Do you swear that

Sandy had a bruise on his shin resulting from a kick?”

“Absolutely. I should know, having been the recipient of

such a kick myself.”

“You may step down.”

“I call Sydelle Pulaski to the stand. SYDELLE PULASKI!”

Overcome with excitement, the secretary had to be helped

to her feet for the oath-taking.

“Ms. Pulaski, I must compliment you on your good

thinking in taking down the will in shorthand.”

“Professional habit.”

“This looks professional, all right. The typing is perfect—

well, almost perfect. It seems you left out the last word in

section three:

The estate is at the crossroads.

The heir who wins the windfall will

be the one who finds the

“Finds the what, Ms. Pulaski? Finds the what?”

Sydelle squirmed under Turtle’s hard stare. Leave it to the

brat to discover my one error. “There was so much talking I

couldn’t hear the last word.”

“Come now, Ms. Pulaski, you claim to be a professional.”

Hounding the witness and doing it quite well, Judge Ford

thought, coming to the secretary’s defense. “I don’t think

anyone heard the word, Turtle. Mr. McSouthers made a joke

about ashes at that point.”

“You are excused, Ms. Pulaski,” Turtle said offhandedly,

her eyes on the will. The judge was right. Sandy had joked

about ashes scattered to the winds. Winds, Windy

Windkloppel, no, it still didn’t make sense. It is not what you

have, it’s what you don’t have that counts—maybe no word

was ever there. She read on:

FOURTH. Hail to thee, oh land of

opportunity! You have made me, the

son of poor immigrants, rich,

powerful, and respected.

So take stock in America, my

heirs, and sing in praise of this

generous land. You, too, may strike

it rich who dares play the Westing

game.

FIFTH. Sit down, your honor, and

read the letter this brilliant

young attorney will now hand over

to you.

“Judge Ford, could you introduce as evidence the letter that

brilliant young attorney handed over to you?”

“It is just the usual certification of sanity, signed by

Doctor Sikes,” the judge replied as she removed the envelope

from her files. But the letter was gone; the envelope now

contained a receipt:

Check received, November 1

$5,000

Check received, November 15

+5,000

Total amount paid by Judge Ford

$10,000

Cost of educating Josie-Jo Ford

-10,000

Amount owed to Sam Westing

0

“I’m afraid the original letter has been replaced by a personal

message. It has no bearing on this case, and…”

“Yes, please.” A trembling Madame Hoo stood before the

judge. “For to go to China,” she said timidly, setting a scarf-

tied bundle on the desk. Weeping softly, the thief shuffled

back to her seat.

The judge unknotted the scarf and let the flowered silk

float down around the booty: her father’s railroad watch, a

pearl necklace, cuff links, a pin and earrings set, a clock.

(Grace Wexler’s silver cross never did turn up.)

“My pearls,” Flora Baumbach exclaimed with delight.

“Wherever did you find them, Madame Hoo? I’m so grateful.”

Madame Hoo did not understand why the round little lady

was smiling at her. Cautiously she peered through her fingers.

Oh! The other people did not smile. They know she is bad.

And Mr. Hoo, his anger is drowned in shame.

“Perhaps stealing is not considered stealing in China,”

Sydelle Pulaski said in a clumsy gesture of kindness.

The judge rapped her gavel. “Let us continue with the

case on hand. Are you ready, counselor?”

“Yes, your honor, in a minute.” Turtle approached the

frightened thief. “Here, you can keep it.”

With shaking hands Madame Hoo took the Mickey

Mouse clock from Turtle and clutched the priceless treasure to

her bosom. “Thank you, good girl, thank you, thank you.”

“That’s okay.”

The heirs were anxious for the trial to continue. They

pitied the poor woman, but the scene was embarrassing.

One half hour to go. Turtle was so close to winning she could

feel it, taste it, but still the answer eluded her. “Ladies and

gentlemen, who was Sam Westing?” she began. “He was poor

Windy Windkloppel, the son of immigrants. He was rich Sam

Westing, the head of a huge paper company. He was a happy

man who played games. He was a sad man whose daughter

killed herself. He was a lonely man who moved to a faraway

island. He was a sick man who returned home to see his

friends and relatives before he died. And he did die, but not

when we thought he did. Sam Westing was still alive when the

will was read.”

The judge rapped for order.

Turtle continued. “The obituary, probably phoned in to the

newspaper by Westing himself, mentioned two interesting

facts. One: Sam Westing was never seen after his car crashed.

Two: Sam Westing acted in Fourth of July pageants, fooling

everybody with his clever disguises. Therefore I submit that

Sam Westing was not only alive, Sam Westing was disguised

as one of his own heirs.

“No one would recognize him. With that face bashed in

from the car crash, his disguise could be simple: a baggy

uniform, a chipped front tooth, broken eyeglasses.”

Sandy?

Does she mean Sandy?

The judge had to pound her gavel several times.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle went on, “Sam

Westing was none other than our dear friend Sandy, the

doorman. But Sam Westing did not drink, you say. Neither did

Sandy. I used his flask on Halloween and there was a funny

aftertaste in my pop, but not of whiskey; I know how whiskey

tastes, because I use it for toothaches. It was medicine. Sandy

was a sick man, and the flask was part of his disguise, but it

also contained the medicine that kept him alive.”

Turtle surveyed the stupefied audience. Good, they

bought her little fib. “As I said earlier, I saw Crow fill the

flask with lemon juice in the kitchen, but I saw something

even more interesting on my way back to the game room: I

saw Sandy coming out of the library. Sam Westing, as Sandy,

wrote the last part of the will after the answers were given,

then locked it in the library desk with a duplicate key.

“But what about the murder, you ask,” Turtle said, even

though no one had asked. “There was no murder. The word

murder was first mentioned by Sandy, to put us off the track. I

did not die of natural causes, the will says, My life was taken

from me—by one of you! Sam Westing’s life was taken from

him when he became Sandy McSouthers. And Sandy died

when his medicine ran out.” Turtle paused in a pretense of

letting the heirs mull over her last words, trying to figure out

what to do next.

Why did Turtle leave out Barney Northrup, the judge

wondered. She knows Northrup and McSouthers were the

same man because of the bruised shin. Either she doesn’t want

to confound the jury, or she has no more idea than I have why

Sam Westing had to play two roles.

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 name 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

pinwheels 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 West ing, Barney North rup, Sandy

Mc South ers (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 his 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 cheek, 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 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

Baumbach?” 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?

Turtle spent the night at the bedside of eighty-five-year-old

Julian R. Eastman. T. R. Wexler had a master’s degree in

business administration, an advanced degree in corporate law,

and had served two years as legal counsel to the Westing

Paper Products Corporation. She had made one million dollars

in the stock market, lost it all, then made five million more.

“This is it, Turtle.” His voice was weak.

“You can die before my very eyes, Sandy, and I wouldn’t

believe it.”

“Show some respect. I can still change my will.”

“No, you can’t. I’m your lawyer.”

“That’s the thanks I get for that expensive education.

How’s the judge?”

“Judge Ford has just been appointed to the United States

Supreme Court.”

“What do you know, honest Josie-Jo on the Supreme

Court. She was a smart kid, too, but she never once beat me at

chess. Tell me about the others, Turtle. How’s poor, saintly

Crow?”

“Crow and Otis are still slopping soup,” Turtle fibbed.

Crow and Otis Amber had died two years ago, within a week

of each other.

“And that funny woman with the painted crutches, what’s

her name?”

“Sydelle Pulaski Schultz. She and her husband moved to

Hawaii. Angela keeps in touch.”

“Angela. And how is your pretty sister, the bomber?”

Turtle never knew he knew. “Angela is an orthopedic

surgeon.” Julian R. Eastman was an old man, but suddenly his

mind, too, was old. For the first time since the Westing game

he was wearing the dentures with the chipped front tooth. He

had turned back to his happiest times. Sandy was dying, he

was really dying. Turtle held back her tears. “Angela and

Denton Deere are married. They have a daughter named

Alice.”

“Alice. Doesn’t Flora Baumbach call you Alice?”

“She used to, she calls me T. R. as everyone does.”

“How is the dressmaker, Turtle? Tell me about them, tell

me about all of them.”

Flora Baumbach had given up dressmaking when she

moved in with Turtle years ago. “Baba is well, everyone is

well. Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis (remember, they had the

coffee shop in Sunset Towers), they retired to Florida. Chris

and his wife Shirley teach ornithology at the university.

They’re both professors. Chris discovered a new subspecies on

his last trip to South America; it’s named after him: the

something-Christos parrot.”

“The something-Christos parrot, I like that. And the track

star? Has he won any more medals?”

“Two Olympic golds in a row. Doug is a sports announcer

on television.”

“And how is Jimmy Hoo’s invention going? I gave him

the idea, you know.”

“It looks like a real winner, Sandy.” Mr. Hoo, too, was

dead. Sunny Hoo finally made her trip to China, but returned

to carry on the business.

“And tell me about my niece, Gracie Windkloppel. Does

she still think she’s a decorator?”

“Mom went into the restaurant business, has a chain of

ten. Nine are quite successful. I keep telling her to give up on

Hoo’s On Tenth, to cut her losses, but she’s stubborn as ever. I

guess she hangs on to it because it’s in Madison, to be near

dad. He’s now the state crime commissioner.”

“He’s well qualified for the job. And your husband, how’s

his writing coming along?”

He had remembered. “Theo’s doing fine. The first novel

sold about six copies, but it got great reviews. He’s just about

finished with his second book.”

“And when are you two going to have children?”

“Someday.” 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?”