The Westing Game (5 page)

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.”

“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.

“What!”

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?”

“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.

“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach clapped a hand to her mouth on hearing “dastardly.” First murder, now a swear word.

“Amen,” said Crow.

“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.”

“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.”

It was uncanny. Several heads turned toward 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!”

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.

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!”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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”?