The Westing Game

  “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 hair
cut.”

  “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 D. 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 MC SOUTHERS, 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 • GRACE 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 • DOUG 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
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  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?”