The Westing Game (12 page)

“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”:

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:

Taped at the bottom were two clues:

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 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 second? 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.”