The Westing Game (20 page)

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:

“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, then 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.

“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.

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 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.

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.

“The answer is Berthe Erica Crow.”

“No,” Angela cried. “No, no!”

“She’s crazy,” Otis Amber shouted. “She don’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.”

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 arm. 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 didn’t play chess. And she never kicked him either. Bucktoothed Barney Northrup was the one she kicked, not Sandy. But Sandy had the sore shin. Bucktoothed, chip-toothed, the crooked false teeth in the dentist’s office (Sandy’s dentist). “Cheer up, my friend, the game’s not over. You still can 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:

“To seek my heir,” Turtle repeated to herself.