by Ellen Raskin
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 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!”
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, birdwatcher 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 DOUGHOO, 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.
“Gibberish,” 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?”
“Purp
le 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 gibberish,” 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.