The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

  It had not seemed sporting to investigate one’s own partner, but McSouthers was right, this was a Westing game. Of course, she had kept some facts from him about the other heirs, but only because she did not trust his blabbering. “Josie-Jo Ford, with a hyphen between Josie and Jo.”

  “Age?”

  “Forty-two. Education: Columbia; law degree, Harvard.” The judge waited for the doorman to enter the information in his slow, cramped lettering. He had to be meticulous in order to prove he was better than his eighth-grade education. It’s a pity he had not gone further, he was quite a clever man.

  “Jobs?”

  “Assistant district attorney. Judge: family court, state supreme court, appellate division. Appellate has two p’s and two l’s. Never married, no children.”

  “Westing connection?”

  The judge paused, then spoke so rapidly Sandy had to stop taking notes. “My mother was a servant in the Westing household, my father worked for the railroad and was the gardener on his days off.”

  “You mean you lived in the Westing house?” Sandy asked with obvious surprise. “You knew the Westings?”

  “I barely saw Mrs. Westing. Violet was a few years younger than I, doll-like and delicate. She was not allowed to play with other children. Especially the skinny, long-legged, black daughter of the servants.”

  “Gee, you must have been lonely, Judge, having nobody to play with.”

  “I played with Sam Westing—chess. Hour after hour I sat staring down at that chessboard. He lectured me, he insulted me, and he won every game.” The judge thought of their last game: She had been so excited about taking his queen, only to have the master checkmate her in the next move. Sam Westing had deliberately sacrificed his queen and she had fallen for it. “Stupid child, you can’t have a brain in that frizzy head to make a move like that.” Those were the last words he ever said to her.

  The judge continued: “I was sent to boarding school when I was twelve. My parents visited me at school when they could, but I never set foot in the Westing house again, not until two weeks ago.”

  “Your folks must have really worked hard,” Sandy said. “An education like that costs a fortune.”

  “Sam Westing paid for my education. He saw that I was accepted into the best schools, probably arranged for my first job, perhaps more, I don’t know.”

  “That’s the first decent thing I’ve heard about the old man.”

  “Hardly decent, Mr. McSouthers. It was to Sam Westing’s advantage to have a judge in his debt. Needless to say, I have excused myself from every case remotely connected with Westing affairs.”

  “You’re awfully hard on yourself, Judge. And on him. Maybe Westing paid for your education ’cause you were smart and needy, and you did all the rest by yourself.”

  “This is getting us nowhere, Mr. McSouthers. Just write: Westing connection: Education financed by Sam Westing. Debt never repaid.”

  Theo, upset over his Skid Row snooping, took out his anger on the up button, poking it, jabbing it, until the elevator finally made its way down to the lobby. Slowly the door slid open. He stared down at the sparking, sputtering arsenal, yelled and belly-flopped to the carpet as rockets whizzed out of the elevator, inches above his head. Boom! Boom! A blinding flash of white fire streaked through the lobby, through the open entrance door, and burst into a chrysanthemum of color in the night sky. Then the elevator door closed.

  The bomber had made one mistake. The last rocket blasted off when the elevator returned to the third floor. Boom!

  By the time the bomb squad reached the scene (by way of the stairs), the smoke had cleared, but the young girl was still huddled on the hallway floor, tears streaming down her turtle-like face.

  “For heaven’s sake, say something,” her mother said. “Tell me where it hurts.”

  The pain was too great to be put into words. Five inches of Turtle’s braid were badly singed.

  Grace Wexler attacked the policeman. “Nothing but a childish prank, you said. Some childish prank; both my children cruelly injured, almost killed. Maybe now you’ll do something, now that it’s too late.”

  Unshaken by the mother’s anger, the policeman held up the sign that had been taped to the elevator wall:THE BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN!!!

  On the reverse side was a handwritten composition: “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” by Turtle Wexler.

  Grace grabbed the theme and shook it at her daughter, who was being rocked in Flora Baumbach’s arms. “Somebody stole this from you, didn’t they, Turtle? You couldn’t have done such an awful thing, not to Angela, not to your own sister, could you Turtle? Could you?”

  “I want to see a lawyer,” Turtle replied.

  The bomb squad, faced with six hours’ overtime filling out forms and delivering the delinquent to a juvenile detention facility, decided it was best for all concerned to escort the prisoner to apartment 4D and place her in the custody of Judge Ford.

  Judge Ford put on her black robe and seated herself behind the desk. Before her stood a downcast child looking very sad and very sorry. Not at all like the Turtle she knew. “You surprise me, Turtle Wexler. I thought you were too smart to commit such a dangerous, destructive, and stupid act.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why did you do it, Turtle? To hurt someone, to get even with someone?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Of course not. Turtle kicked shins, she was not the type to bottle up her anger. “You do understand that a child would not receive as harsh a penalty as an adult would? That there would be no permanent criminal record?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”

  She was protecting someone. She had set off the fireworks in the elevator to divert suspicion from the real bomber. But who was the real bomber? Nothing to do but drag it out of her, name by name, starting with the least likely. “Are you protecting Angela?”

  “No!”

  The judge was astounded by the excited response. Angela could not be the bomber, not that sweet, pretty thing. Thing? Is that how she regarded that young woman, as a thing? And what had she ever said to her except ‘I hear you’re getting married, Angela’ or ‘How pretty you look, Angela.’ Had anyone asked about her ideas, her hopes, her plans? If I had been treated like that I’d have used dynamite, not fireworks; no, I would have just walked out and kept right on going. But Angela was different. “What a senseless thing to do,” the judge said aloud.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Turtle stared down at the carpet, wondering if she had given Angela away.

  Judge Ford rose and placed an arm around Turtle’s bony shoulders. She had never wished for a sister until this moment. “Turtle, will you give me your word that you will never play with fireworks again?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “While we’re at it, do you have anything else to confess?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was in the Westing house the night Mr. Westing died.”

  “Good lord, child, sit down and tell me.”

  Turtle began with the purple-waves story, went on to the whisperings, the bedded-down corpse, the dropped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and her mother’s cross, and ended with the twenty-four dollars she had won.

  “Did either you or Doug Hoo call the police?”

  “No, ma’am, we were too scared, we just ran. Is that a crime?”

  The judge said it was a criminal offense to conceal a murder.

  “But Mr. Westing didn’t look murdered,” Turtle argued. “He looked asleep, like he did in the coffin. He looked like a wax dummy.”

  “A wax dummy?”

  Now Turtle was the one surprised by the excited response. The judge thinks it might have been a real wax dummy, not a corpse at all. Then what happened to Sam Westing?

  The judge regained her composure. “Not reporting a dead body is a violation of the health code, but I wouldn’t worry about it. Is there anything else, Turtle?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Turtle replied, glancing at the portable bar. “Could
I have a little bourbon?”

  “What?”

  “Just a little. On a piece of cotton to put in my cavity. My tooth hurts something awful.”

  Relieved at not having a juvenile alcoholic on her hands, Judge Ford prepared the home remedy. “Is that better? Good. You may go home now.”

  Home meant going to Baba. Baba loved her no matter what, and Turtle didn’t care if the others thought she was the bomber—except Sandy. He was walking toward her right now, walking his bouncy walk, but not smiling. Sandy is disappointed in her, he thinks she hurt her own sister, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

  “How’s my girl?” Sandy said, cupping his hand under her chin and lifting her head. “Whew! Hitting the bottle again?”

  “It’s just bourbon on cotton for my toothache.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Honest, Saaan-eee.” Turtle was pointing inside her wide-open mouth.

  The doorman peered in. “Wow, that’s some cavity, it looks like the Grand Canyon. Tomorrow morning you’re going to see my dentist—no back talk. He’s very gentle, you won’t feel a thing. Promise you’ll go?”

  Turtle nodded.

  Sandy smiled. “Good, then down to business. My wife’s having a birthday tomorrow. I thought one of your gorgeous striped candles would make a swell present.”

  “There’s only one candle left,” Turtle replied. “It’s the best of the lot. Six super colors. I spent a lot of time making it; that’s why I wouldn’t part with it. But since it’s for your wife’s birthday, Sandy, I’ll let you have it for only five dollars. And I won’t charge you sales tax.”

  “Try not to stick your fanny out so far,” Angela said from her chair. Now that Sydelle Pulaski depended on crutches, she lurched clumsily, hobbled by old habits.

  “Just keep reading those clues.” The secretary straightened, shoulders back, stomach in, until her next step.

  With their telephone switched off and Contagious Disease added to the No Visitors sign, the bomb victims had privacy at last. Sydelle had twice read the entire will aloud. Now Angela, her hands unbandaged, was reshuffling the collected clues.

  “Again,” Sydelle ordered. “Change them around and read either the word on or the word no; both together are confusing.”

  “Shh!” Someone was at the door. Angela picked up the note that was slipped underneath.

  My darling Angela: I guess the sign on the door means I should stay away, too. I understand. We both need time to think things over. I’ll wait. I love you—Denton

  “What does it say, what does it say?” Sydelle pressed, but Angela read only the postscript aloud:

  P.S. You have another admirer. Chris wants to give you and Ms. Pulaski one of our clues. (Flora Baumbach has seen it, too.) The word is plain.

  “Like an airplane?” Sydelle asked.

  “No, plain, like ordinary. Like the wide open plains.”

  “Plains, grains. Quick, Angela, read the clues again.”

  “That’s it, Angela. We got it, we got it!” Sydelle could barely control her excitement. “The will said, Sing in praise of this generous land. The will said, May God thy gold refine. America, Angela, America! Purple mountain majesties, Angela. Whoopee!”

  Fortunately Sydelle Pulaski was close to the bed when she threw her crutches in the air.

  22

  LOSERS, WINNER

  SATURDAY MORNING, a new message was posted in the elevator:I, TURTLE WEXLER, CONFESS TO THOSE

  FOUR BOMBS. I’M SORRY, IT WAS A DUMB

  THING TO DO AND I WON’T DO IT AGAIN.

  BUT! I AM NOT THE BURGLAR AND I NEVER

  MURDERED ANYBODY, EVER.

  YOUR FRIEND, TURTLE

  P.S. TO MAKE UP FOR SCARING YOU, I WILL

  TREAT EVERYBODY HERE TO AN EXQUISITE

  CHINESE CUISINE DINNER WHEN I WIN THE

  INHERITANCE.

  “Poor Grace,” Mr. Hoo said. “One daughter almost killed, the other one a bomber. Smart-aleck kid, first she blows up my kitchen, then she advertises my cuisine. Win the inheritance—ha! Maybe I’m lucky my son is a dumb jock.”

  “Boom,” Madame Hoo said happily. She knew where they were going. Always on the day when Doug ate six eggs for breakfast, he ran around and around a big track and people clapped and gave him a shiny medal. Doug was so proud of his medals. She would never take them, not even the gold one, not even if it took her two more years to pay to go back to China. No, she would never take Doug’s medals, and she would never sell that wonderful clock with the mouse who wears gloves and points to the time.

  “You must be out of your mind, Jake Wexler. Go to a track meet with all those people pointing at me, snickering, saying: ‘Look, there she is, the mother of Cain and Abel.’ I’m not even sure I have the nerve to show my face at the Westing house tonight.”

  “Come on, Grace, it’ll do you good.” The podiatrist urged his reluctant wife down the third-floor hall. “Stop thinking about yourself for a change, think how poor Turtle must feel.”

  “Don’t ever mention that child to me again, not after what she did to Angela. I never told you this, Jake, but I’ve always had a sinking sensation that the hospital mixed up the babies when Turtle was born.”

  “It’s no wonder she wanted to blow us all up.”

  Grace’s despair exploded in anger. “Oh, I get it, you’re putting the blame on me. If you had given her a good talking to about kicking people when I asked, she might not have ended up a common criminal.”

  “Whatever became of that fun-loving woman I married, what was her name—Gracie Windkloppel?”

  Grace quickly looked around to see if anyone had overheard that ugly name, but they were in the elevator, alone. “Oh, I know what people think,” she complained. “Poor Jake Wexler, good guy, everybody’s friend, married to that uppity would-be decorator. Well, Angela’s not going to have to scrimp and save to make ends meet; she’s going to marry a real doctor. I’ll see to that.”

  “Sure you will, Grace, you’ll see that Angela doesn’t marry a loser like her father.” A real doctor, she says. A podiatrist is a “real” doctor—well, it is these days, but when he went to school it was different. He could have gone back, taken more courses, but he was married by then, a father—oh, who’s he kidding. Gracie’s right, he is a loser. Next she’ll mention having to give up her family because she married a Jew—no, she never brings that up, Grace with all her faults would never do that.

  The elevator door opened to the lobby. Grace turned to her silent, sad-eyed husband, the loser. “Oh, Jake, what’s happening to us? What’s happening to me? Maybe they’re right, maybe I’m not a nice person.”

  Jake pressed the CLOSE DOOR button and took his sobbing wife into his arms. “It’s all right, Gracie, we’re going home.”

  The doors opened on the second floor. “Mom! What’s the matter with her, Daddy, she’s crying? Gee, Mom, I’m sorry, it was just a few fireworks.” If her mother ever found out who the real bomber was, she’d really go to pieces.

  Turtle looked even more like a turtle today with her sad little face peering out of the kerchief tied under her small chin. “Let go of the door, Turtle,” Jake said. “And have a good time at the track meet. You, too, Mrs. Baumbach.”

  Track meet? They weren’t going to a track meet. And they sure were not going to have a good time.

  Grace was still sobbing on Jake’s shoulder as he led her into their apartment.

  “Mother, what’s the matter? What’s wrong with her, Dad?”

  “Nothing, Angela, your mother’s just having a good cry. Why don’t you and Ms. Pulaski leave us alone for a while.”

  “Come, Angela,” Sydelle said, prodding her with the tip of one of her mismatched crutches. “We have some painting to do.”

  Angela looked back at the embracing couple; her father’s face was buried in her weeping mother’s tousled hair. They had not asked how she got home from the hospital (by taxi), they had not asked if she was still in pain (no
t much), they had not even peeked under the bandage to see if a scar was forming on her cheek (there was). Angela was on her own. Well, that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, yes it was! She uttered a short laugh, and her hand flew up to the pain in her face.

  “Do I look funny or something?”

  “No, I wasn’t laughing at you, Sydelle, I’d never laugh at you. It’s just that suddenly everything seemed all right.”

  “It’s all right, all right,” her partner replied, unlocking the four locks on her apartment door. “Tonight’s the night we’re going to win it all.”

  Were they? The will said look for a name. They had a song, not a name.

  “‘O beautiful for spacious skies,’” Sydelle began to sing, “‘For purple waves of grain.’”

  “Not purple,” Angela corrected her, “amber. ‘For amber waves of grain.’”

  Amber!

  Judge Ford paced the floor. Tonight Sam Westing would wreak his revenge unless she could prevent it. If she was right, the person in danger was the former Mrs. Westing. And if Turtle was right about the wax dummy, Sam Westing himself might be there to watch the fun.

  There was a knock on her door. The judge was surprised to see Denton Deere, even more surprised when he wheeled Chris Theodorakis into her apartment. “Hello, Judge. Everybody else in the building is going to the track meet, it seems. I passed Sandy on the way out and he said you wouldn’t mind having Chris for part of the afternoon. I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

  “Hello, Judge F-Ford.” Chris held out a steady hand which the judge shook.

  “You’re looking well, Chris.”

  “The m-medicine helped a lot.”

  “It’s a big step forward,” the intern said. Wrong word, the kid may never leave that wheelchair. “An even more effective medication is now in the developmental stage.” That really sounded pompous. “Well, so long, Chris. See you tonight. Thanks, Judge.”