The Westing Game

Pairs Repaired

The snowplows plowed and a warm sun finished the job of freeing the tenants of Sunset Towers (and the figure in the Westing house) from their wintry prisons. Angela, disguised in her mother's old beaver coat and hat and in Turtle's red boots, was the first one out. Following Sydelle's instructions she hastily searched under the hood of every car in the parking lot. Nothing was there (nothing, that is, that didn't seem to belong to an automobile engine). So much for Good gracious from hood space. Next came Flora Baumbach. Behind her a bootless Turtle tiptoed through puddles. Miracle of miracles: the rusty and battered Chevy started, but the dressmaker's luck went downhill from there. First, the hood of her car flew up in the middle of traffic. Then, after two hours of watching mysterious symbols move across the lighted panel high on the wall of the broker's office, her eyes began to cross. After three hours the grin faded from her face. "I'm getting dizzy," she said, shifting her position on the hard wooden folding chair, "and worse yet, I think I've got a splinter in my fanny." "Look, there goes one of our stocks," Turtle replied.

__________________________________________________ SEA GM LVI MGC T AMI I 5$8½ 5000$67 32¼ 2$14 1000$65¼ 3$19¼ 8$22½ __________________________________________________

Flora Baumbach caught a glimpse of SEA 5$8½ as it was about to magically disappear off the left edge of the moving screen. "Oh my, I've forgotten what that means." Turtle sighed. "It means five hundred shares of SEA was traded at $8.50 a share." "What did we pay?" "Never mind, just write down the prices of our stocks as they cross the tape like I'm doing. Once school opens it's all up to you." Turtle did not tell her partner that they had bought two hundred shares of SEA at $15.25 a share. On that stock alone they had a loss of $1,350, not counting commissions. It took nerves of steel to play the stock market. "The Mercedes is wiped clean and shiny like new," the doorman boasted. His face reddened around old scars as he rejected a folded five dollar bill. "No tips, judge, please, not after all you've done for the wife and me." The judge had given him the entire ten thousand dollars. J. J. Ford pocketed the bill and, to make amends for her thoughtless gesture, asked the doorman about his family. Sandy perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, adjusted his round wire-framed glasses, repaired at the bridge with adhesive tape, across his broken nose, and told about his children. "Two boys still in high school, one daughter married and expecting my third grandchild (her husband just lost his job so they all moved in with us), another daughter who works part-time as a typist (she plays the piano real good), and two sons who work in a brewery." "It must have been difficult supporting such a large family," the judge said. "Not so bad. I picked up odd jobs here and there after I got fired from the Westing plant for trying to organize the union, but mostly I boxed. I wasn't no middleweight contender, but I wasn't bad, either. Got my face smashed up a few times too many, though; still get some pretty bad headaches and my brain gets sort of fuzzy. Some dummy of a partner you got stuck with, huh, judge?" "We'll do just fine, partner." Judge Ford's attempt at familiarity fell flat. "I did try to phone you, but your name was not listed." "We don't have a phone no more; couldn't afford it with the kids making so many calls. But I did make some headway on our clues. Want to see?" Sandy removed a paper from the inside of his cap and placed it on the desk. Judge Ford noticed a flask protruding from the back pocket of his uniform, but his breath smelled of peppermint. The clues as figured out by Alexander McSouthers: SKIES AM SHINING BROTHER SKIES—Sikes (Dr. Sikes witnessed the will) AM BrothER—Amber (Otis Amber) SHINing—Shin (the middle name of James Shin Hoo or what Turtle kicks) BROTHER—Theo or Chris Theodorakis "Remarkable," the judge commented to Sandy's delight. "However, we are looking for one name, not six." "Gee, judge, I forgot," Sandy said dejectedly. Judge Ford told him about Theo's proposal, but Sandy refused to go along. "It seems too easy, the clues adding up to one message, especially for a shrewd guy like Westing. Let's stick it out together, just the two of us. After all, I got me the smartest partner of them all." Shallow flattery for the big tipper, the judge thought. McSouthers was not a stupid man; if only he was less obsequious—and less of a gossip. The doorman scratched his head. "What I can't figure out, judge, is why I'm one of the heirs. Unless Sam Westing just up and died, and there is no murderer. Unless Sam Westing is out to get somebody from his grave." "I agree with you entirely, Mr. McSouthers. What we have to find out is who these sixteen heirs are, and which one, as you say, was Westing 'out to get.'" Sandy beamed. They were going to play it his way. "What you need is an advertising campaign." "What I need is my half of the ten thousand dollars." "Five thousand dollars is what I estimate the redecorating and the newspaper ads will cost." "Get out of here, get out!" Grace stared at Hoo's smooth, broad face, at the devilish tufts of eyebrow so high above those flashing eyes, then she turned her back and walked out. Sometimes she wondered about that man—no, he couldn't be the murderer, he couldn't even kill the waterbug in the sink this morning. Grace spun around to see if she was being followed on the footstephushing carpet in the third floor hall. No one was there, but she heard voices. They were coming from her kitchen. It was nothing, just Otis Amber shouting at Crow, something about losing their clues. "I remember them, Otis," Crow replied in a soft voice. She felt strangely at peace. Just this morning she had been given the chance to hide her love in Angela's bag, the big tapestry shoulder bag she carries next to her heart. Now she must pray that the boy comes back. "I remember them, too, that's not the point," Otis Amber argued. "What if somebody else finds them? Crow? Are you listening to me, Crow?" No, but Grace Wexler was listening. "Really, Mr. Amber, can't you find another time to discuss your affairs with my cleaning woman. And where are you going, Crow?" Crow was buttoned up in a black moth-eaten winter coat; a black shawl covered her head. "It's freezing in here." Otis Amber shut the window. Grace opened the window. "The last thing I need is a gas explosion," she said peevishly. "Boom!" he replied. The two women were so startled that the delivery boy sneaked up on the unsuspecting for the rest of the week, shouting "Boom!" Besides shouting "Boom!" Otis Amber delivered groceries from the shopping center to Sunset Towers, back and forth, to and fro. Not only did the tenants have to restock their bare shelves, they had to add Westing Paper Products by the gross to their orders. "Idiots, just because the will said Buy Westing Paper Products," he muttered, hefting a bulky bag from the compartment attached to his bike. Even Crow was using Westing Disposable Diapers to polish the silver and Westing Paper Towels to scrub the floors. (Is that what happened to their clues?) Poor Crow, she's taking this game harder than he had expected. She's been acting strange again. "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": America! America! May God thy gold refine Till all success be nobleness And every gain divine. 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: Forgive me, my daughter. God bless you, my child. Delight in your love and the devil take doctor dear. Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? The time draws near. Taped at the bottom were two clues:

THY BEAUTIFUL