The Westing Game

Odd Relatives

Thursday was a sunny day, a glorious day; the autumn air was crisp and clear. None of the heirs noticed. WPP crossed the tape at $44...$44½...$46. Forty-six dollars a share! Oh my! ("Don't sell until I give the word, Baba," Alice-Turtle had said.) Baba. The dressmaker smiled at her new name and eased back in the chair, but not for long. WPP $48¼. Oh my, oh my! Flora Baumbach bit her thumbnail to the quick. If only the child was here. The child was being examined by the school nurse, having been caught again with a radio plugged in her ear. Turtle blamed her misbehavior on a toothache. "The only thing that soothes the horrendous pain is listening to music." "You should see a dentist," the nurse said. "I have an appointment next week," Turtle lied. "Can I go home now? The pain is truly unbearable." "No." The nurse packed the tooth with foul-tasting cotton and sent her back to class. So every half hour Turtle had to ask permission to go to the lavatory in order to keep up with the latest stock market reports. "Bladder infection," she explained. Crow polished Mrs. Wexler's silver teapot with a Westing Disposable Diaper for the third time. Two more days, the day after next. It was too painful, going back to that house, but Otis said she must, to collect her due. It was her penance to go back, not her due. Blessed is he who expects nothing. "Boom! Just a warning to keep doors locked," the delivery boy said, dumping a carton of Westing Paper Products on the kitchen floor. "You know, Crow old pal, I think I figured out who the bomber is." Crow stiffened as she stared at her distorted reflection in the shining silver. "Who?" "That's right," Otis Amber said. "James Shin Hoo. He wanted to put the coffee shop out of business, right? Then he had to bomb his own restaurant so nobody would suspect him, right? And he catered the Wexler party. Nobody would notice if the caterer brought in an extra box along with the food, right?" James Shin Hoo was the bomber. Crow's hands trembled, her face blotched with hate. That beautiful, innocent angel reborn; Sandy said her face will be scarred for life. James Shin Hoo, beware! Vengeance shall be mine. The judge rearranged her docket in order to have these last days free. (Leave it to Sam Westing to interfere with her work.) Sandy turned to his next entry. "It's an interesting one."

♦ CROW BERTHE ERICA CROW. Age: 57. Mother died at childbirth, raised by father (deceased). Education: 1 year of high school. Married at 16, divorced at 40. Exhusband's name: Windy Windkloppel. Hospital records: problems related to chronic alcoholism. Police record: 3 arrests for vagrancy. Gave up drinking when she took up religion. Started the Good Salvation Soup Kitchen on Skid Row. Works as cleaning woman in Sunset Towers, lives in maid's apartment on fourth floor. Westing connection: ? "Yes, it is interesting," Judge Ford replied, "but it hardly tells us what we want to know." "You've got a customer." Jake Wexler pointed a sparerib at the black-clad figure standing at the restaurant door. "Must be a bill collector," Hoo said, frowning over his account book. Grace looked up, saw it was only the cleaning woman, and returned to the sports photographs she was sorting. A dozen or more superstars would be framed and hung on one wall of Hoo's On First. "Come on over and join us," Jake shouted. Limping to their table, Crow heard Mrs. Wexler click her tongue. Sinful woman, she'll go to hell with her pride and her covetousness, and take that foot-butcher of a husband with her. And that one, the fat one, the glutton, the bomber, the mutilator of innocent children. Maybe she is a customer, Hoo thought, recognizing the face clenched in righteous anger as that of a diner not being served fast enough. He rose and pulled out a chair for Crow. "My wife will be serving a Chinese tea lunch shortly." Madame Hoo placed a variety of dumplings on the table, giggled at Jake and ran back to the kitchen. That tittering Madame Hoo was a beautiful woman. And quite young. Grace, casting a suspicious eye on her husband, was suddenly seized by a surge of gnawing jealousy (maybe it was just the fried dumpling). Madame Hoo returned to pour the tea. Jake patted her hand. Good, Grace noticed, she's clutching her stomach, about time she felt jealous. The podiatrist turned his smile to Crow. "Nothing wrong with your appetite, I'm happy to see." "Nothing is wrong with my mouth," the cleaning woman replied, looking down at her plate, "it's my feet that hurt. That corn you cut out didn't heal yet, I got a callus on the sole of my left foot, and my ingrown toenail is growing in again." Grace clasped a hand over her mouth and ran out of the restaurant. Mr. Hoo headed for the kitchen. "Your trouble comes from years of wearing the wrong kind of shoes," Jake lectured. Crow wasn't listening. James Shin Hoo, the bomber, was coming back. He had something in his hand. "Here, Crow, try these. I invented them myself. Paper innersoles. They'll make you feel like you're floating on air. It's tough standing on your feet all day. Here, take them." Crow examined the two pads of spongy folded paper. "How much?" "Nothing, compliments of the house." Still suspicious, Crow slipped the innersoles into her shoes and tried walking. What a blessed relief. Otis Amber was wrong. James Shin Hoo was a charitable man, he couldn't be the bomber. Crow floated out of the restaurant without paying for her lunch. "Oh no, not another victim," Sydelle Pulaski cried, stuffing her notes under the mattress. The nurse wheeled Chris next to Angela's bed and explained that the boy was being tested for a new medication. "Are you all right?" she asked, bending over the squirming patient. Chris was trying to remove a blank, sealed envelope from his bathrobe pocket. He knew his brother had a crush on Angela. He figured Theo must have sneaked upstairs in the wrong bathrobe to slip this letter under Angela's door, then remembered she was in the hospital and was too shy to give it to her in person. "Look at that smile," Sydelle exclaimed. "F-from Theo," he said. Chris hoped to watch Angela read the love letter, but the nurse insisted he return to his room. "Bye-bye, good luck," Sydelle called. Angela waved a bandaged hand. "M-moun—t-tain," Chris replied. "From T-Turtle." Serves her right for kicking his partner. Mountain, Angela thought. Turtle's MT stood for mountain, not empty. And the letter was not from Theo: Your love has 2, here are 2 for you. Take her away from this sin and hate NOW! Before it is too late. Again two clues were taped at the bottom: WITH MAJESTIES "Crow and Otis Amber's clues are not king and queen," she told Sydelle. "They are with thy beautiful majesties." * Sandy and the judge were still at work on the heirs.

♦ WEXLER JAKE WEXLER. Age: 45. Podiatrist.Graduated from Marquette. Married 22 years, has two daughters (see below).GRACE WINDSOR WEXLER. Born Gracie Windkloppel. Age: 42. Married to above.Claims to be an interior decorator. Spends most of her time in the Chineserestaurant or the beauty parlor. She and Jake (see above) have two daughters(see below). ANGELA WEXLER. Age: 20. Engaged to marry D. Denton Deere (also anheir). One year college (high grades). Victim of third bombing. Embroiders alot. TURTLE WEXLER. Real name: Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. Age: 13. Junior-highschoolstudent. Plays the stock market. Smart kid, but kicks people. Flora Baumbachcalls her Alice. Westing connection: Grace Windsor Wexler claims that SamWesting is her real uncle. Angela looks like Violet Westing, so does Grace in away, except she's older. Sandy fidgeted with his pen. "There's something Ididn't write down. Maybe I shouldn't tell you, you being a judge and all, but,well, Jake Wexler...he's a bookie." No, he should not have told her. "Asmall-time operator, I'm sure, Mr. McSouthers," the judge replied coldly. "Itcan have no bearing on the matter before us. Sam Westing manipulated people,cheated workers, bribed officials, stole ideas, but Sam Westing never smoked ordrank or placed a bet. Give me a bookie any day over such a fine, upstanding,cleanliving man." The doorman's face reddened. He pulled the dented flask fromhis hip pocket and downed several swigs. She had been too harsh. "Would youlike me to fix you a drink, Mr. McSouthers?" "No thanks, judge. I prefer mygood old Scotch." "Windkloppel!" The judge's outburst was so unexpected, Sandyhad a hard time keeping down the last swig. "Grace Wexler's maiden name is notWindsor, it's Windkloppel," the judge exclaimed, riffling through the pages ofSandy's notebook. "Here it is: 'Berthe Erica Crow. Exhusband's name: WindyWindkloppel." Sandy stopped coughing, started laughing. "Grace Windsor Wexleris related to somebody all right; she's related to the cleaning woman. Thinkshe knows, judge?" "I doubt it. Besides, we cannot be certain of therelationship. I'd like to see the documents in Crow's folder again." "I'm sureit's Windkloppel, judge, I checked all my spellings three times over." JudgeFord reread the private investigator's reports. "Mr. McSouthers, it isWindkloppel, but look carefully at the name of the woman in this interview."Berthe Erica Crow? Sure I knew her. She and her pa lived in the upstairs flat.We were best friends, almost like sisters, but she was the pretty one with herbeautiful complexion and long goldred hair. She left school to marry a guynamed Windkloppel. Haven't seen or heard from her since. She's not in anytrouble, is she? Transcript of a taped interview with Sybil Pulaski, November12. "Pulaski!" the doorman said. "Not just Pulaski," the judge pointed out."Sybil Pulaski. Sam Westing wanted Crow's childhood friend, Sybil Pulaski, tobe one of his heirs. He got Sydelle Pulaski instead." "Gee, judge, I nevernoticed that; boy, am I dumb. But what does it mean?" "What it means, Mr.McSouthers, is that Sam Westing made his first mistake."