by Ellen Raskin
Doug checked his stopwatch. Nine minutes.
Ten minutes.
Eleven minutes.
Suddenly a terrified scream—a young girl’s scream—pierced the night. Should he go in, or was this one of the brat’s tricks? Another scream, closer.
“E-E-E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!” Clutching the bunched cape around her waist, Turtle came hurtling out of the Westing house. “E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
Turtle had seen the corpse in the Westing house, but it was not rotting and it was not sprawled on an Oriental rug. The dead man was tucked in a four-poster bed.
A throbbing whisper, “Pur-ple, pur-ple” (or was it “Tur-tle, Tur-tle”—whatever it was, it was scary), had beckoned her to the master bedroom on the second floor, and . . .
Maybe it was a dream. No, it couldn’t be; she ached all over from the tumble down the stairs.
The moon was down, the window dark. Turtle lay in the narrow bed in her narrow room, waiting (dark, still dark), waiting. At last slow morning crept up the cliff and raised the Westing house, the house of whispers, the house of death. Two dollars times twelve minutes equals twenty-four dollars.
Thud! The morning newspaper was flung against the front door. Turtle tiptoed through the sleeping apartment to retrieve it and climbed back into bed, the dead man staring at her from the front page. The face was younger; the short beard, darker; but it was he, all right.
SAM WESTING FOUND DEAD
Found? No one else knew about the bedded-down corpse except Doug, and he had not believed her. Then who found the body? The whisperer?
Samuel W. Westing, the mysterious industrialist who disappeared thirteen years ago, was found dead in his Westingtown mansion last night. He was sixty-five years old.
The only child of immigrant parents, orphaned at the age of twelve, self-educated, hard-working Samuel Westing saved his laborer’s wages and bought a small paper mill. From these meager beginnings he built the giant Westing Paper Products Corporation and founded the city of Westingtown to house his thousands of workers and their families. His estate is estimated to be worth over two hundred million dollars.
Turtle read that again: two hundred million dollars. Wow!
When asked the secret of his success, the industrialist always replied: “Clean living, hard work, and fair play.” Westing set his own example; he neither drank nor smoked and never gambled. Yet he was a dedicated gamesman and a master at chess.
Turtle had been in the game room. That’s where she picked up the billiard cue she had carried up the stairs as a weapon.
A great patriot, Samuel Westing was famous for his fun-filled Fourth of July celebrations. Whether disguised as Ben Franklin or a lowly drummer boy, he always acted a role in the elaborately staged pageants which he wrote and directed. Perhaps best remembered was his surprise portrayal of Betsy Ross.
Games and feasting followed the pageant, and at sunset Mr. Westing put on his Uncle Sam costume and set off fireworks from his front lawn. The spectacular pyrotechnic display could be viewed thirty miles away.
Fireworks! So that’s what was in those boxes stamped Danger—explosives stacked in the ground-floor storeroom. What a “pyrotechnic display” that would make if they all went off at the same time.
The paper king’s later years were marred by tragedy. His only daughter, Violet, drowned on the eve of her wedding, and two years later his troubled wife deserted their home. Although Mr. Westing obtained a divorce, he never remarried.
Five years later he was sued by an inventor over rights to the disposable paper diaper. On his way to court Samuel Westing and his friend, Dr. Sidney Sikes, were involved in a near-fatal automobile accident. Both men were hospitalized with severe injuries. Sikes resumed his Westingtown medical practice and the post of county coroner, but Westing disappeared from sight.
It was rumored, but never confirmed, that he controlled the vast Westing Paper Products Corporation from a private island in the South Seas. He is still listed as chairman of the board.
“We are as surprised as you are, and deeply saddened,” a spokesman for Julian R. Eastman, President and Chief Executive Officer of the corporation, stated when informed that Westing’s body was found in his lakeside home. Dr. Sikes’ response was: “A tragic end to a tragic life. Sam Westing was a truly great and important man.”
The funeral will be private. The executor of the Westing estate said the deceased requested that, in place of flowers, donations be sent to Blind Bowlers of America.
Turtle turned the page of the newspaper, but that was all. That was all?
There was no mention of how the body was found.
There was no mention of the envelope propped on the bedside table on which a shaky hand had scrawled: If I am found dead in bed. She had been edging her way against the four-poster, reading the words in the beam of the flashlight, when she felt the hand, the waxy dead hand that lay on the red, white, and blue quilt. Through her scream she had seen the white-bearded face. She remembered running, tripping over the billiard cue, falling down the stairs, denting Sandy’s flask, and dropping everything else.
There was no mention of two suspicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the premises, or a flashlight, or a silver cross on a chain.
There was no mention of prowlers; no mention of anyone having seen a witch; no mention of footprints on the lawn: track shoes and sneakers size six.
Oh well, she had nothing to fear (other than losing her mother’s cross). Old Mr. Westing probably died of a heart attack—or pneumonia—it was drafty in there. Turtle hid the folded newspaper in her desk drawer, counted her black-and-blue marks in the mirror (seven), dressed, and set out to find the four people who knew she had been in the Westing house last night: Doug Hoo, Theo Theodorakis, Otis Amber, and Sandy. They owed her twenty-four dollars.
At noon the sixty-two-year-old delivery boy began his rounds. He had sixteen letters to deliver from E. J. Plum, Attorney-at-Law. Otis Amber knew what the letters said, because one was addressed to him:As a named beneficiary in the estate of Samuel W. Westing, your attendance is required in the south library of the Westing house tomorrow at 4 p.m. for the reading of the will.
“Means old man Westing left you some money,” he explained. “Just sign this receipt here. What do you mean, what does ‘posi tion’ mean? It means position, like a job. Most receipts have that to make sure the right person gets the right letter.”
Grace Windsor Wexler wrote housewife, crossed it out, wrote decorator, crossed it out, and wrote heiress. Then she wanted to know “Who else? How many? How much?”
“I ain’t allowed to say nothing.”
The other heirs were too stunned by the unexpected legacy to bother him with questions. Madame Hoo marked an X and her husband filled in her name and position. Theo wanted to sign the receipt for his brother, but Chris insisted on doing it himself. Slowly, taking great pains, he wrote Christos Theodorakis, birdwatcher.
By the time the sun had set behind the Sunset Towers parking lot, Otis Amber, deliverer, had completed his rounds.
5
SIXTEEN HEIRS
THE MARBLED SKY lay heavy on the gray Great Lake when Grace Windsor Wexler parked her car in the Westing driveway and strode up the walk ahead of her daughters. Her husband had refused to come, but no matter. Recalling family gossip about a rich uncle (maybe it was a great-uncle—anyway, his name was Sam), Grace had convinced herself that she was the rightful heir. (Jake was Jewish, so he could not possibly be related to Samuel W. Westing.)
“I can’t imagine what became of my silver cross,” she said, fingering the gold-link necklace under her mink stole as she paused to appraise the big house. “You know, Angela, we could have the wedding right here. . . . Turtle, where are you wandering off to now?”
“The letter said—Never mind.” Turtle preferred not to explain how she knew the library could be entered from the French doors on the lawn.
The front door was opened by Crow. Although the Sunset Towers cleaning woman always w
ore black, here it reminded Grace Wexler to dab at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. This was a house of mourning.
The silent Crow helped Angela with her coat and nodded approval of her blue velvet dress with white collar and cuffs.
“I’ll keep my furs with me,” Grace said. She did not want to be taken for one of the poor relatives. “Seems rather chilly in here.”
Turtle, too, complained of the chill, but her mother tugged off her coat to reveal a fluffy, ruffly pink party dress two sizes too large and four inches too long. It was one of Angela’s hand-me-downs.
“Please sit anywhere,” the lawyer said without glancing from the envelopes he was sorting at the head of the long library table.
Mrs. Wexler took the chair to his right and motioned to her favorite. Angela sat down next to her mother, removed a trousseau towel from her large tapestry shoulder bag, and took up embroidering the monogram D. Slumped in the third chair, Turtle pretended she had never seen this paneled library with its bare and dusty shelves. Suddenly she sat up with a start. An open coffin draped in bunting rested on a raised platform at the far corner of the room; in it lay the dead man, looking exactly as she had found him, except now he was dressed in the costume of Uncle Sam—including the tall hat. Between the waxy hands, folded across his chest, lay her mother’s silver cross.
Grace Wexler was too busy greeting the next heir to notice. “Why Doctor D., I had no idea you’d be here; but of course, you’ll soon be a member of the family. Come, sit next to your bride-to-be; Turtle, you’ll have to move down.”
D. Denton Deere, always in a hurry, brushed a quick kiss on Angela’s cheek. He was still wearing his hospital whites.
“I didn’t know this was a pajama party,” Turtle said, relinquishing her chair and stomping to the far end of the table.
The next heir, short and round, entered timidly, her lips pressed together in an impish smile that curved up to what must be pointed ears under her straight-cut, steely hair.
“Hello, Mrs. Baumbach,” Angela said. “I don’t think you’ve met my fiancé, Denton Deere.”
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Deere.”
“Doctor Deere,” Mrs. Wexler corrected her, puzzled by the dressmaker’s presence.
“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry.” Sensing that she was unwelcome at this end of the room, Flora Baumbach walked on. “Hi, mind if I sit next to you? I promise not to pull your braid.”
“That’s okay.” Turtle was hunched over the table, her small chin resting between her crossed arms. From there she could see everything except the coffin.
Grace Wexler dismissed the next heir with an audible tongue click. That distasteful little man didn’t even have the sense to remove his silly aviator’s cap. “Tsk.” And what in heaven’s name was he doing here?
The delivery boy shouted: “Let’s give a cheer, Otis Amber is here!” Turtle laughed, Flora Baumbach tittered, and Grace Wexler again clicked her tongue, “Tsk!”
Doug Hoo and his father entered silently, but Sandy gave a hearty “Hi!” and a cheery wave. He wore his doorman’s uniform, but unlike Otis Amber, carried his hat in his hand.
Grace Windsor Wexler was no longer surprised at the odd assortment of heirs. Household workers, all, or former employees, she decided. The rich always reward servants in their wills, and her Uncle Sam was a generous man. “Aren’t your parents coming?” she asked the older Theodorakis boy as he wheeled his brother into the library.
“They weren’t invited,” Theo replied.
“Itsss-oo-nn,” Chris announced.
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s snowing,” Theo and Flora Baumbach explained at the same time.
The heirs watched helplessly as the invalid’s thin frame was suddenly torn and twisted by convulsions. Only the dressmaker rushed to his side. “I know, I know,” she simpered, “you were trying to tell us about the itsy-bitsy snowflings.”
Theo moved her away. “My brother is not an infant, and he’s not retarded, so please, no more baby talk.”
Blinking away tears, Flora Baumbach returned to her seat, the elfin smile still painted on her pained face.
Some stared at the afflicted child with morbid fascination, but most turned away. They didn’t want to see.
“Pyramidal tract involvement,” Denton Deere whispered, trying to impress Angela with his diagnosis.
Angela, her face a mirror to the boy’s suffering, grabbed her tapestry bag and hurried out of the room.
“Why hello, Judge Ford.” Proud of her liberalism, Grace Windsor Wexler stood and leaned over the table to shake the black woman’s hand. She must be here in some legal capacity, or maybe her mother was a household maid, but of one thing Grace was certain: J. J. Ford could no more be related to Samuel W. Westing than Mr. Hoo.
“Can’t we get started?” Mr. Hoo asked, hoping to get back in time to watch the football game on television. “I must return to my restaurant,” he announced loudly. “Sunday is our busy day, but we are still accepting reservations. Shin Hoo’s Restaurant on the fifth floor of Sunset Towers, specializing in . . .”
Doug tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Not here, Dad; not in front of the dead.”
“What dead?” Mr. Hoo had not noticed the open coffin. Now he did. “Ohhh!”
The lawyer explained that several heirs had not yet arrived. “My wife is not coming,” said Mr. Hoo. Grace said, “Doctor Wexler was called away on an emergency operation.”
“An emergency Packers game in Green Bay,” Turtle confided to Flora Baumbach, who scrunched up her shoulders and tittered behind a plump hand.
“Then we are still waiting for one, no, two more,” the lawyer said, fumbling with his papers, his hands shaking under the strict scrutiny of the judge.
Judge Ford had recognized E. J. Plum. Several months ago he had argued before her court, bumbling to the point of incompetence. Why, she wondered, was a young, inexperienced attorney chosen to handle an estate of such importance? Come to think of it, what was she doing here? Curiosity? Perhaps, but what about the rest of them, the other tenants of Sunset Towers? Don’t anticipate, Josie-Jo, wait for Sam Westing to make the first move.
Light footsteps were heard in the hall. It was only Angela, who blushed and, hugging her tapestry bag close to her body, returned to her seat.
The heirs waited. Some chatted with neighbors, some looked up at the gilt ceiling, some studied the pattern of the Oriental rug. Judge Ford stared at the table, at Theo Theodorakis’s hand. A calloused hand, a healed cut, the shiny slash of a burn on the deep bronze skin. She lowered her hands to her lap. His Greek skin was darker than her “black” skin.
Thump, thump, thump. Someone was coming, or were there two of them?
In came Crow. Eyes lowered, without a word, she sat down next to Otis Amber. A dark cloud passed from her face as she eased off a tight shoe under the table.
Thump, thump, thump. The last expected heir arrived. “Hello, everybody. Sorry I’m late. I haven’t quite adjusted to this”—Sydelle Pulaski waved a gaily painted crutch in the air, tottered, and set it down quickly with another thump—“this crutch. Crutch. What a horrible word, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it.” She pursed her bright red mouth, painted to a fullness beyond the narrow line of her lips, trying to suppress a smile of triumph. Everyone was staring; she knew they would notice.
“What happened, Pulaski?” Otis Amber asked. “Did you pull Turtle’s braid again?”
“More likely she visited Wexler the foot butcher,” Sandy suggested.
Sydelle was pleased to hear someone come to her defense with a loud click of the tongue. She had not even blinked a false eye-lash at those offensive remarks (poise, they call it). “It’s really nothing,” she reported bravely, “just some sort of wasting disease. But pity me not, I shall live out my remaining time enjoying each precious day to the full.” Thump, thump, thump. The secretary kept to the side of the room, avoiding the Oriental rug that might cushion the thump of her purple-str
iped crutch, as she made her way to the end of the table. Her exaggerated hips were even more exaggerated by the wavy stripes of white on her purple dress.
Purple waves, Turtle thought.
Denton Deere almost fell off his chair, leaning back to follow this most unusual case. First she favored her left leg, then her right leg.
“What is it?” whispered Mrs. Wexler.
The intern did not have the least notion, but he had to say something. “Traveling sporadic myositis,” he pronounced quickly and glanced at Angela. Her eyes remained on her embroidery.
The lawyer stood, documents in hand, and cleared his throat several times. Grace Windsor Wexler, her chin tilted in the regal pose of an heiress, gave him her full attention.
“One minute, please.” Sydelle Pulaski propped her purple-and-white-striped crutch against the table, then removed a shorthand pad and pencil from her handbag. “Thank you for waiting; you may begin.”
6
THE WESTING WILL
“MY NAME,” the young lawyer began, “is Edgar Jennings Plum. Although I never had the honor of meeting Samuel W. Westing, for some reason yet unexplained, I was appointed executor of this will found adjacent to the body of the deceased.
“Let me assure you that I have examined the documents at hand as thoroughly as possible in the short time available. I have verified the signatures to be those of Samuel W. Westing and his two witnesses: Julian R. Eastman, President and Chief Executive Officer of Westing Paper Products Corporation, and Sidney Sikes, M.D., Coroner of Westing County. Although the will you are about to hear may seem eccentric, I pledge my good name and reputation on its legality.”
