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26 ♦ Turtle’s Trial
Hoo was furious. “Haven’t we had enough game-playing,” he complained. “And led by a confessed bomber, no less.” Judge Ford rapped for silence with the walnut gavel presented to her by associates on her appointment to a higher court. Higher court? This was the lowest court she had ever presided at: a thirteen-year-old lawyer, a court stenographer who records in Polish, and the judge in African robes. Oh well, she had played Sam Westing’s game, now she would play Turtle’s game. The similarity was astounding; Turtle not only looked like her Uncle Sam, she acted like him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle began, “I stand before this court to prove that Samuel W. Westing is dead and that Sandy McSouthers is dead, but Crow didn’t do it.” Pacing the floor, hands behind her back, she confronted each of the heirs in turn with a hard stare. The heirs stared back, not knowing if they were the jury or the accused.
Grace Wexler blinked up at her daughter. “Who’s that?” “The district attorney,” Jake replied. “Go back to sleep.” Now frowning, now smiling a secret smile, Turtle acted the part of every brilliant lawyer she had seen on television who was about to win an impossible case. The only flaw in her imitation was an occasional rapid twist of her head. (She liked the grown-up feeling of shorter hair swishing around her face.) “Let me begin at the beginning,” she began. “On September first we moved into Sunset Towers. Two months later, on Halloween, smoke was seen rising from the chimney of the deserted Westing house.” Her first witness would be the person most likely to have watched the house that day. “I call Chris Theodorakis to the stand.” Chris lay a calm hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. What fun! “You are a birdwatcher, Mr. Theodorakis, are you not?” “Yes.” “Were you birdwatching on October thirty-first?” “Yes.” “Did you see anyone enter the Westing house?” “I s-saw s-somebody who limped.” Good, now she was getting somewhere. “Who was that limping person?” “It was D-Doctor Sikes.” “Thank you, you are excused.” Turtle turned to her audience. “Doctor Sikes was Sam Westing’s friend, a witness to the will, and his accomplice in this game. On the day in question he limped into the Westing house to build a fire in the fireplace. Why?” Her next witness might answer that.
But Crow still needs me, and I’ll stick by her, no matter what. I’ve grown fond of the woman; we’ve been together such a long time.” “How and why did Barney Northrup hire you?” “Amber is second in the phone book under Private Investigators; maybe Joe Aaron’s phone was busy that day. Anyhow, Barney Northrup wanted me to investigate six people.” “What six?” “Judge J. J. Ford, George Theodorakis, James Hoo, Gracie Windkloppel, Flora Baumbach, and Sybil Pulaski. I made a mistake on the last one; I wasn’t aware of the mix-up until I looked into Crow’s early life for the judge. It seems I confused a Sybil Pulaski with a Sydelle Pulaski.” “Would you please repeat that,” the court stenographer asked. “Sydelle Pulaski,” Otis Amber repeated, then turned to the judge. “I couldn’t tell you about Crow’s relationship to Sam Westing—conflict of interest, you understand. Judge Ford understood very well. Sam Westing had predicted every move she would make. That’s why Otis Amber, with his privileged information, was one of the heirs; that and to convince Crow (the queen) to play the game. Turtle had more questions. “Are you saying that Barney Northrup didn’t ask you to investigate Denton Deere or Crow or Sandy?” “That’s right. Denton Deere turned up in my report on Gracie Windkloppel—the Wexlers. Barney Northrup said he was looking to hire a cleaning woman for Sunset Towers,
good pay and a small apartment, so I recommended Crow. I don’t know how Sandy got the doorman’s job.” “Mr. Amber, you were also hired by Judge Ford, I assume to find out who everybody really was. Did you investigate all sixteen heirs for the judge?” “I didn’t investigate the judge or her partner.” The judge bristled at the reminder of her stupidity. “Therefore,” Turtle continued, “you have never investigated the man we knew as Sandy McSouthers for any of your clients?” “Never.” “One more question.” It was the question she had planned to ask before learning that Otis Amber was not who he seemed to be. “On the afternoon of Halloween, when we were watching the smoke in the Westing house chimney, you told a story about a corpse on an Oriental rug.” “I saw it,” Grace Wexler cried, “I saw him.” Turtle forgot the rules of the court and hurried to her mother. “Who did you see, mom? Who? Who?” (Terrified by the whos, Madame Hoo slipped away.) “The doorman,” Grace replied, lifting her dazed face to her husband. “He was dead. On an Oriental rug, Jake. It was awful.” Jake stroked his wife’s hair. “I know, Gracie, I know.” Turtle returned to her witness. “Mr. Amber, did you tell that spooky story to dare one of us to go to the Westing house that night?” “Not really. Sandy told me the story that morning, and we decided to scare you kids with it, being Halloween.”
Turtle turned quickly to conceal her smile. “But surely you saw enough symptoms to make one of your famous diagnosises.” She peered at the judge from the corner of her eye. That last word didn’t sound right. “Coronary thrombosis,” the intern diagnosed, “but that’s just an educated guess. In simple language: heart attack.” “Then Sandy could not have died of an overdose of lemon juice, which is what I saw Crow put in his flask?” Turtle could have called on Angela to testify to that, but she didn’t want her screwy sister confessing all over the place. “I never heard of anyone dying as a result of lemon juice consumption,” the expert replied. “One more question, Intern Deere. Do you swear that Sandy had a bruise on his shin resulting from a kick?” “Absolutely. I should know, having been the recipient of such a kick myself.” “You may step down.”
“I call Sydelle Pulaski to the stand. SYDELLE PULASKI!” Overcome with excitement, the secretary had to be helped to her feet for the oath-taking. “Ms. Pulaski, I must compliment you on your good thinking in taking down the will in shorthand.” “Professional habit.” “This looks professional, all right. The typing is perfect— well, almost perfect. It seems you left out the last word in section three:
The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the
“Finds the what, Ms. Pulaski? Finds the what?” Sydelle squirmed under Turtle’s hard stare. Leave it to the brat to discover my one error. “There was so much talking I couldn’t hear the last word.” “Come now, Ms. Pulaski, you claim to be a professional.” Hounding the witness and doing it quite well, Judge Ford thought, coming to the secretary’s defense. “I don’t think anyone heard the word, Turtle. Mr. McSouthers made a joke about ashes at that point.” “You are excused, Ms. Pulaski,” Turtle said offhandedly, her eyes on the will. The judge was right. Sandy had joked about ashes scattered to the winds. Winds, Windy Windkloppel, no, it still didn’t make sense. It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts —maybe no word was ever there. She read on:
FOURTH. Hail to thee, oh 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 play the Westing game.
FIFTH. Sit down, your honor, and read the letter this brilliant
Oh! The other people did not smile. They know she is bad. And Mr. Hoo, his anger is drowned in shame. “Perhaps stealing is not considered stealing in China,” Sydelle Pulaski said in a clumsy gesture of kindness. The judge rapped her gavel. “Let us continue with the case on hand. Are you ready, counselor?” “Yes, your honor, in a minute.” Turtle approached the frightened thief. “Here, you can keep it.” With shaking hands Madame Hoo took the Mickey Mouse clock from Turtle and clutched the priceless treasure to her bosom. “Thank you, good girl, thank you, thank you.” “That’s okay.” The heirs were anxious for the trial to continue. They pitied the poor woman, but the scene was embarrassing.
One half hour to go. Turtle was so close to winning she could feel it, taste it, but still the answer eluded her. “Ladies and gentlemen, who was Sam Westing?” she began. “He was poor Windy Windkloppel, the son of immigrants. He was rich Sam Westing, the head of a huge paper company. He was a happy man who played games. He was a sad man whose daughter killed herself. He was a lonely man who moved to a faraway island. He was a sick man who returned home to see his friends and relatives before he died. And he did die, but not when we thought he did. Sam Westing was still alive when the will was read.” The judge rapped for order. Turtle continued. “The obituary, probably phoned in to the newspaper by Westing himself, mentioned two interesting facts. One: Sam Westing was never seen after his car crashed.
Two: Sam Westing acted in Fourth of July pageants, fooling everybody with his clever disguises. Therefore I submit that Sam Westing was not only alive, Sam Westing was disguised as one of his own heirs. “No one would recognize him. With that face bashed in from the car crash, his disguise could be simple: a baggy uniform, a chipped front tooth, broken eyeglasses.” Sandy? Does she mean Sandy? The judge had to pound her gavel several times. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Turtle went on, “Sam Westing was none other than our dear friend Sandy, the doorman. But Sam Westing did not drink, you say. Neither did Sandy. I used his flask on Halloween and there was a funny aftertaste in my pop, but not of whiskey; I know how whiskey tastes, because I use it for toothaches. It was medicine. Sandy was a sick man, and the flask was part of his disguise, but it also contained the medicine that kept him alive.” Turtle surveyed the stupefied audience. Good, they bought her little fib. “As I said earlier, I saw Crow fill the flask with lemon juice in the kitchen, but I saw something even more interesting on my way back to the game room: I saw Sandy coming out of the library. Sam Westing, as Sandy, wrote the last part of the will after the answers were given, then locked it in the library desk with a duplicate key. “But what about the murder, you ask,” Turtle said, even though no one had asked. “There was no murder. The word murder was first mentioned by Sandy, to put us off the track. I did not die of natural causes, the will says, My life was taken from me—by one of you! Sam Westing’s life was taken from
toward the judge, act dumb, and ask her to repeat the question. “I’m sorry, your honor, would you repeat the question?” Turtle knows something. The Judge had seen that expression before. Sam Westing used to look like that just before he won a game. “I asked if you consider Sandy’s death a suicide.” “No, ma’am,” Turtle said sadly. Very sadly. “Sandy McSouthers—Sam Westing suffered terribly from a fatal disease. He was a dying man who chose his time to die. Let me read from the will:
SIXTH. Before you proceed to the game room there will be one minute of silent prayer for your good old Uncle Sam.
“Ladies and gentlemen, heirs (for we all inherited something) let us bow our heads in silent prayer for our benefactor Sam Westing, alias Sandy the doorman.” “Crow!” Otis Amber leaped to his feet as Ed Plum led the cleaning woman through the door.
27 ♦ A Happy Fourth
His aviator’s helmet again flapping over his ears, Otis Amber danced up to his soup-kitchen companion, flung his arms around the taut body, and squeezed her tightly. “Hey Crow old pal, old pal, old pal.”
“They said I was innocent, Otis. They said I was innocent,” she replied vaguely. Angela, too, wanted to hug her in welcome, but closeness was not possible for either of them. Instead, Angela offered a crooked smile. Crow nodded and lowered her eyes, only to raise them to Madame Hoo, clutching a Mickey Mouse clock. “Things very good,” Madame Hoo said, extending her free hand and shaking Crow’s hand up and down. “It was all a regrettable mistake,” Ed Plum explained to the judge. “Can you imagine, that sheriff wanted to arrest me, not Crow—me, Edgar Jennings Plum—he wanted to arrest the attorney! Fortunately, the coroner determined that Mr. McSouthers died of a heart attack as did Samuel W. Westing.” “Then Turtle’s right,” Theo said. “There was no murder. The coroner was part of the plot.” Ed Plum had no idea what Theo was talking about. Masking his ignorance with arrogance, he continued. “I had my suspicions about this entire affair from the start. I came here for one reason only: to announce my resignation from all matters regarding the Westing estate, with sincere apologies to all concerned.” “Wasn’t there a last document?” Judge Ford asked, knowing that Sam Westing had to make his last move. “Yes, but as I no longer take a legal interest…” “Please turn it over to the court.” Baffled by the word “court,” the lawyer set the envelope on the desk and found his way out of Sunset Towers. Without once clearing her throat, Judge Ford proceeded to read the final page of the will of Samuel W. Westing.
Turtle rose and walked to the side window, seeking the Westing house, which stood invisible in the moon-clouded night. (Hurry up, Uncle Sam, I can’t keep up this act much longer. The candle must have burned through the last stripe by now.) Behind her the discontented heirs grumbled: He made fools of us all. He played us like puppets. He was a g-good m- man. He was a vengeful man, a hateful man. Windkloppel? He tricked us, the cheat. A madman, stark raving mad. “Oh my, oh my, just listen to you,” Flora Baumbach said. “You each have ten thousand dollars more than you started with and an apartment building to boot. The man is dead, so why not think the best?” BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! “Happy Fourth of July,” Turtle shouted as the first rockets lit up the Westing house, lit up the sky. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. BOOM!!! The heirs gathered around Turtle at the window. BOOM! Stars of all colors bursting into the night, silver pinwheels spinning, golden lances up-up-BOOM! crimson flashes flashing blasting, scarlet showers BOOM! emerald rain BOOM! BOOM! orange flames, red flames leaping from the windows, sparking the turrets, firing the trees.… “BOOM!” cried Madame Hoo, clapping her hands with delight.
The great winter fireworks extravaganza, as it came to be called, lasted only fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes later the Westing house had burned to the ground. “Happy birthday, Crow,” Otis Amber said, reaching for her hand.
The orange glow of the morning sun had just begun its climb up the glass front of Sunset Towers when Turtle set out to collect the prize. She pedaled north past the cliff, still smoldering with the charred remains of the Westing house. Reaching the crossroads she turned into the narrow lane whose twisting curves mimicked the shoreline. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the fourth. It was so simple once you knew what you were looking for. Sam West ing, Barney North rup, Sandy Mc South ers (west, north, south). Now she was on her way to meet the fourth identity of Windy Windkloppel. She could probably have figured out the address, too, instead of looking it up in the Westingtown phone book—there it was, number four Sunrise Lane. A long driveway, its privacy guarded by tall spruce, led to the modern mansion of the newly-elected chairman of the board of Westing Paper Products Corporation. Turtle climbed the stairs, rang the bell and waited. The door opened. Turtle felt her first grip of panic as she confronted the crippled doctor. Could she have been wrong? “I’d like to see Mr. Eastman, please,” she said nervously. “Tell him Turtle Wexler is here.” “Mr. Eastman is expecting you,” Doctor Sikes said. “Go straight down the hall.”
