“Hi, Doug. Gonna run the mile under four minutes on Saturday?” the doorman asked.
“Sure hope so. Do me a favor, Sandy, give a loud whistle when Otis Amber comes out. Okay?”
Chip-toothed Sandy gave such a loud whistle that Otis Amber would have been deafened if the flaps of the aviator’s helmet had not been snug against his ears.
Leaving his bicycle in the parking lot, Otis Amber boarded a bus. Doug ran the five uphill miles to a house with the placard: E. J. Plum, Attorney. He ran another three uphill miles after the bus that took the delivery boy to the hospital entrance.
Doug sank down in a waiting-room chair, wiped his face on his sweatshirt and picked up a magazine. Fascinated by the centerfold picture, he almost missed Otis Amber, who dashed out of the hospital as though fleeing for his life.
Hiding behind parked cars, Doug followed the delivery boy to another bus, ran four steep miles to a stockbroker’s office (how is it that all roads go uphill?), from the broker to the high school, from the high school (downhill, at last) back to Sunset Towers.
The exhausted track star leaned against the side of the building, thankful he was not a long-distance runner.
“I gotcha!” Otis Amber poked a skinny finger into Doug’s ribs. “He-he-he,” he cackled, handing the startled runner a letter. “It’s from that lawyer Plum. Says all the heirs gotta be at the Westing house this Saturday night. Sign here.”
With his last ounce of energy he wrote Doug Hoo, miler on the receipt, then slid down the wall to a weary squat. Some miler. His feet were blistered; his muscles, sore; he could barely breathe, he might never run another step in his life.
ON RECEIVING THE notice of the Westing house meeting, Judge Ford canceled her remaining appointments and hurried home. Time was running out.
Sandy read to her from his notebook:
• AMBER
OTIS JOSEPH AMBER. Age: 62. Delivery boy. Fourth-grade dropout. IQ: 50. Lives in the basement of Green’s Grocery. A bachelor. No living relatives.
Westing connection: Delivered letters from E. J. Plum, Attorney, both times.
“I would’ve guessed Otis had an IQ of minus ten,” Sandy said with a smile.
“Go on to the next heir,” the judge replied.
• DEERE
D. DENTON DEERE. Age: 25. Graduate of UW Medical School. First-year intern, plastic surgery. Parents live in Racine (not heirs).
Westing connection: Engaged to Angela Wexler (see Wexlers), who looks like Sam Westing’s daughter, Violet, who was also engaged to be married, but to a politician, not an intern.
“That’s awful complicated, I know,” the doorman apologized, “but it’s the best I could do.”
• PULASKI
SYDELLE PULASKI. Age: 50. Education: high school, one year secretarial school. Secretary to the president of Schultz Sausages. Is taking her first vacation in 25 years (six months’ saved-up time). Lived with widowed mother and two aunts until she moved to Sunset Towers. Walked with a crutch even before she broke her ankle in the second bombing. Now needs two crutches (she paints them!).
Westing connection: ?
“We don’t have any medical reports on her muscular ailment,” Sandy reported. “The nurse at Schultz Sausages said she was in perfect health when she left on vacation.”
“Strange,” the judge remarked. A suspicious malady, no apparent Westing connection, somehow Sydelle Pulaski did not seem to fit in.
SYDELLE PULASKI CLASPED the translated notes to her bosom. “My little secret, mustn’t peek,” she said coyly, but the doctors had come to see Angela.
The plastic surgeon loosed the tape from her check and peered under the gauze. “One graft should do it, but we can’t operate until the tissue heals,” he said to the intern, then spoke to the patient. “Call my secretary for an appointment in two months.” He strode out of the room, leaving Denton Deere to replace the bandage.
“I don’t want plastic surgery,” Angela mumbled. It still hurt to talk.
“Nothing to be frightened of. He’s the best when it comes to facial repairs, that’s why I brought him in.”
“We’ll have to postpone the wedding.”
“We can have a small informal wedding.”
“Mother wouldn’t like that.”
“How about you, Angela, what do you want?” He knew her unspoken answer was “I don’t know.”
The door flew open and slammed against the adjacent wall. “Where do you think you’re going?” Denton pulled Turtle to a halt by one of the streaming ribbons twisted in her braid. “The sign says No Visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a sister. And get your germy hands off my hair.”
Denton Deere hurried to seek first aid for his bleeding shin and sent the biggest male nurse on the floor to take care of Turtle, the same male nurse who chased Otis Amber out of the hospital for sneaking up on a nurse’s aide carrying a specimen tray and shouting, “Boom!”
Turtle had time for one question. “Angela, what did you sign on the receipt this time after ‘position’?”
“Person.”
“I changed mine to victim,” Sydelle said.
Turtle paid no attention to the victim. She was more interested in the two men entering the room: the burly male nurse and that creep of a lawyer, Plum. “I gotta go. Don’t say anything to anybody about anything, Angela, no matter what happens. Not even to a lawyer. You know nothing, you hear? Nothing!” She skirted Ed Plum, ducked under the outstretched hairy hands of the male nurse, slid down the hall, scampered down the stairs and out of the hospital.
“Hi, how are you?” Ed Plum smiled at Angela, ignoring the patient in the other bed. He didn’t recognize Ms. Pulaski without her painted crutch. “I’m sorry to hear about your accident. Otis Amber told me about it. Just thought I’d drop in for a chat.” The young lawyer, who had admired the pretty heiress
