“What is table three’s answer?” the lawyer asked.
Denton Deere replied. “Our answer is: Mr. Westing was a good man.”
4 • J. J. FORD, judge
ALEXANDER MCSOUTHERS, fired
“We don’t have an answer,” the ex-doorman responded as planned.
The judge looked at table three. Denton Deere, her note in his hand, shook his head, which meant: No, Otis Amber has not had plastic surgery done on his face. The judge turned to table six. Otis Amber could not be Sam Westing (she was right to have trusted him). But Crow is expecting something to happen. Crow knows she is the answer, she knows she is the one.
5 • GRACE WINDKLOPPEL WEXLER, restaurateur
JAMES HOO, inventor
Grace raised her head. “Did someone say Windkloppel?”
“Never mind Windkloppel, it’s our turn,” Hoo snarled. The lawyer got names and positions all fouled up, and I’ve got a drunk for a partner. He prodded Grace to her feet.
Faces were swirling, the floor was swaying. Grace grabbed the edge of the floating table and gave her answer in a thick, slurred voice. “The newly decorated restaurant, Hoo’s On First, the eatery of athletes, will hold its grand reopening on Sunday. Specialty of the day: fruited sea bass on purple waves.”
Grace sat down where the chair wasn’t. Turtle gasped, Angela looked away, the heirs tittered as Jake helped his wife up from the floor.
“What is table five’s answer, please?” the lawyer pressed.
“Ed Plum,” said Mr. Hoo.
“Yes, sir?”
“That’s our answer: Ed Plum.”
“Oh.”
6 • BERTHE ERICA CROW, mother
OTIS AMBER, deliverer
“Mother? Did I write mother?” Crow mumbled.
“Is that your answer?” Ed Plum asked.
“I don’t know,” Otis Amber replied. “Is ‘mother’ our answer, Crow?” He could have sworn she had again signed the receipt Good Salvation Soup Kitchen.
Crow repeated “mother,” and that’s what the lawyer wrote down.
7 • DOUG HOO, champ
THEO THEODORAKIS, writer
Their clues: a chemical formula for an explosive and the letters o-t-i-s. Doug, basking in glory, didn’t care. Theo stood, turned to the man he was about to accuse, and saw the scene in the soup kitchen, saw Otis Amber cooking soup for the dirty, hungry men. “No answer,” Theo said sitting down.
8 • SYDELLE PULASKI, victim
ANGELA WEXLER, person
Sydelle was dressed for the occasion in red and white stripes. Leaning on crutches decorated with white stars on a field of blue to match the cast on her ankle, she hummed into a pitch pipe and began to sing one note above the pitch she played.
O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain.
What a spectacle she made, her wide rear end sticking out, singing in that tuneless, nasal voice. The derisive smiles soon faded as, pair by pair, the heirs heard their code words sung.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea.
“Such a beautiful song,” Grace Wexler slurred, but the others sat in somber silence. Even Turtle thought table eight had won.
“What is your answer?” Ed Plum asked.
“Our answer,” Sydelle Pulaski announced with certainty, “is Otis Amber.”
The heirs listened to the lawyer read the next document, but their eyes stayed fixed on table eight’s answer: Otis Amber.
THIRTEENTH • Okay, folks, there will be a short break before the big winner is announced. Berthe Erica Crow, please rise and go to the kitchen for the refreshments.
Dazed with fear, Crow rose. The thirteenth section. Thirteen was an unlucky number.
Judge Ford told Sandy to follow her. “Hey, Crow, old pal, do me a favor and fill this for me,” he said, handing her his flask as they left through the door. “I’ll go on the wagon starting tomorrow. Promise.”
Angela left the room, too, concerned over Crow’s trance-like state. Turtle followed Angela to make sure she didn’t end up in the fireworks room again. The judge remained seated, watching the remaining heirs, who were watching Otis Amber. The delivery boy had had enough of their suspicions; he swept a pointed finger across their range, imitating the sound of a machine gun: “Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.”
Crow and Angela came back with two large trays; Turtle returned empty-handed, puzzled but much relieved.
The judge joined Denton Deere and Chris at table three, bringing a plate of small cakes with her. “None of the heirs have had plastic surgery as far as I can tell,” the intern remarked. “But your partner sure could have used some.”
The judge studied Sandy McSouthers’ prizefighter’s face as he leaned against the open doorway. Their eyes met and he lifted his flask in salute. “Anybody want a drink?”
“Sure,” Grace Wexler replied with a giggle, but Jake gave her a cup of strong black coffee instead.
“We must keep our wits about us, Mr. McSouthers,” Judge Ford said, walking toward him. “Sam Westing has not made his final move.”
“Nothing like Scotch to clear the head,” he replied. He took a long swig, coughed, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform, and glared at Crow with narrowed, watery eyes.
Theo grinned down at the chess table. White had made another move, a careless move. He licked the cake crumbs from his fingers, wiped his hand on a Westing Paper Tea Napkin, and took his opponent’s queen from the board. At least he had won the chess game.
Perched on a corner of table eight, the young lawyer tried to start a conversation with Angela, ignoring Sydelle Pulaski, who twice asked, “Surely you must have the answer, Mr. Plum?” She nudged her partner.
“Surely you must have the answer, Mr. Plum,” Angela repeated sweetly.
“Oh, of course; at least, I assume I do,” he replied. “My instructions are to open the documents
