“Sam Westing wasn’t stupid,” Denton Deere declared. “He was insane. The last part of the will was sheer lunacy. Happy Fourth of July, it said. This is November.”
“It’s November fifteenth,” Otis Amber cried. “It’s poor Crow’s birthday.”
Turtle looked up from the will. Crow’s birthday? Sandy had bought a striped candle for his wife’s birthday, a three-hour candle. The game is still on! Sam Westing came back to seek his heir. “You can still win. I hope you do,” he said. How? How? It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts. Whatever it was she didn’t have, she’d have to find it soon. Without letting the others know what she was looking for. “Judge Ford, I’d like to call my first witness.”
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.
JUDGE FORD INSTRUCTED the witness to remove his aviator’s helmet. His gray hair was tousled but barbered. “And place your gun in the custody of the court.”
“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach gasped as Otis Amber unzipped his plastic jacket, pulled a revolver from his shoulder holster, and handed it to the judge, who locked the gun in her desk drawer.
Turtle was as startled as the other tenants. “Mr. Amber,” she began bravely, “it seems that we are not all who we say we are. In other words, who exactly are you?”
“I am a licensed private investigator.”
“Then why were you disguised as an idiot delivery boy?”
“It was my disguise.”
Turtle was dealing with a practiced witness. “Mr. Amber, who employed you?”
“That’s privileged information.”
The judge interceded. “It would be best to cooperate, Mr. Amber. For Crow’s sake.”
“I had three clients: Samuel W. Westing, Barney Northrup, and Judge J. J. Ford.”
Turtle stumbled over her next question. “What were you hired to do and when and what did you find out? Tell us everything you know.” It was unsettling to see Otis Amber act like a normal human being.
“Twenty years ago, after his wife left him, Samuel W. Westing hired me to find Crow, keep her out of trouble, and make sure she never used the Westing name. I assumed this disguise for that purpose. I mailed in my reports and received a monthly check from the Westingtown bank until last week, when I was notified that my services were no longer needed. 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
