“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 who’s, 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.”
“Thank you, Mr. Amber, you may step down.” (Step down was a term used in court; the floor was level here.) Turtle turned to her baffled audience. “A fire was started in the fireplace to call attention to the deserted house. Then a spooky story was told to dare someone to go into the house. That someone was me. I sneaked in the house, followed Dr. Sikes’ whispers, and found the corpse of Samuel W. Westing in bed. I now call D. Denton Deere to the stand.”
TURTLE STARED AT her most unfavorite heir. “Intern Deere, you saw the body of Samuel W. Westing in the coffin. Did he appear to have been poisoned?”
“I could not say; he was embalmed.”
“You are under oath, Intern Deere. Do you swear that the body of Samuel W. Westing was embalmed?”
What kind of a trick question was that? “I cannot swear to it, no. I did not examine the body in the coffin.”
“Could the body in the coffin, which you did not examine, have been no body at all? Could it have been a wax dummy dressed in the costume of Uncle Sam?”
“I am not an expert on wax dummies.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes, it’s possible, anything is possible.” What’s the brat driving at? Or is she just trying to make a fool of me?
“Intern Deere, you may not be an expert in wax dummies, but you are an expert in medical diagnosis, and you did examine the body of Sandy McSouthers. Correct?”
“Yes to the first question, no to the second. I did not examine Sandy; I tried to make him comfortable until help arrived. He was still alive when Doctor Sikes took over.”
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, O 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 06 it rich who dares play the Westing game.
FIFTH. Sit down, Your Honor, and read the letter this brilliant young attorney will now hand over to you.
“Judge Ford, could you introduce as evidence the letter that brilliant young attorney handed over to you?”
“It is just the usual certification of sanity, signed by Doctor Sikes,” the judge replied as she removed the envelope from her files. But the letter was gone; the envelope now contained a receipt:
Check received, November 1 . . . . $5,000
Check received, November 15 . . . . +5,000
Total amount paid by
