Cost of educating Josie-Jo Ford . . . -10,000
Amount owed to Sam Westing . . . . . . . . . 0
“I’m afraid the original letter has been replaced by a personal message. It has no bearing on this case, and . . .”
“Yes, please.” A trembling Madame Hoo stood before the judge. “For to go to China,” she said timidly, setting a scarf-tied bundle on the desk. Weeping softly, the thief shuffled back to her seat.
The judge unknotted the scarf and let the flowered silk float down around the booty: her father’s railroad watch, a pearl necklace, cuff links, a pin and earrings set, a clock. (Grace Wexler’s silver cross never did turn up.)
“My pearls,” Flora Baumbach exclaimed with delight. “Wherever did you find them, Madame Hoo? I’m so grateful.”
Madame Hoo did not understand why the round little lady was smiling at her. Cautiously she peered through her fingers. 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 her 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 him when he became Sandy McSouthers. And Sandy died when his medicine ran out.” Turtle paused in a pretense of letting the heirs mull over her last words, trying to figure out what to do next.
Why did Turtle leave out Barney Northrup, the judge wondered. She knows Northrup and McSouthers were the same man because of the bruised shin. Either she doesn’t want to confound the jury, or she has no more idea than I have why Sam Westing had to play two roles.
Why did Sam Westing have to play two roles, Turtle wondered. He had a big enough part as the doorman without playing the real-estate man as well. Why two roles? No, not two, three. Windy Windkloppel took three names; one: Samuel W. Westing; two: Barney Northrup; three: Sandy McSouthers.
The judge had a question. “Surely Mr. McSouthers could have had his prescription refilled, or are you implying he committed suicide?”
“Pardon me?” Turtle was searching the will.
The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the
FOURTH.
That’s it, that has to be it: The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the fourth! Windy Windkloppel took four names, and she knew who the fourth one was! Keep calm, Turtle Alice Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. Slowly, very slowly, turn 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
