“WHY HELLO, Judge Ford.” Proud of her liberalism, Grace Windsor Wexler stood and leaned over the table to shake the black woman’s hand. She must be here in some legal capacity, or maybe her mother was a household maid, but of one thing Grace was certain: J. J. Ford could no more be related to Samuel W. Westing than Mr. Hoo.
“Can’t we get started?” Mr. Hoo asked, hoping to get back in time to watch the football game on television. “I must return to my restaurant,” he announced loudly. “Sunday is our busy day, but we are still accepting reservations. Shin Hoo’s Restaurant on the fifth floor of Sunset Towers, specializing in . . .”
Doug tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Not here, Dad; not in front of the dead.”
“What dead?” Mr. Hoo had not noticed the open coffin. Now he did. “Ohhh!”
The lawyer explained that several heirs had not yet arrived. “My wife is not coming,” said Mr. Hoo. Grace said, “Doctor Wexler was called away on an emergency operation.”
“An emergency Packers game in Green Bay,” Turtle confided to Flora Baumbach, who scrunched up her shoulders and tittered behind a plump hand.
“Then we are still waiting for one, no, two more,” the lawyer said, fumbling with his papers, his hands shaking under the strict scrutiny of the judge.
Judge Ford had recognized E. J. Plum. Several months ago he had argued before her court, bumbling to the point of incompetence. Why, she wondered, was a young, inexperienced attorney chosen to handle an estate of such importance? Come to think of it, what was she doing here? Curiosity? Perhaps, but what about the rest of them, the other tenants of Sunset Towers? Don’t anticipate, Josie-Jo, wait for Sam Westing to make the first move.
Light footsteps were heard in the hall. It was only Angela, who blushed and, hugging her tapestry bag close to her body, returned to her seat.
The heirs waited. Some chatted with neighbors, some looked up at the gilt ceiling, some studied the pattern of the Oriental rug. Judge Ford stared at the table, at Theo Theodorakis’s hand. A calloused hand, a healed cut, the shiny slash of a burn on the deep bronze skin. She lowered her hands to her lap. His Greek skin was darker than her “black” skin.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. Someone was coming, or were there two of them?
In came Crow. Eyes lowered, without a word, she sat down next to Otis Amber. A dark cloud passed from her face as she eased off a tight shoe under the table.
Thump, thump, thump. The last expected heir arrived.
“Hello, everybody. Sorry I’m late. I haven’t quite adjusted to this”—Sydelle Pulaski waved a gaily painted crutch in the air, tottered, and set it down quickly with another thump—“this crutch. Crutch. What a horrible word, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it.” She pursed her bright red mouth, painted to a fullness beyond the narrow line of her lips, trying to suppress a smile of triumph. Everyone was staring; she knew they would notice.
“What happened, Pulaski?” Otis Amber asked. “Did you pull Turtle’s braid again?”
“More likely she visited Wexler the foot butcher,” Sandy suggested.
Sydelle was pleased to hear someone come to her defense with a loud click of the tongue. She had not even blinked a false eyelash at those offensive remarks (poise, they call it). “It’s really nothing,” she reported bravely, “just some sort of wasting disease. But pity me not, I shall live out my remaining time enjoying each precious day to the full.” Thump, thump, thump. The secretary kept to the side of the room, avoiding the Oriental rug that might cushion the thump of her purple-striped crutch, as she made her way to the end of the table. Her exaggerated hips were even more exaggerated by the wavy stripes of white on her purple dress.
Purple waves, Turtle thought.
Denton Deere almost fell off his chair, leaning back to follow this most unusual case. First she favored her left leg, then her right leg.
“What is it?” whispered Mrs. Wexler.
The intern did not have the least notion, but he had to say something. “Traveling sporadic myositis,” he pronounced quickly and glanced at Angela. Her eyes remained on her embroidery.
The lawyer stood, documents in hand, and cleared his throat several times. Grace Windsor Wexler, her chin tilted in the regal pose of an heiress, gave him her full attention.
“One minute, please.” Sydelle Pulaski propped her purple-and-white-striped crutch against the table, then removed a shorthand pad and pencil from her handbag. “Thank you for waiting; you may begin.”
6 The Westing Will
“MY NAME,” the young lawyer began, “is Edgar Jennings Plum. Although I never had the honor of meeting Samuel W. Westing, for some reason yet unexplained, I was appointed executor of this will found adjacent to the body of the deceased.
“Let me assure you that I have examined the documents at hand as thoroughly as possible in the short time available. I have verified the signatures to be those of Samuel W. Westing and his two witnesses: Julian R. Eastman, President and Chief Executive Officer of Westing Paper Products Corporation, and Sidney Sikes, M.D., Coroner of Westing County. Although the will you are about to hear may seem eccentric, I pledge my good name and reputation on its legality.”
Breathless with suspense, the heirs stared popeyed at Edgar Jennings Plum, who now coughed into his fist, now cleared his throat, now rustled papers, and now, at last, began to read aloud from the Westing will.
I, SAMUEL W. WESTING, resident of Westing County in the fair state of Wisconsin in the great and glorious United States of America, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.
FIRST • I returned to live among my friends and my enemies. I came home to seek my heir, aware that in doing so I faced death. And so I did.
Today I have gathered together my nearest and dearest, my sixteen nieces and
