The Westing Game

nephews
“What!”
(Sit down, Grace Windsor Wexler!)
The lawyer stammered an apology to the still-standing woman. “I was only reading; I mean, those are Mr. Westing’s words.”
“If it’s any comfort to you, Mrs. Wexler,” Judge Ford remarked with biting dignity, “I am just as appalled by our purported relationship.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . .”
“Hey, Angela,” Turtle called the length of the table. “It’s against the law to marry that doctor-to-be. He’s your cousin.”
D. Denton Deere, patting Angela’s hand in his best bedside manner, pricked his finger on her embroidery needle.
“I can’t tell who said what with this chatter,” Sydelle Pulaski complained. “Would you read that again, Mr. Lawyer?”
Today I have gathered together my nearest and dearest, my sixteen nieces and nephews (Sit down, Grace Windsor Wexler!) to view the body of your Uncle Sam for the last time.
Tomorrow its ashes will be scattered to the four winds.
SECOND • I, Samuel W. Westing, hereby swear that I did not die of natural causes. My life was taken from me—by one of you!
“O-o-o-uggg.” Chris’s arm flailed the air, his accusing finger pointed here, no, there; it pointed everywhere. His exaggerated motions acted out the confusion shared by all but one of the heirs as they looked around at the stunned faces of their neighbors to confirm what they heard. Rereading her notes, Sydelle Pulaski now uttered a small shriek. “Eek!”
“Murder? Does that mean Westing was murdered?” Sandy asked the heir on his left.
Crow turned away in silence.
“Does that mean murder?” he asked the heir on his right.
“Murder? Of course it means murder. Sam Westing was murdered,” Mr. Hoo replied. “Either that or he ate once too often in that greasy-spoon coffee shop.”
Theo resented Hoo’s slur on the family business. “It was murder, all right. And the will says the murderer is one of us.” He glared at the restaurant owner.
“Have the police been notified of the charge?” Judge Ford asked the lawyer.
Plum shrugged. “I presume they will perform an autopsy.”
The judge shook her head in dismay. Autopsy? Westing was already embalmed; tomorrow he would be cremated.
The police are helpless. The culprit is far too cunning to be apprehended for this dastardly deed.
“Oh my!” Flora Baumbach clapped a hand to her mouth on hearing “dastardly.” First murder, now a swear word.
I, alone, know the name. Now it is up to you. Cast out the sinner, let the guilty rise and confess.
“Amen,” said Crow.
THIRD • Who among you is worthy to be the Westing heir? Help me. My soul shall roam restlessly until that one is found.
The estate is at the crossroads. The heir who wins the windfall will be the one who finds the . . .
“Ashes!” the doorman shouted. Some tittered to relieve the unbearable tension, some cast him a reproachful glance, Grace Wexler clicked her tongue, and Sydelle Pulaski shhh-ed. “It was just a joke,” Sandy tried to explain. “You know, ashes scattered to the winds, so the one who wins the windfall gets— Oh, never mind.”
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 it rich who dares to play the Westing game.
“Game? What game?” Turtle wanted to know.
“No matter,” Judge Ford said, rising to leave. “This is either a cruel trick or the man was insane.”
FIFTH • Sit down, Your Honor, and read the letter this brilliant young attorney will now hand over to you.
It was uncanny. Several heads turned toward the coffin, but Westing’s eyes were shut forever.
The brilliant young attorney fumbled through a stack of papers, felt his pockets, and finally found the letter in his briefcase.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Theo asked as the judge resumed her seat and put the sealed envelope in her purse.
“No need. Sam Westing could afford to buy a dozen certificates of sanity.”
“The poor are crazy, the rich just eccentric,” Mr. Hoo said bitterly.
“Are you implying, sir, that the medical profession is corrupt?” Denton Deere challenged.
“Shhh!”
SIXTH • Before you proceed to the game room there will be one minute of silent prayer for your good old Uncle Sam.
Flora Baumbach was the only heir to cry. Crow was the only one to pray. By the time Sydelle Pulaski could assume a pose of reverence, the minute was up.
7 The Westing Game
EIGHT CARD TABLES, each with two chairs, were arranged in the center of the game room. Sports equipment lined the walls. Hunting rifles, Ping-Pong paddles, billiard cues (a full rack, Turtle noticed), bows and arrows, darts, bats, racquets—all looked like possible murder weapons to the jittery heirs who were waiting to be told where to sit.
Theo wandered over to the chess table to admire the finely carved pieces. Someone had moved a white pawn. Okay, he’ll play along. Theo defended the opening with a black knight.
On hearing Plum’s throat-clearing signal, Sydelle Pulaski switched the painted crutch to her left armpit and flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. “Shhh!”
SEVENTH • And now, dear friends, relatives, and enemies, the Westing game begins.
The rules are simple:
Number of players: 16, divided into 8 pairs.
Each pair will receive $10,000.
Each pair will receive one set of clues.
Forfeits: If any player drops out, the partner must leave the game. The pair must return the money. Absent pairs forfeit the $10,000; their clues will be held until the next session.
Players will be given two days’ notice of the next session. Each pair may then give one answer.
Object of the game: to win.
“Did you hear that, Crow?” Otis Amber said excitedly. “Ten thousand dollars! Now aren’t you glad I made you come, huh?”
“Shhh!” That was Turtle. The object of the game was to win, and she wanted to win.
EIGHTH • The heirs will now be paired. When called, go to the assigned table. Your name and position will be read as signed on the receipt.
It will be up to the other players