Scrabble.
I’m not a hypersensitive type, but I was a little shocked at the bizarre scene, the two of them building words on the board and totting up scores while a mouldering body lay a little way off in the far corner of the room. It might have made a good cover illustration for an old EC horror comic—although, to be fair to Scott, it looked like he was only going along with another of Hilary’s whims.
Then it hit me: they were playing Scrabble!
I rushed over to the table where Goetz lay. Sure enough—the floor and table were bare; all the Scrabble tiles, the box, the cover to the box, everything had been picked up off the floor and was now in use.
I’m sure Hilary knew what was going on in my mind, but she ignored it, as usual, noticing me only long enough to tell me I’d taken too long. Then she returned her attention to the Scrabble board.
Scott removed three tiles from the wooden holder sitting in front of him and put them on the end of a word already on the board: SHUDDER . (Hilary boasted she’d scored over sixty points for putting it down; the rules of Scrabble provide a fifty-point bonus for using all the letters on the rack—seven of them—in any one turn.) Scott’s three additions were an I, an N, and a G. Result: SHUDDERING , worth thirty-two points (twelve for the existing word he’d built on; one apiece for the I and N; two for the G; and another sixteen points for landing the N on a pink “double word score” square). “Let’s see,” said Scott, beginning to add up the tally, “one for the S—”
“Count to yourself,” Hilary snapped, annoyed at the prospect of being beaten by a man. When he was done, she played an uninspired word, fished out some letters to replace the ones she used in her turn. Then Scott racked up a high-tally noun, and Hilary started to play again.
I couldn’t take any more of it, and I told them so. Scott looked at me gratefully, relieved.
“Well,” Hilary grumbled, “I guess you’re right. I won’t make my word, anyway.”
There were only four letters left in the refill pool. Scott turned them over, one by one: they were two A’s and a pair of I’s. Hilary shook her head. “How do you like that? This is an incomplete set!”
“What were you trying to build?” Scott asked.
She pointed to the R in SHUDDERING , then turned her letters around. Two letters—a T and a D—were shoved to one side; then there was a cluster of one-point letters: UEE ER.
“You were trying for queerer ? ” he asked.
Hilary nodded. “It would have been worth sixteen points. Or—wait a minute—I could have put down queered, seventeen ... except for one thing. There’s no Q in this set!”
She looked frostily at me as she said it.
The next several minutes were spent hearing my report of the interviews with Willie Frost and Ruth Goetz. Except for a brief exclamation when I told that I’d spotted Tom Lasker emerging from the attorney’s office, Scott was silent during the recounting. Hilary, however, broke in from time to time to question certain points or to get me to repeat something one of the pair had said.
“There are just two things I want to know,” she stated when I was done. “Whether the two of them were really at the restaurant last night, and if so, how late they actually stayed. Also, how far can Willie Frost be trusted?”
“I can answer that,” Scott volunteered. “Frost is a pretty reputable lawyer.”
“That,” said Hilary, making a face, “is meaningless. Can he be believed or not?”
“He can. Basically, he’s honest.”
“Basically?”
Scott nodded. “What I mean is, I don’t think Willie told your man a deliberate lie at any time. On the other hand, I wouldn’t assume any meanings beyond Willie’s exact wordings. He’s very shrewd, and when he says something, it’ll mean neither more nor less than the precise denotation of the terms employed.”
Hilary thought about it for a moment. Then, in a burst of frustrating
I’m not a hypersensitive type, but I was a little shocked at the bizarre scene, the two of them building words on the board and totting up scores while a mouldering body lay a little way off in the far corner of the room. It might have made a good cover illustration for an old EC horror comic—although, to be fair to Scott, it looked like he was only going along with another of Hilary’s whims.
Then it hit me: they were playing Scrabble!
I rushed over to the table where Goetz lay. Sure enough—the floor and table were bare; all the Scrabble tiles, the box, the cover to the box, everything had been picked up off the floor and was now in use.
I’m sure Hilary knew what was going on in my mind, but she ignored it, as usual, noticing me only long enough to tell me I’d taken too long. Then she returned her attention to the Scrabble board.
Scott removed three tiles from the wooden holder sitting in front of him and put them on the end of a word already on the board: SHUDDER . (Hilary boasted she’d scored over sixty points for putting it down; the rules of Scrabble provide a fifty-point bonus for using all the letters on the rack—seven of them—in any one turn.) Scott’s three additions were an I, an N, and a G. Result: SHUDDERING , worth thirty-two points (twelve for the existing word he’d built on; one apiece for the I and N; two for the G; and another sixteen points for landing the N on a pink “double word score” square). “Let’s see,” said Scott, beginning to add up the tally, “one for the S—”
“Count to yourself,” Hilary snapped, annoyed at the prospect of being beaten by a man. When he was done, she played an uninspired word, fished out some letters to replace the ones she used in her turn. Then Scott racked up a high-tally noun, and Hilary started to play again.
I couldn’t take any more of it, and I told them so. Scott looked at me gratefully, relieved.
“Well,” Hilary grumbled, “I guess you’re right. I won’t make my word, anyway.”
There were only four letters left in the refill pool. Scott turned them over, one by one: they were two A’s and a pair of I’s. Hilary shook her head. “How do you like that? This is an incomplete set!”
“What were you trying to build?” Scott asked.
She pointed to the R in SHUDDERING , then turned her letters around. Two letters—a T and a D—were shoved to one side; then there was a cluster of one-point letters: UEE ER.
“You were trying for queerer ? ” he asked.
Hilary nodded. “It would have been worth sixteen points. Or—wait a minute—I could have put down queered, seventeen ... except for one thing. There’s no Q in this set!”
She looked frostily at me as she said it.
The next several minutes were spent hearing my report of the interviews with Willie Frost and Ruth Goetz. Except for a brief exclamation when I told that I’d spotted Tom Lasker emerging from the attorney’s office, Scott was silent during the recounting. Hilary, however, broke in from time to time to question certain points or to get me to repeat something one of the pair had said.
“There are just two things I want to know,” she stated when I was done. “Whether the two of them were really at the restaurant last night, and if so, how late they actually stayed. Also, how far can Willie Frost be trusted?”
“I can answer that,” Scott volunteered. “Frost is a pretty reputable lawyer.”
“That,” said Hilary, making a face, “is meaningless. Can he be believed or not?”
“He can. Basically, he’s honest.”
“Basically?”
Scott nodded. “What I mean is, I don’t think Willie told your man a deliberate lie at any time. On the other hand, I wouldn’t assume any meanings beyond Willie’s exact wordings. He’s very shrewd, and when he says something, it’ll mean neither more nor less than the precise denotation of the terms employed.”
Hilary thought about it for a moment. Then, in a burst of frustrating
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