The Westing Game

  “But I did study,” Doug was arguing.

  The judge interrupted. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for the delicious food, Mr. Hoo. How long have you been in the restaurant business?”

  “Running up and down stairs is not studying,” Hoo said.

  Sydelle Pulaski butted in. “Father and son? You look more like twins.”

  “You’re equal partners with that Theodorakis kid,” Hoo continued. “Why didn’t you insist on holding the meeting in our restaurant instead of that greasy coffee shop?”

  “Because some people don’t like chow mein for breakfast,” Sydelle Pulaski replied.

  “There you are, dear.” Grace patted a stray wisp of Angela’s hair into place. “We must do something about your coiffure. I’ll make an appointment for you with my hairdresser once the snow is cleared; long hair is too youthful for a woman about to be married. I can’t understand what got into you, Angela, coming to this party in that old checkered dress and those awful accessories. Just because your partner dresses like a freak . . .”

  “She’s not a freak, Mother.”

  “I was just speaking to Mr. Hoo about catering the wedding shower on Saturday; I arranged for little Madame Hoo to serve in one of those slinky Chinese gowns. Where are you going? Angela!”

  Angela rushed into Judge Ford’s kitchen. She had to get away, she had to be alone, by herself, or she’d burst out crying.

  She was not alone. Crow was there. The two women stared at each other in surprise, then turned away.

  Poor baby. Crow wanted to reach out to the pretty child; she wanted to take her in her arms and say: “Poor, poor baby, go ahead and cry.” But she couldn’t. All she could say was “Here.”

  Angela took the dish towel from the cleaning woman and bunched it against her face to muffle the wrenching sobs.

  The guests jabbered on and on about the weather, about food, about football, about chess, about twins. Turtle was slumped on the couch, scornful of dumb grown-up parties. You’d think one of them would know something about the stock market. She missed Sandy. Sandy was the only one in this dumb building she could talk to.

  “Remember that quotation: May God thy gold refine?” Flora Baumbach asked. “Let’s take a poll. I’ll bet ten cents it’s from the Bible.”

  “Shakespeare,” Turtle argued, “and make it ten dollars.”

  “Oh my! Well, all right, ten dollars.”

  Together they made the rounds. Four votes for the Bible, three for Shakespeare, and one abstention (Madame Hoo did not understand the question).

  Sydelle Pulaski voted for the Bobbsey twins. “And how do you know those words were in the will?” she asked suspiciously. Too suspiciously.

  So that’s what “Lost: Important business papers” meant. Somebody stole the shorthand notes. Turtle smiled at the delicious nastiness of it all. “I remember, that’s all.”

  “If you remember so well, tell me what comes before that,” Sydelle challenged.

  “I don’t know, what?”

  The secretary had an audience now. “I don’t mind telling you, but not if you ask like that.”

  Theo said, “Please?” not Turtle.

  Sydelle turned toward him with what should have been a gracious manner, but she grimaced when the top of the crutch poked her in the chest. “The exact quotation,” she announced loudly, hoping she was right, “is Spend it wisely and may God thy gold refine.”

  Right or wrong, her guess was received with groans of disappointment. The heirs had expected more: a hint, a clue, something. It was time to go home.

  11

  THE MEETING

  A PALE SUN rose on the third snowbound morning. Lake Michigan lay calm, violet, now blue, but the tenants of Sunset Towers on waking turned to a different view. Lured by the Westing house, they stood at their side windows scoffing at the danger, daring to dream. Should they or shouldn’t they share their clues? Well, they’d go to the meeting in the coffee shop just to see what the others intended to do.

  Waiting in her closet of a room Turtle stared at the white-weighted branches of the maple on the hill. A twig snapped in silence, a flurry speckled the crusted snow. Sometimes when her mother was too busy to do her hair she sent Angela in, but today no one came. They had forgotten about her.

  Brush and comb clutched in her fists like weapons, she stormed into apartment 2C. “Do you know how to braid hair?”

  Flora Baumbach’s pudgy fingers, swift with a needle, were clumsy with a comb, but after several tangled attempts she ended up with three equal strands. “My, what thick hair you have. I tried braiding my daughter’s hair once, but it was too fine, soft and wispy like a baby’s, even in her teens.”

  That was the last thing Turtle wanted to hear. “Was she pretty, your daughter?”

  “All mothers think their children are beautiful. Rosalie was an exceptional child, they said, but she was the lovingest person that ever was.”

  “My mother doesn’t think I’m beautiful.”

  “Of course, she does.”

  “My mother says I looked just like a turtle when I was a baby, sticking my head out of the blanket. I still look like a turtle, I guess, but I don’t care. Where’s your daughter now?”

  “Gone.” Flora Baumbach cleared the catch in her throat. “There, that braid should hold for the rest of the day. By the way, you’ve never told me your real name.”

  “Alice,” Turtle replied, swinging her head before the mirror. Not one single hair escaped its tight bind. Mrs. Baumbach would make a good braider if only she’d stop yakking about her exceptional child. Rosalie, what a dumb name. “You’d better get to the meeting now. Remember, don’t say a word to anyone about anything. Just listen.”

  “All right, Alice. I promise.”

  Theo wheeled his brother into the elevator and read the new message on the wall:$25 REWARD for the return of a gold railroad watch inscribed: To Ezra Ford in appreciation of thirty years’ service to the Milwaukee Road. J. J. Ford, apartment 4D

  “Fod-d-d, fo—de,” Chris said.

  “That’s right, Judge Ford. Must be her father’s watch. Probably lost it. I don’t think it could have been stolen by anyone at the party last night.”

  Chris smiled. His brother had not understood him. Good. This might be an important discovery—Judge Ford’s name was the same as her apartment number: Ford, 4D.

  Theo led the waiting tenants through the kitchen where Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis handed out cups of tea and coffee. “Sorry, we’ve run out of cream and lemons. Please help yourself to some homemade pastries.”

  Walking into the coffee shop was like entering a cave. A wall of snow pressed against the plate-glass window, scaling the door that once opened to the parking lot.

  “I’ve got a car buried out there,” Grace Wexler said, slipping into a booth opposite her partner. “Hope I find it before the snowplows do.”

  “If they ever get here,” Mr. Hoo replied. “Good thing this meeting wasn’t held in my restaurant, I’d go broke passing out free tea, if you call this tea.” He held up a tea bag with contempt, then groaned on seeing his sweat-suited son jog in with a sweet roll between his teeth and vault over his hands onto a stool, “Where’s your daughter the turtle?”

  Grace Wexler looked around. “I don’t know, maybe she’s helping her father with his bookkeeping.”

  “Bookkeeping!” Mr. Hoo let out a whoop. Grace had no idea what was so funny, but she joined him in loud laughter. Nothing stirred people’s envy more than a private joke.

  Thinking she was being laughed at, Sydelle Pulaski dropped her polka dot crutch and spilled her coffee on Angela’s tapestry bag before managing a solid perch on the counter stool.

  Clink, clink. Theo tapped a spoon against a glass for attention. “Thank you for coming. When the meeting is over you are all welcome to stay for a chess tournament. Meanwhile, I’d like to explain why my partner and me . . . my partner and I . . . called this meeting. I don’t know about your clues, but our clues don’t
make any sense.” The heirs stared at him with blank faces, no one nodded, no one even blinked. “Now then, if no two sets of clues are alike, as the will says, that could mean that each set of clues is only part of one message. The more clues we put together, the better chance we have of finding the murderer and winning the game. Of course, the inheritance will be divided into equal shares.”

  Sydelle Pulaski raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “What about the clues that are in the will itself?”

  “Yes, we’d appreciate having a copy of the will, Ms. Pulaski,” Theo replied.

  “Well, equal shares doesn’t seem quite fair, since I’m the only one here who thought of taking notes.” Sydelle turned to the group, one penciled eyebrow arched high over her red sequined spectacles.

  Her self-congratulatory pose was too much for Mr. Hoo. Grunting loudly, he squeezed out of the booth and slapped the shorthand pad on the counter.

  “Thief!” the secretary shrieked, nearly toppling off the stool as she grabbed her notebook. “Thief!”

  “I did not steal your notebook,” the indignant Hoo explained. “I found it on a table in my restaurant this morning. You can believe me or not, I really don’t care, because those notes you so selfishly dangled under our noses are completely worthless. My partner knows shorthand and she says your shorthand is nothing but senseless scrawls. Gibberish.”

  “Pure gibberish,” Grace Wexler added. “Those are standard shorthand symbols all right, but they don’t translate into words.”

  “Thief!” Sydelle cried, now accusing Mrs. Wexler. “Thief! Larcenist! Felon!”

  “Don’t, Sydelle,” Angela said softly, her eyes set on the D she was embroidering.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Angela, you don’t know what it’s like to be. . . .” Her voice broke. She paused then lashed out at her enemies, all of them. “Who cares a fig about Sydelle Pulaski? Nobody, that’s who. I’m no fool, you know. I knew I couldn’t trust any one of you. You can’t read my shorthand because I wrote in Polish.”

  Polish?!?!

  When the meeting was again called to order Mr. Hoo suggested they offer Ms. Pulaski a slightly larger share of the inheritance in exchange for a transcript of the will—in English. “However, I repeat, neither my partner nor I stole the notes. And if anyone here suspects us of murder, forget it, we both have airtight alibis.”

  Doug choked on his sweet roll. If it got around to alibis, they’d find out where he was the night of the murder. On the Westing house lawn.

  Mr. Hoo went on. “And to prove our innocence, my partner and I agree to share our clues.”

  “One minute, Mr. Hoo.” Judge Ford stood. It was time for her to speak before matters got out of hand. “Let me remind you, all of you, that a person is innocent until proven guilty. We are free to choose whether or not to share our clues without any implication of guilt. I suggest we postpone any decision until we have given the matter careful thought, and until the time all of the heirs can attend. However, since we are assembled, I have a question to ask of the group; perhaps others do, too.”

  They all did. Wary of giving away game plans, the heirs decided the questions would be written out, but no names were to be signed. Doug collected the scraps of paper and handed them to Theo.

  “Is anyone here a twin?” he read.

  No one answered.

  “What is Turtle’s real name?” Doug Hoo was planning another nasty sign.

  “Tabitha-Ruth,” replied Mrs. Wexler with a bewildered look at Flora Baumbach, who said “Alice.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  “Tabitha-Ruth Wexler. I should know, I’m her mother.”

  Doug changed his mind about the sign. He couldn’t spell Tabitha-Ruth.

  Theo unfolded the next question. “How many here have actually met Sam Westing?”

  Grace Wexler raised her hand, lowered it, raised it halfway, then lowered it again, torn between her claim as Sam Westing’s relative and being accused of murder. Mr. Hoo (an honest man) held up his hand and kept it up. His was the only one. Judge Ford did not think it necessary to respond to her own question.

  Theo recognized the sprawling handwriting of the next question: “Who got kicked last week?” Chris did not receive an answer. The meeting was adjourned due to panic.

  12

  THE FIRST BOMB

  IT WAS SO sudden: the earsplitting bangs, the screams, the confusion. Theo and Doug ran into the kitchen; Mrs. Theodorakis ran out. Her hair, her face, her apron were splattered with dark dripping red.

  “Blood,” Sydelle Pulaski cried, clutching her heart.

  “Don’t just sit there,” Catherine Theodorakis shouted, “somebody call the fire department.”

  Angela hurried to the pay phone on the wall and stood there trembling, not knowing whether to call or not. They were snowbound, the fire engines could not reach Sunset Towers.

  Theo leaned through the kitchen doorway. “Everything’s okay. There’s no fire.”

  “Chris, honey, it’s all right,” Mrs. Theodorakis said, kneeling before the wheelchair. “It’s all right, Chris, look! It’s just tomato sauce.”

  Tomato sauce! Mrs. Theodorakis was covered with tomato sauce, not blood. The curious heirs now piled into the kitchen, except for Sydelle Pulaski, who slumped to the counter. She could have a heart attack and no one would notice.

  Mr. Hoo surveyed the scene, trying to conceal his delight. “What a mess,” he said. “That row of cans must have exploded from the heat of the stove.” The entire kitchen was splattered with tomato sauce and soaked in foam from the fire extinguishers. “What a mess.”

  George Theodorakis regarded him with suspicion. “It was a bomb.”

  Catherine Theodorakis thought so, too. “There was hissing, then bang, bang, sparks flying all over the kitchen, red sparks, purple sparks.”

  “Cans of tomato sauce exploded,” Doug Hoo said, defending his father. The others agreed. Mrs. Theodorakis was understandably hysterical. A bomb? Ridiculous. Sam Westing certainly did not appear to have been killed by a bomb.

  Judge Ford suggested that the accident be reported to the police immediately in order to collect on the insurance.

  “You might as well redecorate the entire kitchen,” Grace Wexler, decorator, proposed. “It should be functional yet attractive, with lots of copper pots hanging from the ceiling.”

  “I don’t think there’s any real damage,” Catherine Theodorakis replied, “but we’ll have to close for a few days to clean up.”

  Mr. Hoo smiled. Angela offered to help.

  “Angela, dear, you have a fitting this afternoon,” Grace reminded her, “and we have so much to do for the wedding shower on Saturday.”

  In thumped Sydelle Pulaski. “I’m fine now, just a bit woozy. Goodness, what a nasty turn.”

  Having recovered from the nasty turn, Sydelle Pulaski settled down to transcribing her shorthand to Polish, then from Polish to English. Startled by loud banging on her apartment door, she struck the wrong typewriter key.

  “Open up!”

  Recognizing the voice, Angela unbolted the door to a furious Turtle. “All right, Angela, where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The newspaper you took from my desk.”

  Angela carefully dug through the embroidery, personal items, and other paraphernalia in her tapestry bag and pulled out the newspaper folded to the Westing obituary. “I’m sorry, Turtle. I would have asked for it, but you weren’t around.”

  “You don’t also happen to have my Mickey Mouse clock in there, too, do you?” Turtle softened on seeing her sister’s hurt expression. “I’m only kidding. You left your engagement ring on the sink again. Better go get it before somebody steals that, too.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about anyone stealing Angela’s ring,” Sydelle Pulaski remarked. “No mother would stoop that low.”

  The thought of Grace being the burglar was so funny to Turtle, she plopped down on the sofa and rolled about in laughter. It felt good to laugh; the
stock market had fallen five points today.

  “Angela, please tell your sister to get her dirty shoes off my couch. Tell her to sit up and act like a lady.”

  Turtle rose with a tongue click very much like her mother’s, but she was not about to leave without striking back. Arms folded, she leaned against the wall and let them have it. “Mom thinks Angela was the one who stole the shorthand notebook.” That got them. Look at those open mouths. “Because Mom asked to see it, and Angela does everything she says.”

  “Anyone could have stolen my notebook; I didn’t double-lock my door that day.” If Sydelle couldn’t trust her own partner, she was alone, all alone.

  “Did Mom really say that?” Angela asked.

  “No, but I know how she thinks, I know what everybody thinks. Grown-ups are so obvious.”

  “Ridiculous,” scoffed Sydelle.

  “For instance, I know that Angela doesn’t want to marry that sappy intern.”

  “Ridiculous. You’re just jealous of your sister.”

  “Maybe,” Turtle had to admit, “but I am what I am. I don’t need a crutch to get attention.” Oh, oh, she had gone too far.

  “Turtle didn’t mean it that way, Sydelle,” Angela said quickly.

  “She used the word crutch as a symbol. She meant, you know, that people are so afraid of revealing their true selves, they have to hide behind some sort of prop.”

  “Oh, really?” Sydelle replied. “Then Turtle’s crutch is her big mouth.”

  No, Angela thought, hurrying her sister out of the door and back to their apartment, Turtle’s crutch is her braid.

  The newspaperman called again to say he had found some photographs taken at Westingtown parties twenty years ago. “One of those names appears in a caption as Violet Westing’s escort: George Theodorakis.”