The Westing Game (9 page)

“Excuse me.” Angela moved away.

“Yes, thank you, I would like a refill,” Sydelle said to nobody and hobbled to the bar. “Something nonalcoholic, please, doctor’s orders. Make it a double—twins.”

Twins? What’s she talking about, Theo wondered, staring at the black and white checkered costume. “Two ginger ales for the chessboard coming right up.”

 

 

Hidden among her guests, the judge studied the two people standing off in the corner, the only pair in Sunset Towers who were not Westing heirs.

George Theodorakis placed his hand on the shoulder of his invalid son. A large, bronze, hard-working hand. Like Theo’s. Theo resembled him in many ways: tall, wide shoulders, slim-waisted, the same thick, straight black hair; but age had chiseled the father’s face into sharper planes. His troubled eyes stared across the room at Angela.

Catherine Theodorakis, a slight, careworn woman, gazed down on her younger son with tired, dark-circled eyes.

From his wheelchair Chris watched legs. Other than the funny lady with the shorthand notes, the only limpers were his brother Theo (Turtle had kicked him again) and Mrs. Wexler, who stood on one leg rubbing her stockinged foot against her calf. A high-heeled shoe stood alone on the carpet beneath her. Judge Ford didn’t limp; besides, she couldn’t be a murderer, in spite of his clues. Nobody here looks like a murderer, they’re all nice people, even this fat Chinese man who grumbles all the time.

George Theodorakis greeted Mr. Hoo with “How’s business?” Hoo spun around and stomped off from his fellow restaurant owner in a huff of anger.

James Hoo, inventor, that’s who the judge wanted to talk to, but there was a problem at the bar. A long line had formed and it wasn’t moving.

“There are sixteen white pieces and sixteen black pieces in chess,” Theo was explaining to Sydelle Pulaski. “Do you play chess, Judge Ford?”

“A bit, but I haven’t played in years.” The judge led the secretary away from the crowded bar. Theo must think the Westing game has something to do with chess. He may be right, it certainly is as complicated as a chess 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.

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:

“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.