The Westing Game

a witness to the will), but he was also a physician in good standing. She would accept his opinion on Westing’s sanity, for the time being at least.
Back to the clues. Look at her, the big-time judge, fussing over scraps of Westing Superstrength Paper Towels. “Forget the clues,” she said aloud, rising from her desk to putter about the room.
Nibbling on a macaroon, she stacked the used coffee cups on a tray. If only that Pulaski person had let her study the will. That’s where the real clues were buried, among the veiled threats and pompous promises, the slogans and silliness in that hodgepodge of a will.
In his will Sam Westing implied (he did not state, he implied) that (1) he was murdered, (2) the murderer was one of the heirs, (3) he alone knew the name of the murderer, and (4) the name of the murderer was the answer to the game.
The game: a tricky, divisive Westing game. No matter how much fear and suspicion he instilled in the players, Sam Westing knew that greed would keep them playing the game. Until the “murderer” was captured. And punished.
Sam Westing was not murdered, but one of his heirs was guilty—guilty of some offense against a relentless man. And that heir was in danger. From his grave Westing would stalk his enemy, and through his heirs he would wreak his revenge.
Which one? Which heir was the target of Westing’s vindictiveness? In the name of justice she would have to find Westing’s victim before the others did. She would have to learn everything she could about each one of the heirs. Who are they, and how did their lives touch Westing’s, these sixteen strangers whose only connection with one another was Sunset Towers? Sunset Towers—she’d start from there.
Good, the telephones are working again. The number she dialed was answered on the first ring. “Hi there, this is a recording of yours truly, Barney Northrup. I’m at your service—soon as I get back in my office, that is. Just sing out your problem to old Barney here when you hear the beep.” Beep.
J. J. Ford hung up without singing out her problem to old Barney. He, too, could be involved in Westing’s plot.
The newspaper, she would try the newspaper; surely someone was snowbound there. After eight rings, a live voice answered. “We usually don’t supply that kind of information over the phone, but since it’s you, Judge Ford, I’ll be happy to oblige. Just spell out the names and I’ll call back if I find anything.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” It was a beginning. Sam Westing was dead, but maybe, just once, she could beat him at his own game. His last game.
HAVING FOUND WHAT she wanted in Turtle’s desk, Angela returned to her frilly bedroom where Sydelle Pulaski, glasses low on her nose, was perched on a ruffled stool at the vanity table, smearing blue shadow on her eyelids.
“First we tackle our own clues,” the secretary said, frowning at the result in the threefold mirror. Unlucky from the day she was born, she now had a beautiful and well-loved partner. There was always the chance that they alone had been given the answer. She unsealed the envelope and held it out to Angela. “Take one.”
Angela removed the first clue: good.
Now it was Sydelle’s turn. “Glory be!” she exclaimed, thinking she had the name of the murderer. Her thumb was covering the letter d. The word was hood.
Angela’s turn. The third clue was from.
Sydelle’s turn. The fourth clue was spacious.
The fifth and last clue was—Angela uttered a low moan. Her hand shook as she passed the paper to her partner. The fifth and last clue was grace.
“Grace, that’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?” Sydelle said. “Well, don’t worry, that clue doesn’t mean your mother is the murderer. The will says: It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts.” The secretary had not yet transcribed the shorthand, but she had read it through several times before hiding the notebook in a safe place. “By the way, are you really related to Mr. Westing?”
Angela shrugged. Sydelle assumed that meant no and turned to the clues.
GOOD   GRACE   FROM   HOOD   SPACIOUS
“The only thing I can figure from these clues is: Good gracious from hood space. As soon as the parking lot is shoveled out, we’ll peek under the hoods of all the cars. A map or more clues may be hidden there. Maybe even the murder weapon. Now, let’s hear about the other clues.”
Angela reported on the clues gathered in the game room and during the day’s comings and goings:
“King, queen. Otis Amber said, ‘King Otis and Queen Crow.’
“Purple waves. Mother switched two clues around when Sandy mentioned those words.
“On (or no). Doug and Theo could not decide whether that clue was right side up or upside down.
“Grains. Chris Theodorakis thinks that clue refers to Otis Amber. You know, grains—oats.
“MT.” Angela showed her partner the crumpled scrap of paper she had picked up along with Sydelle’s dropped crutch during Flora Baumbach’s tea party.
500 shares MT at $6 = $3000
broker’s commission = +90
$3090
“I checked Turtle’s diary. She is not following any stock with a symbol like MT, so it must be one of her clues. MT could stand for either mountain or empty.”
“Excellent,” Sydelle Pulaski remarked. Her partner was beautiful, but not dumb. “Read all the clues together now.”
GOOD   HOOD   FROM   SPACIOUS   GRACE
KING   QUEEN   PURPLE   WAVES
ON (NO)   GRAINS   MOUNTAIN (EMPTY)
Sydelle was disappointed. “It is not what you have, it’s what you don’t have that counts. And what we don’t have is a verb. Nothing makes sense without a verb. What about the judge?”
“Judge Ford thought her clues were an insult, and she said something about playing a pawn in Westing’s game. And she had a clipping of the obituary on her desk. This obituary.” Angela handed Sydelle the newspaper taken from Turtle’s drawer.
“What’s that?”
It was a knock on the front door.
It was footsteps in the living room.
It was Theo. “Anyone for