The Westing Game

of everybody) and sending her back to their apartment to change clothes. It was more than that, it was everything.
Jake turned to Madame Hoo. “Hi there, partner.”
“She doesn’t speak English, Dad,” Angela said flatly.
“And she never will, Angela, if no one talks to her.”
“Snow,” said Madame Hoo.
Jake followed her pointing finger. “That’s right, snow. Lots and lots of snow. Snow. Trees. Road. Lake Michigan.”
“China,” said Madame Hoo.
“China? Sure, why not,” Jake replied. “China.”
Angela left the chatting couple. Why couldn’t she have made some sort of friendly gesture? Because she might do the wrong thing and annoy her mother. Angela-the-obedient-daughter did only what her mother told her to do.
“Hello, Angela. One of these tidbits might cheer you up.” Judge Ford held the tray before her. “I hear you’ll be getting married soon.”
“Some people have all the luck,” Sydelle Pulaski said, appearing from nowhere to lean over the tray to spear a cube of pork. “Of course, not all us women have opted for marriage, right, Judge Ford? Some of us prefer the professional life, though I must say, if a handsome young doctor like Denton Deere proposed to me, I might just change my mind. Too bad he doesn’t happen to be twins.”
“Excuse me.” The judge moved away.
“I’m not having any luck at all, Angela,” Sydelle whined. “If only your mother hadn’t made you change clothes someone surely would have mentioned ‘twin.’ It’s much harder to judge reactions when I have to bring up the subject myself. You shouldn’t let your mother boss you like that; you’re a grown woman, about to be married.”
“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