The Westing Game

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