The Westing Game

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.”
“Go on,” the judge said.
“That’s all.” He promised to send her the clippings in the Westing file as soon as he was shoveled out.
The judge now knew of four heirs with Westing connections: James Hoo, the inventor; Theo’s father; her partner, Sandy McSouthers, who had been fired from the Westing paper mill; and herself. But she had to learn more, much more about each one of the heirs if she hoped to protect the victim of Sam Westing’s revenge.
She would have to hire a detective, a very private detective, who had not been associated with her in her practice or in the courts. J. J. Ford flipped through the Yellow Pages to Investigators—Private.
“Good grief!” Her finger stopped near the top of the list. Was it a coincidence or dumb luck? Or was she playing right into Sam Westing’s hand? No choice but to chance it. The judge dialed the number and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.
“Hello. If you’re looking for a snowbound private investigator, you’ve got the right number.”
Yes, she had the right number. It might be a trick, but it was no coincidence. The voices were one and the same.
13 The Second Bomb
NO ONE WAS in the kitchen of Shin Hoo’s Restaurant when the bomber set a tall can labeled “monosodium glutamate” behind similar cans on a shelf. The color-striped candle would burn down to the fuse at six-thirty; whoever was working there would be at the other end of the room. No one would be hurt.
Due to the unfortunate damage to the coffee shop
SHIN HOO’S RESTAURANT
is prepared to satisfy all dinner accommodations.
Order down, or ride up to the fifth floor.
Treat your taste buds to a scrumptious meal
while feasting your eyes on the stunning snowscape
before it melts away. Reasonable prices, too.
Grace Wexler tacked her sign to the elevator wall as she rode up to her new job. She was going to be the seating hostess.
“Where’s the cook?” Mr. Hoo shouted (meaning his wife). He found Madame Hoo in their rear fourth-floor apartment kneeling before her bamboo trunk, fingering mementoes from her childhood in China. He hurried her up to the kitchen, too harried to find the words that would explain what was happening. Now where was that lazy son of his?
Doug jogged in from a tiring workout on the stairs. How was he supposed to know the restaurant would open early? Nobody bothered telling him.
“Some student you are; anyone with the brain of an anteater could have figured that out: people are short of food, the coffee shop is closed for repairs. Stop arguing, go take a shower, and put on your busboy outfit. Get moving!”
“Don’t you think you’re rather hard on the boy?” Grace commented.
“Somebody’s got to give him a shove. If he had his way, he’d do nothing but run,” Hoo replied between bites of chocolate. “You’re not so easy on Angela, either.”
“Angela? Angela was born good, the perfect child. As for the other one, well . . .”
“It’s not easy being a parent,” Hoo said woefully.
“You can say that again.” Grace held her breath. Her husband would have done just that, said it again, but Mr. Hoo only nodded in shared sympathy. What a