The Westing Game

The Meeting

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 whiteweighted 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: $25 REWARD for the return of a gold railroad watch inscribed: To Ezra Ford in appreciation of thirty years' service to the Milwaukee Railroad. J. J. Ford, apartment 4D "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 a coffee shop was like entering a cave. A wall of snow pressed against the plate-glass window, sealing 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. Jibberish." "Pure jibberish," 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.