The Westing Game

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 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 happen to 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 may be a trick, but it was no coincidence. The voices were one and the same.