The Westing Game

The Trackers

It was Flora Baumbach who braided Turtle's hair now, sometimes in three strands, sometimes four, sometimes twined with ribbons, while Turtle read The Wall Street Journal. "Listen to this: 'The newly elected chairman of the board of Westing Paper Products Corporation, Julian R. Eastman, announced from London where he is conferring with European management that earnings from all divisions are expected to double in the next quarter.'" "That's nice," Flora Baumbach said, not understanding a word of it. Turtle gave the order for the day. "Listen carefully. As soon as you get to the broker's office I want you to sell AMO, sell SEA, sell MT, and put all the money into WPP. Okay?" Oh my! That meant selling every stock mentioned in their clues and buying more shares of Westing Paper Products—at a loss of some thousands of dollars. "Whatever you say, Alice, you're the smart one." Flora Baumbach's hands were gentle, they never hurried or pulled a stray hair. Flora Baumbach loved her, she could tell. "I like when you call me Alice," Turtle said, "but I better not call you Mrs. Baumbach anymore, because of the bomb scare, you know." Calling her Flora would spoil everything. "Maybe I could call you Mrs. Baba?" "Why not just Baba?" That's exactly what Turtle (Alice) wanted to hear. "Was your daughter, Rosalie, very smart, Baba?" "My, no. You're the smartest child I ever met, a real businesswoman." Turtle glowed behind The Wall Street Journal. "I bet Rosalie baked bread and patched quilts and dumb stuff like that." The dressmaker's sure fingers fumbled over the red ribbons she was weaving into a four-strand braid. "Rosalie was an exceptional child. The friendliest, lovingest..." Turtle crumpled the newspaper. "Let's go. I'm late for school and you've got that big trade to make." "But I haven't finished tying the ribbons." "Never mind, I like them hanging." Turtle felt like kicking somebody, anybody, good and hard. Sandy was not at the door when they left. He was in apartment 4D neatly writing in his patriotic notebook information gathered on the next heir.

♦ BAUMBACH FLORA BAUMBACH. Maiden name: Flora Miller. Age: 60. Dressmaker. Husband left her years ago, sends no money. She had a retarded daughter, Rosalie, a Mongoloid child. Sold bridal shop last year after Rosalie died of pneumonia, age 19. Spends most of her time at the stockbrokers. Westing connection: Made wedding gown for Violet Westing, which she never got to wear. Sandy turned to a fresh page, propped his feet on the judge's desk and began to read the data supplied by the private investigator on Otis Amber. He laughed so hard he nearly fell off the tilting chair. * Haunted by last night's dream, Theo jogged behind his partner halfway to the high school before he uttered a breathless "Stop!" Doug Hoo stopped. "Who lives in the apartment next to yours?" "Crow. Why?" "Nothing." How come he didn't know that? Because no one ever wonders where a cleaning woman lives, that's why. But he wasn't like that, was he? Still, it must have been a dream. In the dream, the nightmare, Crow had given him a letter, but the only thing he found in his bathrobe pocket this morning was a Westing Paper Hankie. "Hey, wait!" Doug had started off again. "I figured out our clues. Ammonium nitrate. It's used in fertilizers, explosives, and rocket propellants." "I knew those clues were a pile of fertilizer," Doug replied, jogging easily. Only one thing mattered: Saturday's big track meet. If he won or came in a fast second he'd have his pick of athletic scholarships. He didn't need the inheritance. "Stand still and listen." Theo grabbed Doug by the shoulders and held him flat-footed to the ground. "Like it or not we're partners, and you've got to do your share." "Sure," Doug replied. His father was angry, his partner was angry, and a bomber was blowing up Sunset Towers floor by floor. Some game! "What do you want me to do?" "Follow Otis Amber." Head tilted back, Flora Baumbach squirted drops in her eyes, blinked, and stared again at the moving tape. __________________________________________________ HR WPP BRY TA Z WPP 1000$42½ 5000$39¼ 27 5$17¼ 5000$27¼ 5000$39½ __________________________________________________ "Oh my!" Westing Paper Products had jumped four and a quarter, no, four and a half points. Her eyes must be blurry from the medicine. The dressmaker sat on the edge of her chair, biting her fingernails, waiting for WPP to cross the board again. There: WPP $40. Oh my, oh my! This morning she had paid thirty-five dollars a share. There it goes again: WPP $40¼. Oh my, oh my, oh my! After classes, instead of running around the indoor track, Doug Hoo jogged out of the gym to the shopping center six blocks away. There was Otis Amber, placing two cake boxes in the compartment of his bike. He picked up a package from the butcher shop, and pedaled off, unaware of the sweat-suited figure trotting half a block behind him, and went into Sunset Towers to make his deliveries. "Hi, Doug. Gonna run the mile under four minutes on Saturday?" the doorman asked. "Sure hope so. Do me a favor, Sandy, give a loud whistle when Otis Amber comes out. Okay?" Chip-toothed Sandy gave such a loud whistle that Otis Amber would have been deafened if the flaps of the aviator's helmet had not been snug against his ears. Leaving his bicycle in the parking lot, Otis Amber boarded a bus. Doug ran the five uphill miles to a house with the placard: E. J. Plum, Attorney. He ran another three uphill miles after the bus that took the delivery boy to the hospital entrance. Doug sank down in a waiting-room chair, wiped his face on his sweatshirt and picked up a magazine. Fascinated by the centerfold picture, he almost missed Otis Amber, who dashed out of the hospital as though fleeing for his life. Hiding behind parked cars, Doug followed the delivery boy to another bus, ran four steep miles to a stockbroker's office (how is it that all roads go uphill?), from the broker to the high school, from the high school (downhill, at last) back to Sunset Towers. The exhausted track star leaned against the side of the building, thankful he was not a long-distance runner. "I gotcha!" Otis Amber poked a skinny finger into Doug's ribs. "He-he-he," he cackled, handing the startled runner a letter. "It's from that lawyer Plum. Says all the heirs gotta be at the Westing house this Saturday night. Sign here." With his last ounce of energy he wrote Doug Hoo, miler on the receipt, then slid down the wall to a weary squat. Some miler. His feet were blistered; his muscles, sore; he could barely breathe, he might never run another step in his life. On receiving the notice of the Westing house meeting, Judge Ford canceled her remaining appointments and hurried home. Time was running out. Sandy read to her from his notebook: