The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin Read Free Book Online Page A

first of the year. My instructions specifically state that no heir is allowed to see any of the documents until the game is over.”
    No copy? That’s not fair. But wait, they did have a copy. A shorthand copy!
    Sydelle Pulaski had plenty of attention now. She smiled back at the friendly faces, revealing a lipstick stain on her front teeth.
    “Isn’t there some sort of a last statement?” Sandy asked Plum. “I mean, like the intern says, nothing makes any sense.”
    ELEVENTH • Senseless, you say? Death is senseless yet makes way for the living. Life, too, is senseless unless you know who you are, what you want, and which way the wind blows.
    So on with the game. The solution is simple if you know whom you are looking for. But heirs, beware! Be aware!
    Some are not who they say they are, and some are not who they seem to be. Whoever you are, it’s time to go home.
    God bless you all and remember this:
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8
    THE PAIRED HEIRS
    DURING THE NIGHT Flora Baumbach’s itsy-bitsy snowflings raged into a blizzard. The tenants of Sunset Towers awoke from clue-chasing, blood-dripping dreams, bound in twisted sheets and imprisoned by fifteen-foot snow-drifts.
    No telephones. No electricity.
    Snowbound with a murderer!
    The slow procession looked like some ancient, mysterious rite as partner sought out partner on the windowless stairs, and silent pairs threaded through the corridors in the flickering light of crooked, color-striped candles (the product of Turtle’s stint at summer camp).
    “These handmade candles are both practical and romantic,” she said, peddling her wares from apartment door to apartment door to frightened tenants at seven in the morning. (Oh, it’s only Turtle.) “And the colored stripes tell time, which is very handy if your electric clock stopped. Each stripe burns exactly one-half hour, more or less. Twelve stripes, six hours.”
    “How much?”
    “Not wishing to take advantage of this emergency, I’ve reduced the price to only five dollars each.”
    Outrageous. Even more so when the electricity came on two hours after her last sale. “Sorry, no refunds,” Turtle said.
    No matter. What was five dollars to heirs of an estate worth two hundred million? Clues, they had to work on those clues. Behind closed doors. Whisper, someone may be listening.
    Not all the heirs were huddled in plotting, puzzle-solving pairs. Jake Wexler had retreated to his office after a long and loud argument with his wife. He sure could have used half of that ten thousand dollars, but he wouldn’t admit it, not to her. The forfeited money upset her more than the murder of her uncle, if he was her uncle.
    Five floors above, Jake’s partner stood before the restaurant’s front window staring at the froth on the angry lake, and beyond. No one had bothered to tell Madame Hoo about the Westing game.
    Other players were snowbound elsewhere: Denton Deere in the hospital, Sandy at home. No one gave a thought to where Otis Amber or Crow might be.
    But Sydelle Pulaski was there, thumping her crutch against the baseboards as she limped through the carpeted halls on the arm of her pretty partner. Not one, but seven tenants had invited her to morning coffee or afternoon tea (murderer or not, they had to see Pulaski’s copy of that will).
    “Three lumps, please. Angela drinks it black.” Your health? “Thank the lord I’m still able to hobble about.” Your job? “I was private secretary to the president of Schultz Sausages. Poor Mr. Schultz, I don’t know how he’ll manage without me.” Your shorthand notes? “Thank you for the refreshments. I must hurry back for my medication. Come, Angela.”
     
     
    One heir had not invited them in, but that didn’t stop Sydelle Pulaski from barging into apartment 2D. “Hi, Chris. Just thought we’d pop in to see how you’re doing. Don’t be scared. I’m not the murderer, Angela is not the murderer, and we don’t think you are the murderer. Mind if I sit