The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

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. Gibberish.”
    “Pure gibberish,” 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