Free The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

Father’s brother or father’s father’s brother, if the relationship was on the paternal side her maiden name would be Westing.
    The party went on and on. No one dared be first to leave. (Safety in numbers, especially with a judge there.) So the guests ate and drank and jabbered; and they watched the other guests eat and drink and jabber. No one laughed.
    “I guess murder isn’t very funny,” Jake Wexler said.
    “Neither is money,” Mr. Hoo replied glumly.
    Deciding that his wife had found the perfect partner, the podiatrist moved on to the two women standing in silence at the front window. “Cheer up, Angie-pie, you’ll see your Denton soon enough.” His daughter twisted out of his embrace. “Are you all right, Angela?”
    “I’m fine.” She was not fine. Why did they ask about Denton all the time, as though she was nobody without him? Oh, it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t even the humiliation of her mother chiding her about the “twin” costume (in front of everybody) and sending her back to their apartment to change clothes. It was more than that, it was everything.
    Jake turned to Madame Hoo. “Hi there, partner.”
    “She doesn’t speak English, Dad,” Angela said flatly.
    “And she never will, Angela, if no one talks to her.”
    “Snow,” said Madame Hoo.
    Jake followed her pointing finger. “That’s right, snow. Lots and lots of snow. Snow. Trees. Road. Lake Michigan.”
    “China,” said Madame Hoo.
    “China? Sure, why not,” Jake replied. “China.”
    Angela left the chatting couple. Why couldn’t she have made some sort of friendly gesture? Because she might do the wrong thing and annoy her mother. Angela-the-obedient-daughter did only what her mother told her to do.
    “Hello, Angela. One of these tidbits might cheer you up.” Judge Ford held the tray before her. “I hear you’ll be getting married soon.”
    “Some people have all the luck,” Sydelle Pulaski said, appearing from nowhere to lean over the tray to spear a cube of pork. “Of course, not all us women have opted for marriage, right, Judge Ford? Some of us prefer the professional life, though I must say, if a handsome young doctor like Denton Deere proposed to me, I might just change my mind. Too bad he doesn’t happen to be twins.”
    “Excuse me.” The judge moved away.
    “I’m not having any luck at all, Angela,” Sydelle whined. “If only your mother hadn’t made you change clothes someone surely would have mentioned ‘twin.’ It’s much harder to judge reactions when I have to bring up the subject myself. You shouldn’t let your mother boss you like that; you’re a grown woman, about to be married.”
    “Excuse me.” Angela moved away.
    “Yes, thank you, I would like a refill,” Sydelle said to nobody and hobbled to the bar. “Something nonalcoholic, please, doctor’s orders. Make it a double—twins.”
    Twins? What’s she talking about, Theo wondered, staring at the black and white checkered costume. “Two ginger ales for the chessboard coming right up.”
     
     
    Hidden among her guests, the judge studied the two people standing off in the corner, the only pair in Sunset Towers who were not Westing heirs.
    George Theodorakis placed his hand on the shoulder of his invalid son. A large, bronze, hard-working hand. Like Theo’s. Theo resembled him in many ways: tall, wide shoulders, slim-waisted, the same thick, straight black hair; but age had chiseled the father’s face into sharper planes. His troubled eyes stared across the room at Angela.
    Catherine Theodorakis, a slight, careworn woman, gazed down on her younger son with tired, dark-circled eyes.
    From his wheelchair Chris watched legs. Other than the funny lady with the shorthand notes, the only limpers were his brother Theo (Turtle had kicked him again) and Mrs. Wexler, who stood on one leg rubbing her stockinged foot against her calf. A high-heeled shoe stood alone on the carpet beneath her. Judge Ford didn’t limp; besides, she