Free The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin Page A

couldn’t be a murderer, in spite of his clues. Nobody here looks like a murderer, they’re all nice people, even this fat Chinese man who grumbles all the time.
    George Theodorakis greeted Mr. Hoo with “How’s business?” Hoo spun around and stomped off from his fellow restaurant owner in a huff of anger.
    James Hoo, inventor, that’s who the judge wanted to talk to, but there was a problem at the bar. A long line had formed and it wasn’t moving.
    “There are sixteen white pieces and sixteen black pieces in chess,” Theo was explaining to Sydelle Pulaski. “Do you play chess, Judge Ford?”
    “A bit, but I haven’t played in years.” The judge led the secretary away from the crowded bar. Theo must think the Westing game has something to do with chess. He may be right, it certainly is as complicated as a chess game.
    “But I did study,” Doug was arguing.
    The judge interrupted. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for the delicious food, Mr. Hoo. How long have you been in the restaurant business?”
    “Running up and down stairs is not studying,” Hoo said.
    Sydelle Pulaski butted in. “Father and son? You look more like twins.”
    “You’re equal partners with that Theodorakis kid,” Hoo continued. “Why didn’t you insist on holding the meeting in our restaurant instead of that greasy coffee shop?”
    “Because some people don’t like chow mein for breakfast,” Sydelle Pulaski replied.
    “There you are, dear.” Grace patted a stray wisp of Angela’s hair into place. “We must do something about your coiffure. I’ll make an appointment for you with my hairdresser once the snow is cleared; long hair is too youthful for a woman about to be married. I can’t understand what got into you, Angela, coming to this party in that old checkered dress and those awful accessories. Just because your partner dresses like a freak . . .”
    “She’s not a freak, Mother.”
    “I was just speaking to Mr. Hoo about catering the wedding shower on Saturday; I arranged for little Madame Hoo to serve in one of those slinky Chinese gowns. Where are you going? Angela!”
    Angela rushed into Judge Ford’s kitchen. She had to get away, she had to be alone, by herself, or she’d burst out crying.
    She was not alone. Crow was there. The two women stared at each other in surprise, then turned away.
    Poor baby. Crow wanted to reach out to the pretty child; she wanted to take her in her arms and say: “Poor, poor baby, go ahead and cry.” But she couldn’t. All she could say was “Here.”
    Angela took the dish towel from the cleaning woman and bunched it against her face to muffle the wrenching sobs.
    The guests jabbered on and on about the weather, about food, about football, about chess, about twins. Turtle was slumped on the couch, scornful of dumb grown-up parties. You’d think one of them would know something about the stock market. She missed Sandy. Sandy was the only one in this dumb building she could talk to.
    “Remember that quotation: May God thy gold refine? ” Flora Baumbach asked. “Let’s take a poll. I’ll bet ten cents it’s from the Bible.”
    “Shakespeare,” Turtle argued, “and make it ten dollars.”
    “Oh my! Well, all right, ten dollars.”
    Together they made the rounds. Four votes for the Bible, three for Shakespeare, and one abstention (Madame Hoo did not understand the question).
    Sydelle Pulaski voted for the Bobbsey twins. “And how do you know those words were in the will?” she asked suspiciously. Too suspiciously.
    So that’s what “Lost: Important business papers” meant. Somebody stole the shorthand notes. Turtle smiled at the delicious nastiness of it all. “I remember, that’s all.”
    “If you remember so well, tell me what comes before that,” Sydelle challenged.
    “I don’t know, what?”
    The secretary had an audience now. “I don’t mind telling you, but not if you ask like that.”
    Theo said, “Please?” not Turtle.
    Sydelle turned toward