Free The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin Page B

him with what should have been a gracious manner, but she grimaced when the top of the crutch poked her in the chest. “The exact quotation,” she announced loudly, hoping she was right, “is Spend it wisely and may God thy gold refine. ”
    Right or wrong, her guess was received with groans of disappointment. The heirs had expected more: a hint, a clue, something. It was time to go home.

11
    THE MEETING
    A PALE SUN rose on the third snowbound morning. Lake Michigan lay calm, violet, now blue, but the tenants of Sunset Towers on waking turned to a different view. Lured by the Westing house, they stood at their side windows scoffing at the danger, daring to dream. Should they or shouldn’t they share their clues? Well, they’d go to the meeting in the coffee shop just to see what the others intended to do.
    Waiting in her closet of a room Turtle stared at the white-weighted branches of the maple on the hill. A twig snapped in silence, a flurry speckled the crusted snow. Sometimes when her mother was too busy to do her hair she sent Angela in, but today no one came. They had forgotten about her.
    Brush and comb clutched in her fists like weapons, she stormed into apartment 2C. “Do you know how to braid hair?”
    Flora Baumbach’s pudgy fingers, swift with a needle, were clumsy with a comb, but after several tangled attempts she ended up with three equal strands. “My, what thick hair you have. I tried braiding my daughter’s hair once, but it was too fine, soft and wispy like a baby’s, even in her teens.”
    That was the last thing Turtle wanted to hear. “Was she pretty, your daughter?”
    “All mothers think their children are beautiful. Rosalie was an exceptional child, they said, but she was the lovingest person that ever was.”
    “My mother doesn’t think I’m beautiful.”
    “Of course, she does.”
    “My mother says I looked just like a turtle when I was a baby, sticking my head out of the blanket. I still look like a turtle, I guess, but I don’t care. Where’s your daughter now?”
    “Gone.” Flora Baumbach cleared the catch in her throat. “There, that braid should hold for the rest of the day. By the way, you’ve never told me your real name.”
    “Alice,” Turtle replied, swinging her head before the mirror. Not one single hair escaped its tight bind. Mrs. Baumbach would make a good braider if only she’d stop yakking about her exceptional child. Rosalie, what a dumb name. “You’d better get to the meeting now. Remember, don’t say a word to anyone about anything. Just listen.”
    “All right, Alice. I promise.”
     
     
    Theo wheeled his brother into the elevator and read the new message on the wall:
    $25 REWARD for the return of a gold railroad watch inscribed: To Ezra Ford in appreciation of thirty years’ service to the Milwaukee Road. J. J. Ford, apartment 4D
    “Fod-d-d, fo—de,” Chris said.
    “That’s right, Judge Ford. Must be her father’s watch. Probably lost it. I don’t think it could have been stolen by anyone at the party last night.”
    Chris smiled. His brother had not understood him. Good. This might be an important discovery—Judge Ford’s name was the same as her apartment number: Ford, 4D.
    Theo led the waiting tenants through the kitchen where Mr. and Mrs. Theodorakis handed out cups of tea and coffee. “Sorry, we’ve run out of cream and lemons. Please help yourself to some homemade pastries.”
    Walking into the coffee shop was like entering a cave. A wall of snow pressed against the plate-glass window, scaling the door that once opened to the parking lot.
    “I’ve got a car buried out there,” Grace Wexler said, slipping into a booth opposite her partner. “Hope I find it before the snowplows do.”
    “If they ever get here,” Mr. Hoo replied. “Good thing this meeting wasn’t held in my restaurant, I’d go broke passing out free tea, if you call this tea.” He held up a tea bag with contempt, then groaned on seeing his sweat-suited son