The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

Sunset Towers faced east and had no towers. This glittery, glassy apartment house stood alone on the Lake Michigan shore five stories high. Five empty stories high.

The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.

Six letters were delivered, just six. Six appointments were made, and one by one, family by family, talk, talk, talk, Barney Northrup led the tours around and about Sunset Towers.

3D. “Now, is that breathtaking, or is that breathtaking?” Mrs. Wexler gasped; it was breathtaking, all right.

Her trailing husband was less enthusiastic. “What’s this, a bedroom or a closet?”

Grace Wexler

The third bedroom was a trifle small, but it would do just fine for Turtle. “And think what it means having your office in the lobby, Jake; no more driving to and from work, no more mowing the lawn or shoveling snow.”

“Let me remind you,” Barney Northrup said, “the rent here is cheaper than what your o...

Not every tenant-to-be was quite as overjoyed as Grace Windsor Wexler. Arriving in the late afternoon, Sydelle Pulaski looked up and saw only the dim, warped reflections of treetops and drifting clouds in the glass face of Sunset Towers.