The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

In one day he had rented all of Sunset Towers to the people whose names were already printed on the mailboxes in an alcove off the lobby:

Who were these people, these specially selected tenants? They were mothers and fathers and children. A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to the wrong person.

A small, delicate woman in a long white apron stood in silence before the restaurant’s east window. She stared longingly into the boundless gray distance as if far, far on the other side of Lake Michigan lay China.

Sydelle Pulaski struggled out of the taxi, large end first. She was not a heavy woman, just wide-hipped from years of secretarial sitting.

She wasn’t scared; she was not scared.

Maybe Doctor Deere is not who and what he says he is. Maybe he is being kidnapped for ransom. Maybe he’s being held hostage. Oh boy, he hasn’t had so much fun in years.

“Turtle?” “Yes, Sandy.” “Turtle?” “I’m right here, Sandy.” She took his hand. “Turtle, tell Crow to pray for me.” His hand turned cold, not smooth, not waxy, just very, very cold.