by Ellen Raskin
Augie Kunkel blushed, rose from his chair, and raised the wineglass in his trembling hand. Tina closed her eyes and prayed he wouldn’t stutter.
He didn’t. He spoke slowly and gracefully.
“This is a joyous time for me, too; for I am with those who are dearest to me: my good Aunt Martha, my impatient friends Tina and Tony, and the beautiful Mrs. Carillon.”
“Ask her, already,” Tony urged.
Mr. Kunkel cleared his throat and began again.
“There is so much I would like to say, but I’m afraid the audience is getting restless. My dear Mrs. Carillon, I have little to offer but my constant devotion and undying...”
“Mr. Kunkel is asking you to marry him,” Tina explained.
“Please, Mrs. Carillon, say ‘Yes’!” Tony begged.
Mrs. Carillon looked up at her nervous suitor and smiled.
“Caroline Kunkel,” she said. “What a lovely name.”
A Happy Ending
Her name was now Caroline Fish Carillon Kunkel; but everyone still called her Mrs. Carillon, even Augie and the twins. The four of them spent a jolly honeymoon on the horse farm, while the apartment was redecorated in yellow and floor-to-ceiling bookcases were installed.
Tina and Tony adored Augie Kunkel who, to no one’s surprise, proved a loving father and most devoted husband. Even after the twins had grown up and moved on, Mrs. Carillon and Augie Kunkel still thought of themselves as newlyweds. They lived long, and their late marriage lasted forty wonderful years.
Most of the people in our story lived to a ripe old age. Some achieved fame; others, love. One was hit by a truck and another disappeared; but when all is tallied and compared to real life, this is truly a happy ending.
Mr. and Mrs. Banks had little excitement in their lives, which was just the way they wanted it. They respected each other’s good helping of common sense, and Mr. Banks grew fat on his wife’s cooking. After her husband’s death, Bertha Baker Banks wrote a cookbook with recipe names supplied by Augie Kunkel. It sold over one million copies.
Mineola Potts worked as cook in the Kunkel household (the job Mr. Banks had found for her). Her meals were mediocre, to say the least; but she entertained the family for hours on end with tales of her incredible adventures. One day, soon after the twins had left for college, the wanderlust returned. Minnie disappeared and was never heard from again.
Harry Tietelbaum gave up his art career to organize the successful Pomato Soup Workers’ strike. He went on from there to clam chowder, black bean, and chicken noodle; but it was the alphabet soup sit-in that won him a name as a leading labor leader.
Aunt Martha Tinglehof had her one-man show at the age of ninety-three. Everything worked this time, and she sold several pieces of her kinetic sculpture.
Joel Wells worked long and hard at his art. Fame was slow in coming, but eventually museums began to buy his work, then private collectors; and finally the critics called him “America’s Greatest Living Painter.” Joel replied, “Grape,” rebuilt the old house into studios, and set up a colony for struggling young artists.
Mavis Bensonhurst’s mother suffered a broken arm when she was hit by a truck. She was wearing a pantsuit at the time, so no one saw her lace underwear. The driver claimed that his truck had stopped for a light and that Mrs. Bensonhurst had slipped on some dog dung while crossing the street and dented his fender. The truck company sued Mrs. Bensonhurst for damages, and Mrs. Bensonhurst sued the poodle.
Tony Carillon had a happy life with his pretty wife Rosemary Neuberger and their triplets. He landed in the public’s eye as a lawyer for the poodle in the Bensonhurst case. In later years, he proved a wise and honest judge, especially when there was a jury to make the decision.
Dr. Tina Carillon, the famous neurologist, was so busy with her research, her private practice, and her free clinic for orphans, that she never had the time or the desire to marry. Tina accomplished something quite rare in the annals of medicine: she not only discovered a new disease (Carillon’s disease), but two years later found the cure for it.
Newton Pinckney never won an Oscar, but he had a long career as a character actor. He always played the villain.
Jordan Pinckney flunked out of Yale and became a used-car salesman in Hackensack, New Jersey.
All of our people were happy or famous, or both; except for Jordan Pinckney and Mrs. Bensonhurst (the poodle won). Perhaps the happiest were Mrs. Carillon, Augie Kunkel, and Tony. One might call Mrs. Bertha Baker Banks famous, certainly Tina and Joel; but the most famous of all was the one whose name was known throughout the world:
Christmas Bells, the horse who came from nowhere to outsprint the sprinters and outstay the stayers, became a legend. Sure with his mares, he sired a great line including the champions Yuletide, Sleigh Bells, and Ding Dong. Each was unbeatable at any distance, but none had the magic of Christmas Bells—the greatest horse of all time.
Ellen Raskin had three names. She wrote and illustrated many books under her first two names: Ellen Raskin. At other times she was known as Mrs. Flanagan because she was married to Dennis Flanagan, former editor of Scientific American, who dumped her out of a sailboat on their honeymoon.
Ellen Raskin was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and grew up during the Great Depression. She is the author of several other novels, including the Newbery Award—winning The Westing Game, the Newbery Honor-winning Figgs & Phantoms, and The Tattooed Potato and other clues. She also wrote and illustrated many picture books, and was an accomplished graphic artist. She designed dust jackets for dozens of books, including the first edition of Madeleine L’Engle’s classic A Wrinkle in Time. Ms. Raskin died at the age of fifty-six on August 8, 1984, in New York City.
The word-pictures were drawn and lettered by the author in pen and ink. The display type is Craw Clarendon Condensed, and the text type is Times Roman.
Turn the page
to read the first two chapters of Ellen Raskin’s
Newbery Award-winning novel,
THE WESTING GAME
■ SUNSET TOWERS ■
1
THE SUN SETS in the west (just about everyone knows that), but Sunset Towers faced east. Strange!
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.
Then one day (it happened to be the Fourth of July), a most uncommon-looking delivery boy rode around town slipping letters under the doors of the chosen tenants-to-be. The letters were signed Barney Northrup.
The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.
Dear Lucky One:
Here it is—the apartment you’ve always dreamed of, at a rent you can afford, in the newest, most luxurious building on Lake Michigan:
SUNSET TOWERS
• Picture windows in every room
• Uniformed doorman, maid service
• Central air conditioning, hi-speed elevator
• Exclusive neighborhood, near excellent schools
• Etc., etc.
You have to see it to believe it. But these unbelievably elegant apartments will be shown by appointment only. So hurry, there are only a few left!!! Call me now at 276-7474 for this once-in-a-lifetime offer.
Your servant,
Barney Northrup
P.S. I am also renting ideal space for:
• Doctor’s office in lobby
• Coffee shop with entrance from parking lot
• Hi-class restaurant on entire top floor
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.
“Take a look at all that glass. One-way glass,ʺ Barney Northrup said. ”You can see out, nobody can see in.ʺ
Looking up, the Wexlers (the first appointment of the day) were blinded by the blast of morning sun that flashed off the face of the
building.
“See those chandeliers? Crystal!” Barney Northrup said, slicking his black moustache and straightening his hand-painted tie in the lobby’s mirrored wall. “How about this carpeting? Three inches thick!”
ʺGorgeous,ʺ Mrs. Wexler replied, clutching her husband’s arm as her high heels wobbled in the deep plush pile. She, too, managed an approving glance in the mirror before the elevator door opened.
ʺYoure really in luck,ʺ Barney Northrup said. “There’s only one apartment left, but you’ll love it. It was meant for you.ʺ He flung open the door to 3D. ”Now, is that breathtaking, or is that breathtaking?”
Mrs. Wexler gasped; it was breathtaking, all right. Two walls of the living room were floor-to-ceiling glass. Following Barney Northrup’s lead, she ooh-ed and aah-ed her joyous way through the entire apartment.
Her trailing husband was less enthusiastic. “What’s this, a bedroom or a closet?” Jake Wexler asked, peering into the last room.
“It’s a bedroom, of course,” his wife replied.
“It looks like a closet.”
“Oh Jake, this apartment is perfect for us, just perfect,” Grace Wexler argued in a whining coo. 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 old house costs in upkeep.”
How would he know that, Jake wondered.
Grace stood before the front window where, beyond the road, beyond the trees, Lake Michigan lay calm and glistening. A lake view! Just wait until those so-called friends of hers with their classy houses see this place. The furniture would have to be reupholstered; no, she’d buy new furniture—beige velvet. And she’d have stationery made—blue with a deckle edge, her name and fancy address in swirling type across the top: Grace Windsor Wexler, Sunset Towers on the Lake Shore.
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.
“Youʹre really in luck,” Barney Northrup said for the sixth and last time. “There’s only one apartment left, but you’ll love it. It was meant for you.” He flung open the door to a one-bedroom apartment in the rear. “Now, is that breathtaking or is that breathtaking?”
“Not especially,” Sydelle Pulaski replied as she blinked into the rays of the summer sun setting behind the parking lot. She had waited all these years for a place of her own, and here it was, in an elegant building where rich people lived. But she wanted a lake view.
“The front apartments are taken,” Barney Northrup said.”Besides, the rent’s too steep for a secretary’s salary. Believe me, you get the same luxuries here at a third of the price.”
At least the view from the side window was pleasant. “Are you sure nobody can see in?” Sydelle Pulaski asked.
“Absolutely,” Barney Northrup said, following her suspicious stare to the mansion on the north cliff. “That’s just the old Westing house up there; it hasn’t been lived in for fifteen years.”
“Well, I’ll have to think it over.”
“I have twenty people begging for this apartment,ʺ Barney Northrup said, lying through his buckteeth. ”Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
Whoever, whatever else he was, Barney Northrup was a good salesman. 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:
OFFICE ❑ Dr. Wexler
LOBBY ❑ Theodorakis Coffee Shop
2C ❑ F. Baumbach
2D ❑ Theodorakis
3C ❑ S. Pulaski
3D ❑ Wexler
4C ❑ Hoo
4D ❑ J. J. Ford
5 ❑ Shin Hoo’s Restaurant
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.
■ GHOSTS OR WORSE ■
2
ON SEPTEMBER FIRST, the chosen ones (and the mistake) moved in. A wire fence had been erected along the north side of the building; on it a sign warned:
NO TRESPASSING—Property of the Westing estate.
The newly paved driveway curved sharply and doubled back on itself rather than breach the city-county line. Sunset Towers stood at the far edge of town.
On September second, Shin Hoo’s Restaurant, specializing in authentic Chinese cuisine, held its grand opening. Only three people came. It was, indeed, an exclusive neighborhood; too exclusive for Mr. Hoo. However, the less expensive coffee shop that opened on the parking lot was kept busy serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner to tenants “ordering up” and to workers from nearby Westingtown.
Sunset Towers was a quiet, well-run building, and (except for the grumbling Mr. Hoo) the people who lived there seemed content. Neighbor greeted neighbor with “Good morning” or “Good evening” or a friendly smile, and grappled with small problems behind closed doors.
The big problems were yet to come.
Now it was the end of October. A cold, raw wind whipped dead leaves about the ankles of the four people grouped in the Sunset Towers driveway, but not one of them shivered. Not yet.
The stocky, broad-shouldered man in the doormanʹs uniform, standing with feet spread, fists on hips, was Sandy McSouthers. The two slim, trim high-school seniors, shielding their eyes against the stinging chill, were Theo Theodorakis and Doug Hoo. The small, wiry man pointing to the house on the hill was Otis Amber, the sixty-two-year-old delivery boy.
They faced north, gaping like statues cast in the moment of discovery, until Turtle Wexler, her kite tail of a braid flying behind her, raced her bicycle into the driveway. “Look! Look, there’s smoke—there’s smoke coming from the chimney of the Westing house.”
The others had seen it. What did she think they were looking at anyway?
Turtle leaned on the handlebars, panting for breath. (Sunset Towers was near excellent schools, as Barney Northrup had promised, but the junior high was four miles away.) “Do you think—do you think old man Westing’s up there?”
“Naw,” Otis Amber, the old delivery boy, answered. “Nobody’s seen him for years. Supposed to be living on a private island in the South Seas, he is; but most folks say he’s dead.
Long-gone dead. They say his corpse is still up there in that big old house. They say his body is sprawled out on a fancy Oriental rug, and his flesh is rotting off those mean bones, and maggots are creeping in his eye sockets and crawling out his nose holes.” The delivery boy added a high-pitched he-he-he to the gruesome details.
Now someone shivered. It was Turtle.
“Serves him right,” Sandy said. At other times a cheery fellow, the doorman often complained bitterly about having been fired from his job of twenty years in the Westing paper mill. ”But somebody must be up there. Somebody alive, that is.” He pushed back the gold-braided cap and squinted at the house through his steel-framed glasses as if expecting the curling smoke to write the answer in the autumn air. “Maybe it’s those kids again. No, it couldn’t be.”
“What kids?” the three kids wanted to know.
“Why those two unfortunate fellas from Westingtown.”
“What unfortunate fellas?” The three heads twisted from the doorman to the delivery boy. Doug Hoo ducked Turtle’s whizzing braid. Touch her precious pigtail, even by accident, and she’ll kick you in the shins, the brat. He couldn’t chance an injury to his legs, not with the big meet coming. The track star began to jog in place.
“Horrible, it was horrible,” Otis Amber said with a shudder that s
ent the loose straps of his leather aviator’s helmet swinging about his long, thin face. ”Come to think of it, it happened exactly one year ago tonight. On Halloween.”
“What happened?” Theo Theodorakis asked impatiently. He was late for work in the coffee shop.
“Tell them, Otis,” Sandy urged.
The delivery boy stroked the gray stubble on his pointed chin. “Seems it all started with a bet; somebody bet them a dollar they couldn’t stay in that spooky house five minutes. One measly buck! The poor kids hardly got through those French doors on this side of the Westing house when they came tearing out like they was being chased by a ghost. Chased by a ghost—or wore.”
Or worse? Turtle forgot her throbbing toothache. Theo Theodorakis and Doug Hoo, older and more worldly-wise, exchanged winks but stayed to hear the rest of the story.
“One fella ran out crazy-like, screaming his head off. He never stopped screaming ’til he hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. The other fella hasn’t said but two words since. Something about purple.”
Sandy helped him out. “Purple waves.”
Otis Amber nodded sadly. “Yep, that poor fella just sits in the state asylum saying, ‘Purple waves, purple waves’ over and over again, and his scared eyes keep staring at his hands. You see, when he came running out of the Westing house, his hands was dripping with warm, red blood.”