Ghosts or Worse


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 neighbourhood; 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. Neighbour greeted neighbour 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 doorman’s 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. 29


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