Read Online Hanged for a Sheep by Frances Lockridge - Free Book Online Page A

McClelland and now after she was Mrs. Anthony. Because she’d sent him away, you know. Stephen Anthony, I mean.” Then she, in turn, broke off and her expression became thoughtful. “The funniest thing about it,” she said, “is that he wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Let alone dead.”
    Weigand nodded and Mullins looked a little puzzled.
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. “I was thinking of that.” There was a momentary pause, apparently while he thought of that. Then he said, “Right. Mullins. Get Mrs. Buddie, will you?”
    Unexpectedly, Aunt Flora had changed from red to black. But black did not, somehow, look like mourning on Aunt Flora. The yellow wig, the resolute complexion, defied grief. Aunt Flora continued to look like Aunt Flora. She occupied a chair and looked back at Sergeant Mullins, who looked at her with evident awe.
    â€œWell,” she said, “have you found out who killed him?” She looked at Pam, who was rising as if to leave. “Did you tell them about the poison, dearie?” she enquired. “About poisoning your old aunt?”
    â€œReally, Aunt Flora!” Pam said. “You make it sound so—yes, I told them you thought somebody had tried to poison you.”
    â€œThought?” Aunt Flora repeated. “Thought? Nonsense! I didn’t think. Somebody gave me arsenic.” She turned to Lieutenant Weigand. “What do you think of that, young man?” she demanded. “Going to let them get away with it? Or what?”
    â€œNo,” Weigand said. His voice was quiet and he smiled, slightly. “We’ll try not to, Mrs. Buddie.” He saw Pam moving, not hurriedly, toward the door and said, “Stay around, Pam.” Pam looked pleased.
    â€œSuppose,” Weigand went on, “we go into that first. Right? Tell me about the poisoning, Mrs. Buddie.”
    Aunt Flora told him, repeating what proved to be an accurate report by Pamela North. She had had breakfast and become afterward very ill. She had been very ill for hours.
    â€œSick at my stomach,” Aunt Flora said, explicitly. “Sick as a horse.”
    The doctor had given her medicines and thought at first that it was no more than an acute digestive upset. “Old fool,” Aunt Flora observed, cheerfully. And she had got better, but no thanks to him. She had insisted on the analysis because she had never had an illness like it before.
    â€œAnd I’ve had plenty, dearie,” she said, with new interest. “Always something. Mostly stomach. You never know when you’re young what the stomach can do.” She looked at, Weigand, demanding attention. “Never!” she repeated. “If I didn’t take care of myself every minute, I wouldn’t answer.”
    â€œBut,” Weigand said, “this was different. And you were suspicious. Why?”
    Aunt Flora was not clear about that. It developed that this illness was more violent than any in the past. “Not that there’s anything mild about my stomach,” she added, quickly. Then she looked at Mullins. “Scared me, this did,” she reported. “It would have scared you, dearie.”
    Mullins looked uneasy and nodded.
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. “It’s pretty late now, of course. You should have come to us as soon as you got the report, Mrs. Buddie. Attempted murder is—well, better than murder.” He smiled. “For everybody,” he added. “However, that’s spilled milk.”
    â€œArsenic,” Pam improved. “Spilled arsenic. Under the dam.”
    â€œThe bridge,” Weigand told her. “Please, Pam.”
    â€œOf course,” Pam said. “ Over the dam, I get them confused.”
    â€œBe still, dearie,” Aunt Flora said, equably. “You talk like your, mother.”
    Weigand came in hurriedly.
    â€œFor example,” he said, “you probably don’t remember what you