Murder Comes First by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page B

cyanide.”
    â€œSomeone put it there,” Thelma Whitsett said. “Obviously, the man who killed poor Grace for her money. Anybody could see that.”
    â€œI read the most fascinating book once—” Lucinda Whitsett offered. Thelma rejected her offer sharply.
    â€œWell, young man?” she said to Bill Weigand. “Let him speak for himself, Pamela.” Now her voice, suddenly, seemed strained.
    â€œInspector O’Malley is an excellent policeman,” Bill Weigand said. “He has every reason for suspecting you, Miss Whitsett. He has, in fact, every reason for charging you with homicide.” His voice was mild. “I have no idea what would be done about it in Cleveland,” he said.
    â€œIf this were not so inconvenient,” Thelma Whitsett said, “it would be laughable. Has this inspector of yours any idea of the difficulty in obtaining suitable reservations in Palm Beach?”
    â€œListen, Aunt Thelma,” Pam said. “Listen all three of you. You mustn’t pretend this way. Don’t you see?”
    And then Jerry North saw what Pam had no doubt already seen; what probably Bill Weigand had seen. Miss Thelma Whitsett was frightened. She was very frightened.
    â€œDon’t you see,” Pam North said, “it won’t just go away, my dears. It—” She looked at Bill. “Tell them,” she said.
    â€œMrs. North is quite right, Miss Whitsett,” Bill Weigand told Aunt Thelma. “It won’t just go away. You can’t push it away. It isn’t laughable at all.” He stood up and looked down at Thelma Whitsett. “Grace Logan is dead,” he told her. “You were there. You saw her die. You could have killed her.”
    â€œNo!” Thelma Whitsett said, and for a moment her resolute face seemed about to crumble. “Grace was—young man—Grace was—”
    â€œGrace was a friend of ours,” Pennina Whitsett said, when her sister’s voice broke. “We wished only good things for Grace, Lieutenant Weigand. We were all girls together. We—we are old women now.”
    Her voice was very quiet. She looked at Weigand gently, very steadily.
    â€œI’m sure you will understand,” she said.
    â€œâ€”someone else,” Lucinda Whitsett was saying then, and nobody had heard the start of her sentence. “It is like something I read once. There was this Mr. Gribland or some such name—”
    Thelma Whitsett had recovered her composure. She said, “Lucinda!” in a sharp tone. Lucinda Whitsett said, “Yes, Thelma,” and stopped.
    â€œMiss Whitsett,” Bill said. “A minute ago you said that it was you who decided not to marry Paul Logan. ‘After due thought,’ you said, or something like that. Wasn’t it really that he—well, wasn’t it he who changed his mind, after he met your friend Grace Rolfe? Whom he then married?”
    â€œI—” Thelma began, but stopped when Pennina Whitsett spoke.
    â€œDon’t dear,” she said. “Poor dear Paul—he wasn’t what you thought, you know. It’s been better as it was. But—but everybody in Cleveland knows, dear. There’s no use going on with it. Not with Pamela and Gerald and—and their friend.”
    â€œRight,” Bill Weigand said. “Not with anybody, if it isn’t true. Logan left you for Grace Rolfe, you hated her then and for years and—”
    â€œAnd,” Thelma Whitsett said, “went insane because I was jilted a quarter of a century ago? Bought cyanide somewhere? Killed one of my best friends?” Her voice was firm again, almost derisive. She turned to Pam.
    â€œI’m sorry, Pamela,” she said. “I’m afraid your friend’s a fool.”
    â€œIt’s because,” Lucinda Whitsett said, “all men think men are so important. It’s in all the books you read. So if a woman