Hanged for a Sheep by Frances Lockridge

said. “Got himself killed. Sorry to tell you. Hate to be the one—.”
    â€œDon’t mumble, Alden,” Aunt Flora said. She looked at Major Buddie with interest. “Didn’t kill him, did you, son?” she enquired. She seemed to expect to be told.
    â€œOh,” Clem said, very suddenly. She stood up, slender in a long, fitted blue robe. “The snake—somebody’s killed the snake.” She turned to her sister. “Darling,” she said. “Somebody’s killed the snake!”
    Judy looked pale. She held out her hand toward Clem. “Don’t, Clem,” she said. “Don’t talk like that.”
    â€œI should think not,” Aunt Flora said. “So you called him ‘snake’ did you—you—you—flibbertigibbet. I’ll have you know—” She broke off. “Anyway,” she said, “it was very disrespectful, dearie. When he was your—” She paused again to consider. “Your step-grandfather,” she said. “Poor Stevie.” She did not, it was clear, care to pretend great grief.
    â€œShe’s just interested,” Pam thought. “I suppose she’s just run out of other feelings.”
    Bill Weigand was back in the door again. He looked at her a moment.
    â€œPam,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you a minute. To start with. Not here. Right?”
    â€œYes,” Pam said. “Of course. Can we use the library, Aunt Flora? And—and I’m terribly sorry about poor Stephen.”
    â€œAll right, dearie,” Aunt Flora said, sitting down in a swirl of red. “Of course you are. Everybody’s sorry. But nobody’s surprised, are they?” She looked around her family. “All down on poor Stevie, weren’t you? All of you. Thought he was after your share, didn’t you? All of you.”
    â€œMother,” Major Buddie said, “you talk too much. Too much nonsense, eh?”
    His mother stared at him. Then she stared at Ben. Ben was still standing, looking a little shocked.
    â€œWell,” she said. “Say something, Ben. Unless you shot him.”
    If Ben planned to speak, Lieutenant Weigand’s words stopped him. Weigand still spoke quietly, but his voice had a new timbre.
    â€œWhat makes you think he was shot, Mrs. Buddie?” Weigand asked. “Nobody said he was shot.”
    Pamela looked quickly at her aunt. Aunt Flora transferred her stare to Weigand.
    â€œWell,” she said, “wasn’t he shot?”
    Weigand nodded, slowly.
    â€œYes,” he said. “He was shot. Through the throat. The bullet came out his head. Did you know that too, Mrs. Buddie?”
    â€œDon’t be a fool,” Aunt Flora said. “How would I know about it? But I expect men to be shot. It’s natural.” She paused. “And women poisoned,” she said.
    Weigand looked at her. His face showed nothing in particular, but Pam thought he was puzzled. She stood up and said, “Come on, Bill,” and started for the door.
    â€œThe library, Aunt Flora,” she said. Aunt Flora said, “Naturally.” She looked at Weigand.
    â€œWatch yourself, dearie,” she advised. “Don’t forget about Jerry.”
    Weigand said nothing as he followed Pam up the stairs. But in the library he sat down on a chair by a table and looked at Pam and then, after a moment, said: “Whew!” Pam nodded slowly, half smiling, and said, “Isn’t she?” She lighted a cigarette and, after a moment during which he stared at nothing, Weigand lighted a cigarette.
    â€œWell?” he said.
    Pam started at the beginning.
    Aunt Flora was her mother’s sister. Stephen Anthony had been her fourth husband. “And Clem called him ‘the snake,’” she added.
    â€œI noticed,” Weigand said. “And your aunt isn’t much upset, is she?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Pam said.