A Pint of Murder Read Online Free PDF

have noticed. Her eyes had failed badly, though she’d tried to hide the fact for fear her nieces would clap her into an old-folks’ home and help themselves to what was left of her property. But the Wadmans, who knew her so well, realized that during the past several years she’d been managing more by what she knew than by what she saw. Around the Mansion she could lay her hands on anything she wanted. She could still fix her own food and she’d eat whatever came from one of her own jars because she’d be sure it was safe. Only that last time, she’d been wrong.
    Cutting beans in bunches was the quick, modern way. Only a really fussy cook like Annabelle or an old-fashioned one with time on her hands would bother to snap them one by one, feeling for perfect freshness. A would-be murderer who did home canning by modern methods would most likely chop them without thinking. One who did none at all might do the same because that was how canned or frozen beans came and he’d think that was the only way. Or somebody who knew perfectly well that Mrs. Treadway always snapped her beans might deliberately have cut the prospectively lethal string beans as a warning signal to himself.
    After all, there’d been no telling when Mrs. Treadway might open that particular jar. She’d never been inhospitable. Anybody who happened to be around at mealtime would have been invited to share her meager fare. It would be hard to refuse the vegetables because there wouldn’t be much else to eat. Yet to taste that particular serving would be a dangerous thing to do.
    Who was apt to eat at the Mansion? Janet herself had, on any number of occasions. Annabelle used to go over often enough when the kids were at school and Bert off somewhere and she thought the old lady might like company. Gilly Bascom came once in a great while. Marion was there a lot, of course, and had to eat what was set in front of her or go hungry. Sam Neddick must have taken some of his meals with Mrs. Treadway since he did her chores and made his home in her hayloft, although since he was also Bert’s part-time hired man, he usually preferred the more bountiful fare at the Wadmans’.
    Dot Fewter couldn’t be left out, either. Dot always lugged a horrible lunch of baloney sandwiches on store-bought bread when she came to clean, if such her feeble efforts could be called, but no doubt she’d have accepted whatever else was offered on top of that.
    On the face of it, Marion and Gilly were the likeliest suspects. Both knew they stood to inherit. Both were always hard up for cash. Both had every chance to get at Mrs. Treadway’s food supply.
    But so did anybody else. The cellar was never locked. Anyone with a little luck and a lot of nerve could sneak in there some dark night, pinch a couple of empty jars, fill them up, and put them on the shelf with the string beans that were already there. It could be done in one trip by bringing the prepared beans in some other container and filling the jars on the spot. One wouldn’t have to be fussy about how it was done, since the whole object was to let the food spoil. A child with a bike could manage—Bobby Bascom, for instance.
    Gilly’s misbegotten son was almost eleven by this time. Janet had heard that Bobby’d already been in trouble a few times for throwing rocks at Pitcherville’s few street lights, swiping fruit from orchards, letting air out of people’s tires; nothing serious but nothing that augured well for his future behavior. Annabelle thought it was plain awful the way that boy was being dragged up by the boot heels. Gilly didn’t seem to have any control over him, and the grandparents showed less interest than a person might expect them to.
    That was Bobby’s grandfather lying dead in there. Janet wished she knew where the boy was now, and where he’d been twenty minutes ago. Could he have been poking around the office, by any chance? Might he have thought it funny to hide under the desk or somewhere, then