The Simple Way of Poison by Leslie Ford Page B

house in Beall Street A. J. had come only when he had to, and then usually when he knew she’d be away. It seemed to me, just off-hand, that nothing would please him more, probably, than to have his worst fears realized so… and that Lowell Nash, knowing that, was hitting definitely below the belt.
    I moved my tray off my lap to the foot of the bed and got up. I’d told Molly I’d talk to Lowell, and while I didn’t look forward to it with joy, I knew somebody had to do it. I slipped on the green quilted satin robe Iris had given me, took a deep breath, went out into the silent hall and down to Lowell’s door, knocked and went in.
    She was curled up in a wretched sullen ball on an Empire chaise longue, her breakfast tray untouched on the floor beside her. The morning paper was spread out on top of it. She looked up at me. There was no trace of tears in her dark thick-fringed eyes or in the last night’s makeup still on her face. And that was going to make it harder, I saw at once. If she ever really had a soft edge to her valiant little spirit no one could guess it.
    I sat down at her feet. I saw the guarded look come into her eyes that should have told me I was about to waste an awful lot of breath.
    “Lowell,” I said. I must have sounded insufferably stuffy to her. “There are a lot of ways of fighting… and some of them aren’t very sporting.”
    “Was it very sporting to poison a helpless dog—or my father?” she said bitterly.
    “Listen, darling. Until you know your father was poisoned it’s stupid to say that.”
    “I do know he was poisoned.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I just know. That’s all.”
    “Listen, Lowell,” I said. “If he was poisoned, it means he was murdered. Do you seriously believe, honestly, in your heart, that Iris murdered him?”
    Her lips closed in a tight red line to keep from quivering. Her dark eyes faltered ever so imperceptibly. Then she nodded her head stubbornly.
    “Nobody else would want to,” she said dully.
    “Why do you think she did want to?”
    “She hates all of us—she wants to marry Gilbert St. Martin.”
    I caught my breath for an instant.
    “Isn’t divorce the more usual procedure, in that event?”
    She flushed. “Father wouldn’t divorce her. Edith St. Martin tried to get him to, but he wouldn’t.”
    I tried not to gape like an idiot.
    “What are you talking about!” I exclaimed, in spite of myself.
    “That’s right. And maybe I’m old-fashioned…”
    My heart sank. That was Marie Nash’s opening gambit every time she set in to flay the hide off some poor woman who’d done anything from drinking a cocktail to hijacking somebody else’s marriage. I had the upsetting feeling that I was seeing an exhibition of dual personality, or some unearthly terrifying survival—looking at Lowell, hearing her mother.
    “… She’s always with Gilbert St. Martin. And—”
    I interrupted her.
    “You’re not being old-fashioned, Lowell. You’re being unintelligent. You’re certainly not going to tell me that when you marry Mac you couldn’t go out to lunch with Steve Donaldson, say, without planning to murder Mac—”
    “I’m not going to marry Mac.”
    I stared again.
    “Did you tell A. J. that?”
    That was a mistake. Her cheeks flushed hotly. “So my phone calls are tapped! And this morning I woke up early and went down to the kitchen to get a glass of milk, and I found a note saying ‘Please don’t take Miss Lowell the morning paper.’—She thinks she can make it so unbearable here that I’ll go live with my mother. I’ll just show her.”
    My heart sank. I stared at her, speechless. She picked up the paper.
    “I’ll just show her.”
    Then I saw her whole body tense and her lips part suddenly. She was staring at the paper with wide incredulous eyes. I looked down at it. On the back page was a picture of her mother. It was quite a long “Flash.”
    “Well-known Divorcee Dies Here. Socially Prominent Figure in Depression.