CRIME: Flypaper Lyda

Mrs. Lyda Southard smoothed down her green "going-away" dress, patted her plump bust, and cast a last, almost regretful glance at the cretonne curtains and flowered wallpaper. After all, it had been home for a long time, even if it was the women's ward of the Idaho State Penitentiary. She had fixed up the room right pretty.

Except for one brief interval, she had been there since 1921—for murder. Lyda's face was still plain but pleasant. Grey just tinged her bronze hair. Her memories and her 49 years sat very lightly.

She had...

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