Free One Bad Apple by Sheila Connolly Page B

it’s not a great recommendation for my plumbing efforts, is it?”
    If Seth was trying to be funny, he fell flat, but the effort was endearing. Meg studied him: he wasn’t green anymore, but he looked as rattled as she felt. “You didn’t ask if I killed him.”
    “Did you?” Seth gave her a ghost of a smile.
    “No. And just for the record, I had no reason to want him dead.”
    “Then that’s all right.”
    It was a funny way of putting it, but suddenly Meg was very glad that she had Seth sitting beside her. “What happens now?”
    Seth leaned back and stared at the sky. “The state detective is on his way. Art’s just here to keep an eye on things, since it’s in his jurisdiction. The detective will probably want a statement from you, and I guess you can ID Chandler.”
    Meg sat up straighter and turned to face Seth squarely. “You know, I hadn’t seen Chandler in months. And then he showed up at my door here, two days ago. We had dinner that night. Uh …” Meg paused, wondering how much more she should say.
    “What?” Seth prompted, casting a quick glance at the men huddled by the trench. No one was paying them any attention.
    “We had an argument, a minor one, at the restaurant that night. All very civilized—Chandler wasn’t the type for public scenes—but someone might have noticed we weren’t happy. Then after dinner we came straight back, and he dropped me off here and left. That’s the last I saw of him.”
    Seth waited a moment before responding. “I don’t mean to pry, but was there anything about your argument that might be important? I mean, were you rehashing old stuff, or was there something else?”
    “We’d both agreed that the past was past. He wasn’t trying to rekindle things, if that’s what you’re asking. His real purpose for inviting me to dinner was to find out if I’d be willing to feed him inside information about Granford and about how the development deal was going—to be his spy. I told him I wasn’t interested, although I think I said it in slightly stronger language.”
    Seth looked relieved. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then. There are a lot of people around here who weren’t real happy with Chandler Hale. The detective’ll keep busy interviewing them all.”
    “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized what a big thing this project was around here. I haven’t been here long, and I haven’t been paying attention. You’ll have to fill me in, after we take care of … all this.” Meg waved vaguely at the scene before her: police chief, ME, corpse.
    Seth stood up. “Meg, you’re turning blue. Why don’t you wait inside, at least until the detective arrives?” He peeled off a grimy glove and held out his hand. Meg took it and struggled stiffly to her feet.
    “Thanks, Seth, maybe I will. And maybe I should make some more coffee.” She seemed to spend half her life these days making coffee, but she wanted something hot, and it would give her something to do while she waited. “I can offer these guys coffee, right? Or would that compromise the investigation?”
    Seth smiled. “I think it’s a good idea—I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. Go on inside, now.”
    Gratefully Meg fled into her kitchen, and went about the mundane tasks of grinding beans and pouring water into the coffeemaker. She was so lost in thought that she was startled by a loud pounding on her back door a few minutes later. At the kitchen door stood a man she didn’t recognize. Art Preston and Seth stood behind him.
    “Ms. Corey? I’m Detective Marcus. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
    “Of course.” Meg opened the door, and the three men entered, taking up a lot of the free space in the kitchen. “Shall we sit in here?” The trio moved to her kitchen table, then stood there expectantly. Meg realized with a start that they were waiting for her to sit down first. “Can I get you some coffee? You must be cold.”
    “No, thanks.” Detective Marcus spoke decisively, and the