Free Red Delicious Death by Sheila Connolly

leave town and don’t look back.”
    “Bree!” Meg was honestly shocked at the younger woman’s apparent hostility. “That’s insulting. I’ve met plenty of decent people here. You can’t just label them a bunch of inbred cretins. You’ve got to live with them, too, you know. Why are you so bent out of shape about Granford? Have you had problems yourself here?”
    “Sorry—no, I haven’t had a problem with anybody from around here. It’s just that I know what it’s like to be on the wrong end of discrimination. But as long as the Granford folk stick to business, I’m good with them. You find anything that looks like food yet?”
    Meg noted the quick change of topic. “I was just thinking I wished the restaurant was open, because I really don’t feel like cooking, and I don’t feel like driving anywhere just for some lousy fast food.”
    As if in answer to her prayers, Seth knocked at the back door with a couple of grocery bags in hand. Meg could see Art, out of uniform, pulling into the driveway behind him. “Thought we could throw some burgers on the grill, if that suits.”
    “Sounds great—except I don’t have a grill,” Meg said.
    “You do now.” Seth pointed toward Art: he was wrestling a portable barbecue out of the trunk of his car. “And I brought all the fixings. Hi, Bree.”
    “Hi, Seth. Art going to dish about what happened to Sam?”
    “He might be persuaded, not that he’s really in the loop. Meg, you have mustard, ketchup, that kind of thing?”
    “Of course. That much I can handle,” said Meg indignantly, while mentally scanning her cupboards and hoping she wasn’t wrong. She turned to Art and greeted him. “You certainly came prepared. But won’t your wife be missing you?”
    “Nope, she’s got some kind of meeting tonight, and she told me to fend for myself. So here I am.”
    Half an hour later they were assembled in hastily commandeered chairs around the new barbecue, burgers sending tantalizing smells into the still evening air. Meg’s goats kept an eager eye on activities. “I’m going to have to get some lawn chairs, aren’t I?” Meg remarked to the world in general.
    “You should. You’d better enjoy it out here now, before mosquito season begins.”
    “Hey, don’t spoil it for me, Seth. Let me enjoy the moment. Art, isn’t it time to flip those burgers?” It was kind of fun, ordering the chief of police around.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Art complied. Smart man: he had brought not only the barbecue, but also charcoal, fire starter, and basic tools. Obviously he knew his way around a grill.
    Meg leaned back in her chair. “You know, I could get used to this kind of thing, where someone else brings the food and cooks it for me. But I have a sneaking feeling I won’t have this kind of time once the orchard starts producing.”
    “You’ve got that right,” Bree agreed. “Hey, Chief, those about done?”
    “Coming up,” Art replied, sliding the burgers onto a large platter, along with buns. He set the tray on an overturned bushel basket. “Dig in.”
    After a suitable interval during which several burgers with condiments disappeared quickly, along with ample helpings of a potato salad Seth had brought and a few bottles of beer, Art finally said, “You ready to hear what I know, or would it spoil your digestion?”
    “Does it involve pig manure?” Meg asked.
    “No, I promise.”
    “Are you breaking any laws by filling us in?”
    “Nothing big, and I trust you three to keep quiet, right?”
    Meg sighed. “Okay, hit us with it. What happened?”
    “Preliminary findings show that Samuel Anderson died from suffocation, facedown in the mud.”
    Prepared though she was, Meg shivered at the news.
    “What an awful way to go. But how did he end up in that position? Was he unconscious? Did somebody knock him out?”
    “No sign of any blows, and the preliminary tox screen was clean—no alcohol or drugs.” Art hesitated a moment, then said, “It looks like