Rotten to the Core by Sheila Connolly Page B

that kind of trouble. But he did like to push people’s buttons. Can I see you to your car?”
    Was he telling her it was time for her to leave? Meg felt a spurt of annoyance, but she had no reason to stay longer. She had accomplished what she came for: to see what Jason’s colleagues looked like. And she had an appointment with one of them the next day. Which she didn’t see any reason to enlighten Detective Marcus about. She smiled up at him. “Why, certainly, Detective. How kind of you.”
    The detective waited until they had reached the sidewalk in front of the building before revealing his motive. “Ms. Corey, you didn’t happen to mention that your employee knew the dead man.”
    It took Meg a few seconds to work out what he meant. “You mean Bree? I didn’t know they were acquainted when I talked to you. She told me yesterday. Is there a problem with that?”
    He ignored her question. “You didn’t mention the pesticide in your barn, either.”
    So Seth had told him. “I didn’t know about that, either, until yesterday.”
    “There seems to be a lot that you conveniently didn’t know until yesterday.”
    Meg fought her impulse to give him a sarcastic answer. “Detective, I’ve been working on the house, and I haven’t had a chance to explore the barn—I was waiting for warmer weather to do that. I have no idea what else might be in there. Since you know about the pesticide, you must also know that it was Seth Chapin who found it, identified it, and disposed of it properly, all before I knew anything about it.”
    “So you say, Ms. Corey. Still, it’s a mighty handy coincidence, don’t you think?”
    “Do you think Jason Miller came all the way out to my place and went snooping in the barn to find a means to kill himself? Or do you seriously think I used a pesticide from my barn to kill a man I had never met?”
    “We have only your word for that. And it’s early days yet. Nice to see you again, Ms. Corey. I’ll be in touch.”
    “Wait! Did you ever find Jason’s car?” Meg asked.
    Marcus gave her a long look that could hardly be considered friendly. “Parked in Amherst.” He didn’t volunteer any details, but strode off toward his car, leaving Meg standing on the sidewalk, fuming.
    How dare he? She had nothing to do with Jason’s death, and it had nothing to do with her. As far as she knew, at least. But the way the coincidences were piling up didn’t make her feel any better, and truthfully, she could see why the detective might have doubts. She sighed. Just what she needed: something else that had to be done immediately. Renovate house, learn how to run an orchard, solve a crime. If it was a crime. So, find out if Jason was murdered, then solve the crime. Sure, no problem.
    Meg was in a foul mood by the time she let herself in the kitchen door. Then she recalled the battered file boxes Gail had given her, waiting for her in the dining room. Gail had once told her that prior to the untimely death of the hapless victim found in Meg’s septic tank not so long ago—and now, possibly, Jason Miller—the last murder in Granford had occurred in the nineteenth century, so there should be nothing in a heap of old paper to remind her of her current problems.
    She noticed that Gail had scrawled a large “#1” on one box, so Meg opened that first. On top she found a note from Gail, some sample entry sheets, and some pairs of white cotton gloves. She opened the note first and read it:
    Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve included a CD with the cataloging software program and some instructions for you, and a few samples, but for now it’s a pretty simple spreadsheet system and I’m sure you can handle it. To do this right, try to handle the documents with the cotton gloves—maybe we can make them last a little longer. I owe you!—Gail
    Meg smiled: Gail had been pretty sure of Meg’s help.
    Meg looked around her dining room: the central table was bare, and the light fixture over it would