by Dana Dratch
Still, when love-sick Lydia heard about the corpse, my money was on her showing up with a shovel and a can-do attitude.
“The craftsmen actually stumbled upon it,” Ian continued. “Almost literally. I’ll alert the proper authorities, of course. But I felt it was only cricket to tell you first. A bit of a heads-up, so to speak.”
That phone call would bring a swarm of cop cars, a crime scene van or two and—last but not least—a hearse from the coroner’s office. Along with a few news crews. And every neighbor within walking distance. The town gossip mill would ratchet into overdrive.
Not exactly a good ad for his pricey B&B.
Still, with Nick operating—temporarily—out of the inn’s kitchen, it was genuinely kind of the guy to let me know. At least I wouldn’t see the ruckus and assume the worst.
“Well, thanks for cluing me in,” I said, standing.
“I’d love to hear what the police discover.”
Oddly, Ian didn’t budge from his seat.
“You need to sit down,” he said softly.
I started to protest. The look on his face stopped me. His blue eyes were dark. But his expression wasn’t anger. It was concern. I sank into the chair.
“The tunnel?” Ian started. “It leads to your house. Living room or kitchen would be my best guess. The body is on your property.”
