Free Murder Takes the Stage by Amy Myers Page A

We could talk about redecorating the bathrooms, if you like.’
    â€˜Great idea,’ she agreed as the phone rang. It was Peter, which caused instant alarm. He so rarely rang that she knew something must be wrong.
    â€˜Have you seen the regional news this evening?’
    â€˜No.’ A terrible foreboding shot through her.
    â€˜A man was found knifed on the seafront path at Broadstairs early this morning.’
    â€˜Who?’ Her voice sounded strangled.
    â€˜I’m afraid it was Ken Winton.’
    â€˜I’m afraid it was Ken Winton.’

FOUR
    C oincidence – or did Ken’s horrible death have some connection with their visit or his scoop? Georgia’s sleep had been punctuated by long periods of thrashing over this unanswerable question. Had he been the random victim of a drunk? Possibly. The use of a knife suggested that, and it would be all too easy to assume that because Tom Watson was occupying her mind, Ken’s death must somehow involve him. The restless night meant she was early at work the next morning, but when she arrived in the office, Peter was already engrossed in the computer screen, regardless of an apple and plateful of toast at his side. Margaret was obviously failing in her familiar task of coaxing Peter into eating some kind of breakfast.
    â€˜Your turn,’ came a call from the kitchen. Margaret had obviously heard her enter and was passing on responsibility for Peter’s breakfast to her.
    â€˜Ah, Georgia.’ Peter swung round from his desk, sending the toast flying and Georgia diving for it.
    Margaret must have heard the noise from the kitchen, as there was a grim call of ‘I’ll bring you some more.’ When Georgia went to fetch it, she added, ‘And you look as if you could do with some yourself.’
    Georgia sensed that Margaret was becoming proprietorial about her role in the household, probably due to Janie’s frequent presence here, although she had never dared to raise the subject. Although Margaret graciously accepted Georgia’s help in what she saw as ‘her job’, Georgia had the impression that Janie’s was a different matter, and sometimes, if Janie was free of museum responsibilities, she would come over during the day as well as the evenings.
    Toast might comfort, but it couldn’t cure, alas. Peter did deign to have half a slice, but his mind was on other matters, and Georgia could not blame him. ‘I’ve been on to Mike again,’ he told her.
    â€˜It’s not his area.’
    Peter looked surprised. ‘So? He has staff, who are presumably capable of emailing Thanet?’
    As usual, Peter was supremely confident that Mike was waiting at the end of a phone, eager to help him. Perhaps his blithe assumption worked, for the phone rang and, judging by Peter’s look of triumph, it was Mike.
    â€˜Thanet said my contribution confirms what Christine told them,’ Peter said, as at last he finished the call. ‘Ken was probably killed late on Monday night. Not too many strollers along the seafront at that time, and even if he were seen slumped on a bench, he could have been taken for a drunk or assumed to be sleeping rough, which is why it was discovered only early yesterday morning.’
    â€˜No arrests yet?’ she asked, expecting the answer she received.
    Georgia was sickened that they had both been in Broadstairs yesterday, but unaware of Ken’s murder. It must have taken place much nearer the pier than where she and Peter had parked.
    â€˜No. Keeping mum about lines of enquiry, if any.’ He glanced at her. ‘We can’t blame ourselves, Georgia. It wasn’t us who stirred up the story. It was Ken himself, and his blessed scoop.’
    Georgia voiced her fear. ‘Suppose he was thinking twice about something or someone and we galvanized him into publishing too soon?’
    Peter sighed. ‘Joan Watson’s murder took place fifty years ago. The