Free Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery by Lesley Cookman Page B

Ben know?’ asked Cassandra, looking horrified.
    ‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Libby. ‘But he also knows I’d never do anything about it.’
    Settled at a table in the window overlooking the tiny harbour, Fran returned to the subject of the murder.
    ‘Now think. Is there any reason you can think of that the police would be interested in Mike?’
    ‘We saw him this morning and asked him some questions,’ said Libby.
    ‘ You asked him questions,’ corrected Cassandra.
    ‘And the only thing he said was that he’d helped with his garden. And with Ron Stewart’s. Oh – and Vernon lived in the first of those new Georgian houses and Ron Stewart lives in the second one, that we saw yesterday. I told you that on the phone.’
    ‘So they’re all friends?’
    Libby looked at Cassandra. ‘I didn’t get that impression, did you?’
    ‘You said Mike said Vernon and Stewart were friends and shared lifts. And that they usually went for a drink after rehearsals.’
    ‘Meetings, he said they were. Held in a back room at The Poacher. Vernon would have been able to walk there. I expect he meant shared lifts to Steeple Martin.’
    ‘Only not last Tuesday,’ said Fran, frowning.
    ‘Is that significant?’ asked Cassandra.
    ‘Well, it could be, if it’s a break from the norm.’
    ‘But that’s nothing to do with Mike.’
    ‘No. It’s plants, though.’
    Libby and Cassandra looked at each other.
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘What?’
    Fran looked up. ‘Sorry. It just popped in. Plants.’
    ‘Well, yes, that’s what Mike is – a plantsman.’
    ‘Yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t suppose that’s got anything to do with it.’
    ‘No.’ Cassandra was frowning at her. ‘I don’t understand how it works.’
    ‘Fran’s moments?’ said Libby. ‘There’s nothing to understand. I tried to explain – things just pop into Fran’s head as though she’s always known them. And sometimes she’s had quite unpleasant experiences.’
    ‘Which I do not want to experience again, I can assure you,’ said Fran. ‘Which is why I try and suppress it these days.’
    ‘But if it’s been so helpful –?’
    ‘It isn’t always, and it can be very uncomfortable.’ Fran wriggled in her chair. ‘I promise, if anything does happen to strike me, I’ll let you know.’
    Cassandra sat back, obviously dissatisfied, and Libby kicked her under the table.
    Their ham sandwiches arrived, garnished with crisps, which Cassandra poked at distastefully. Libby sighed.
    ‘Cass, if you’re going to be difficult, we’ll go home now.’
    ‘What?’ Cassandra looked up, surprised.
    ‘You’re not happy with Fran or the sandwiches, and I’m getting cross with you.’
    Fran laughed. ‘And you’re never difficult, are you, Lib? Leave her alone. She’s suffering from the pangs of – well, something – for the first time in years, and under not particularly nice circumstances.’
    Cassandra reached for Libby’s hand. ‘No, you’re right, Lib, I am being difficult.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Sorry, Fran.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Fran. ‘Eat your crisps.’
    When they’d finished lunch, Fran took them to see Guy in his gallery, where Cassandra was shown some of Libby’s pictures, including one of the back of Dragon Island, the lump of rock that sat in the middle of Nethergate Bay, with Harbour Street, Victoria Place, and Cliff Terrace showing faintly in the background.
    ‘I like that one,’ she said. ‘Sort of vaguely impressionistic.’
    ‘Sheer laziness, I expect,’ said Guy with a grin. ‘She’s supposed to make sure I’ve got a selection, but she falls behind rather.’
    ‘I’m just a carthorse,’ grumbled Libby.
    ‘Workhorse,’ said Fran, ‘and you’re not. You hardly do any until Guy’s sold out.’
    ‘By the way,’ said Guy, ‘that old boy you were talking about came back while you were out.’
    ‘Bob Alton?’ said Fran. ‘You remember, Lib, I told you earlier. What did he want?’
    ‘You,