A Dark and Stormy Night by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

novel,’ I interrupted, flippantly. ‘There was one like that, actually, some years back. My Foe Outstretch’d Beneath the Tree. V. C. Clinton-Baddeley.’
    â€˜Yes, dear,’ said my husband patiently. ‘Stolen from William Blake, I believe. Then Harrison after the skeleton – and Upshawe – and now Julie. There has to be a connection, but I’m blest if I can see it.’
    â€˜It was the skeleton that started it all. Finding him, I mean. Somebody buried that man and never wanted, or expected, him to be found.’
    â€˜And let’s face it, Dorothy. The most logical person to be upset by the man’s premature resurrection is Upshawe.’
    â€˜But he was attacked himself! He’s a victim, not the villain.’
    â€˜Yes? Or did he simply slip and fall while fighting with Harrison?’
    â€˜Alan, none of it makes any sense. Why Harrison, of all people? Just because he’s – he was, I mean – a boor and a thug and all the rest of it? His character, or lack of it, was a good reason to dislike him, to heartily wish him elsewhere, but surely it wasn’t enough reason to kill him.’
    â€˜You’d be surprised at how little motive murder sometimes requires. But if you don’t like that scenario, turn it around. Harrison started the fight; Upshawe was defending himself.’
    â€˜But why, Alan, why? What could Harrison have against a man he’d barely met?’
    â€˜Harrison was drunk, remember. Well, we won’t know that for certain until the autopsy, but it seems a reasonable conclusion, since he was last seen with a full bottle of whiskey in hand.’
    â€˜The bottle, Alan! Jim said it wasn’t in their room. You haven’t found it, have you?’
    â€˜I’ve been a bit too busy searching for Julie.’
    â€˜Oh, I know, and I didn’t mean to sound . . . anyway, if you could find it, it would tell you something about where Dave went, and probably Julie, too. It could be a clue!’
    â€˜Yes, Nancy.’ He grinned at me and ruffled my hair.
    â€˜OK, make fun. But I’m far too old for Nancy Drew. Jessica, if you must. Now look, my dearest love. We’re cut off from any of your normal resources. No medical examiners, pathologists, crime lab people. All we have to work with is our minds. And— oh, wait! We do have one essential scene-of-crime man.’
    The light dawned for both of us at the same moment. ‘Oh, good grief! Dorothy, I’ve been an idiot. Why didn’t I think sooner – we have a photographer!’
    â€˜Yes, and a really, really good one. I don’t suppose he’s trained to do police work, but I’ll bet if you tell him exactly what you want, he’ll get great pictures. He brought lots of film; he said so. And he’s got a digital camera, too, if necessary.’
    â€˜He could be a godsend,’ said Alan fervently. ‘As soon as we’ve had some lunch, I’m going to sic him on the skeleton.’
    â€˜And I,’ I said firmly, ‘am going out in search of that bottle.’

ELEVEN
    N aturally Alan tried to dissuade me. ‘There could be someone very dangerous out there.’
    â€˜I thought we agreed it was either Harrison, who is dead, or Upshawe, who is unconscious. The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat, except they didn’t quite eat each other up.’
    It took him a moment to get that one. ‘Ah. The American version of the Kilkenny cats, I presume.’
    â€˜Probably. Anyway, I’m in no danger from either of them at this point. And if you’re still worried about me for some obscure reason, I’ll take someone with me. Lynn, maybe. She got me – got us – into this, she can jolly well help out.’
    â€˜Your English is coming along, my dear,’ was his only response. I assumed silence meant consent.
    I cornered Lynn while we ate our lunch (a chicken curry, which was superb), and