Free Shadows of Death by Jeanne M. Dams

golf-cart thing with a canvas awning over the top. It afforded little protection against the rain and none at all against the wind, but at least it kept our feet out of the mud. Watson sat on the seat next to me, seized with occasional spasms of hard shivering. We were both feeling exceedingly sorry for ourselves.
    The boat wasn’t much warmer, but at least the cabin was out of the wind. I dried myself and Watson as best I could with a rough blanket I found in one of the bench seats. Neither of us was very dry when I’d finished, and the blanket was a whole lot muddier. We’d have to buy a replacement.
    ‘You said something about coffee?’ I called up to Alan at the helm. The boat was bobbing about a good deal, but I was too cold and achy to worry about seasickness.
    ‘In one of the cupboards in the galley,’ he called back. ‘There are only plastic cups, sorry, but there are sugar packets somewhere.’
    ‘I’ll pour you a cup, too, shall I?’
    ‘Too windy up here to drink it. I’ll be fine until we get to dry land.’
    He didn’t sound fine. He sounded tired and cross, but there was nothing I could do about it. I poured myself a half-cup of coffee, laced it with plenty of sugar and the Scotch, and took a cautious sip of the pseudo hot toddy.
    It wasn’t actually too bad. The smoky taste of the whisky went rather oddly with the sweetened coffee, but it was hot, and my sense of taste was diminishing as my sinuses filled. I don’t really like Scotch, much preferring good old American corn likker, but any port in a storm …
    And speaking of ports, I wondered where we were, but I felt too sluggish to go up and look, and had the sense not to call up and ask. ‘Are we there yet?’ is an extremely annoying utterance, even when it comes from an adult, and it’s virtually impossible to keep the whine out of one’s voice when uttering it. I curled up on the deck, my back against the bench and Watson planted firmly at my stomach to keep me from rolling, and tried to nap.
    But the coffee, or my aching sinuses, or something, kept me from settling. It didn’t help when Watson resettled himself with his tail in my face. And the boards of the deck weren’t designed as a mattress. I gave up, shoved Watson away, and managed to get up off the floor (not my best act, ever since my knee surgery) and back to the bench.
    I tried to think, though my head seemed to be stuffed full of cotton, hay and rags, as ’Enry ’Iggins claimed was the case with all women.
    What had Alan and the others talked about, there in the tent? How had they reacted to the discovery of Carter’s watch?
    If it
was
Carter’s watch. I had seen it for only a brief second last night at the meeting. Was it only last night? It felt like a week ago.
    But if it was his, what was the significance? Well, it proved he’d been on the island. But his dead body proved that beyond any need of verification. The watch didn’t prove, necessarily, that he’d been in Duncan Andersen’s pasture. A watch is readily removable, and might not even be missed by the owner for a while. Although a big, heavy Rolex, not only weighty but very expensive, and a status symbol, moreover …
    I gave it up. When we got back to Stromness, Alan and I would talk it over. And I hoped that would be soon, because the motion of the boat was becoming increasingly erratic, and my stomach was beginning to vie with my stuffy nose and achy muscles for attention.
    ‘Dorothy!’ Alan’s call was loud and urgent. ‘Wake up and put on your life jacket!’
    ‘Alan! Are we in trouble?’ I tried to stave off panic.
    ‘Not yet, but it’s rough out here, and this is an unfamiliar craft. Find a life jacket and put it on, and then bring me one.’
    I was absurdly reminded of the routine safety announcement on an airplane. ‘Put your own oxygen mask on first and then assist others.’ Inappropriate humour, I told myself firmly, is the beginning of hysteria.
    I looked around frantically, having no