It all began with a break-in.

A botched break-in.

It might have gone differently if the intruder had been sober, but Jeff Beasley, in addition to a penchant for illegal entry, also had a weakness for alcohol, and when confronted with the prospect of the Hurley house, had fortified himself with a drink or two before heading out. Jeff had also seen fit to slip a half pint of rye in his hip pocket, on the off chance his courage should happen to wane along the way. Whether it would have or not was a moot point, as Beasley managed to finish off the bottle before he even got there. Were it not for that, he might have been more careful. He might at least have broken a side window, instead of the one right next to the front door. But by then Beasley had lost grasp of some of the finer points of his trade. He staggered up onto the front porch of the huge, sprawling, gothic mansion, smashed the pane of glass with a rock, reached in, undid the lock, flung up the window, and fell right through, landing on the floor of the foyer in an ungainly heap.

Treating his entrance as a matter of course, Beasley sat up and took stock. The first thing he checked was his hip pocket. The bottle of rye wasn't broken, but it wasn't full, either. That surprised him. Somehow, he had expected to find it replenished. Refusing to abandon that hope, he jammed the bottle back in his pocket and staggered to his feet.

It was hard to keep his balance in the dark. Realizing that reminded Beasley of the flashlight he had slipped in his jacket pocket back in more rational times. He groped for it, pulled it out, switched it on. Winced to discover it was pointed directly at his face. It was several seconds before his eyes could focus. He stood there, swearing, blinking, with the light wandering aimlessly around the room. While Beasley got his bearings, the beam traveled over the red velvet draperies, the mahogany paneled walls, the silver candlestick holders, the marble topped end tables.

The knight with the battle-ax!

Beasley staggered back in alarm.

No, just a suit of armor. Beasley gawked at it in amazement, his brain slowly processing what it was. For a fleeting second it occurred to Beasley to wonder if he really wanted to be doing this.

His flashlight lit up the huge circular front stairs with the carved wooden bannister. Beasley reacted first with delight, then with misgivings. On the one hand the stairs would lead to the master bedroom. On the other, they looked formidable.

Beasley's trip up the stairs was perilous at best. While he did not actually crawl, he did not actually walk, either. He stopped once to catch his breath, once to sit, and once to recall whether he was going down or up.

Eventually he reached the top, shone the light around, and recoiled involuntarily from the grim visage of Evan Hurley in the huge oil painting that dominated the upstairs landing. The cold gray eyes of the venerable, bulldog-jowled, former patriarch of the Hurley family seemed to look right through him, as if challenging his right to be there, and Beasley quickly averted the light.

Off the landing was a hallway with several doors. Beasley first tried a bathroom, a linen closet, and a knob that proved to be a brass wall ornament.

The next door was the jackpot. Even Beasley could tell. From the marble fireplace, Queen Anne chairs, vanity table crammed with cosmetics, and four poster canopied bed, this had to be old lady Hurley's room. Jeff Beasley shone the light around with a sense of satisfaction.

And confusion and doubt.

So much furniture.

So many places to look.

A roll top writing desk in one corner of the room, with numerous drawers and cubby holes, a veritable treasure chest, attracted his attention.

It did not hold it.

Beasley found himself drawn to the four poster bed. He walked over to it, shone the light, touched the soft, puffy comforter, ran his hand over the smooth, polished, mahogany wood.

Jeff Beasley, blinked, frowned.

Tried to remember why he was there.

It was nearly three hours later when Bakerhaven Police Chief Dale Harper, cruising North Elm Street on a routine patrol, stopped to check out an open window on the Hurley house. Old Mrs. Hurley had died the week before, the mansion had been locked up, and that window had no right to be open. So, on inspection, Chief Harper was not surprised to find there had been a break in.

He was surprised to find the perpetrator sound asleep in Mrs. Hurley's bed.