Chain of Fools by Richard Stevenson Page A

time in that department—Dad was not what you'd call warmly demonstrative with any of us. He saved his good opinions for the Heralds editorial page, and his emotions too. But Dan and Eric both loved Dad and they both became journalists because of him. That was a bond between them. But then, because they were so temperamentally different—Dan being more Watson-like in his passions and volatility—they often fought, with Dan starting the fights and Eric, who was always stronger and more sure of himself, finishing them. Believe me, it was a busy, complex household to grow up in. As most households with big families are, of course. And households with small families too."
    I said, "When you say, Janet, that Dan and Eric fought, do you mean physically?"
    "Until they were both well into their teens. It's a big joke in Edens-burg that this house full of pacifists used to erupt about once a week with crashing and banging and yelling, as if bloody murder was being committed inside." She caught herself, and when no one spoke, she added, "Please—don't even think it. Not Dan." More awkward silence. "It wouldn't make any sense," Janet said. "It just wouldn't. And I wouldn't be able to stand it."
    After a moment, Timmy said, "It wouldn't make any sense, Janet,
    unless Eric's death and the Jet Ski attacks weren't even connected. And Eric's murder and the sale of the Herald had nothing to do with each other."
    They all looked at me as if I, being a detective, might have an observation to offer that could clear the air a little, break the tension. But I didn't.
    11
     
    Thursday morning, Timmy, exhausted, slept in—we'd shared a frilly four-poster in what had been June's room—while Janet drove off to the Herald, Dale joined Elsie the housekeeper in keeping an eye on Ruth Osborne, and I left Maple Street at 7:45 in search of Captain Bill Stankie.
    I drove out to the edge of town and found Stankie in his office at the State Police barracks, one of those characterless brick boxes that are representative of public architecture in the age of hate-all-government. Stankie didn't look as if he minded the lack of columns and a cupola framing his official presence. Squat, ruddy-faced, and agreeably unprepossessing in shirtsleeves and green suspenders, Stankie looked up at me placidly from behind his metal desk. I introduced myself and explained that I'd been hired by Janet Osborne to investigate any connection between her brother's murder and two apparent attempts on her life. For the moment, I left out the sale of the Herald, that day's edition of which lay open to the sports section on Stankie's desk next to his coffee mug.
    "I doubt there's any connection, but I'd be interested to hear what you've come up with," Stankie said. "Have a seat."
    I seated myself across from Stankie and told him that I was only just getting started and had come up with nothing of substance yet, and that was why I'd come to see him. I asked him to fill me in on the Eric Osborne murder investigation, and on anything Stankie knew about the sheriff's office investigation of the two Jet Ski attacks on Janet.
    "Was that your boyfriend that got clipped yesterday?" Stankie asked. "My wife is a nurse at the ER, and she said a gay couple came in, and
    one of the guys had a broken foot from a Jet Ski incident out at Osborne's place on the lake."
    "How did she know we were a couple?"
    "Sue always knows. Our third son, Hank, is gay, and he and his partner, Ray, are both police officers in Cincinnati, Ohio—Ray's hometown. We don't see nearly as much of them as we'd like. We get out there once a year, but Hank and Ray are kept pretty busy with their off-duty gay-rights -work. Cincinnati is a pretty conservative town. Which is fine with me, overall. I'm conservative myself."
    "Except in one way, it looks like."
    "Oh no," Stankie said with a shrug. "If you mean gay rights, that's conservative as I see it. The government leaving decent, law-abiding people alone is conservative.