Dale said, “Isn’t it time to bring the cops back into this? This is what they’re paid to do. Why should Don do their job? Let Bill Stankie round up all the Osbornes and drag them into his back room and grill them one by one, and then go out and check out their stories. That should narrow down the list of family suspects fast enough.”
I explained that it was of limited use to repeat to the police either Craig’s story of the jewel robbery to save the Herald or his accusations of homicide against his father because Craig had vowed to deny to the police and the prosecutors that he had told me anything at all. I said, “I could fill Bill Stankie in confidentially, but at this point there isn’t much he can do with the information He certainly can’t put the interrogatory thumbscrews to Chester—or June, or Tidy—on the word of a
convicted murderer and jewel thief and notorious liar.”
Janet, Dale, and Timmy were listening solemnly as I laid out this frustrating addendum to my revelations of the past hour—when we heard a sudden shriek from inside the house
A cop car was supposedly parked across the street, but my fear was that somehow an attacker had entered the house and gotten to Ruth Osborne. I led the way as we hurtled through the kitchen—Timmy not so fast on crutches—and down the dim hall and into Tom Osborne’s study.
But no intruder was present. Ruth Osborne stood alone at her husband’s library table The urn with the label that read “William T. “Tom” Osborne—1911-1989” was resting on the table. The lid had been removed and lay next to the urn. Mrs. Osborne stood staring with a look of horror into the urn. Her eyes came up to us, and she cried out, “Where is my husband! This urn contains cornmeal! Where is my husband!”
20
At first I thought Mrs. Osborne’s mind was faltering again. But when I looked down at the brass container on the table, its contents were indeed fine-grained and pale yellow.
Looking both disgusted and fearful, Janet said, “Mom, how do you know that’s cornmeal? It doesn’t look like bone fragments, but… how can you tell what it is?”
“I tasted it.” Mrs. Osborne’s big hands were trembling and her face twisted with grief. “It looked like cornmeal, so I tasted it, and please take my word for it, that’s what it is. But where are Tom’s ashes? Someone has taken Tom’s ashes and substituted cornmeal. Why in God’s name would anyone do something so cruel? Is this—is it some pathetic joke one of you has pulled on me?”
“Of course not, Mom! We’d never do anything as ridiculous as that. What were you doing getting into Dad’s ashes anyway? I know you like having them around, and I can more or less understand that. But why do you want to look at them? I really can’t see how that gravelly stuff can ever remind you of Dad.”
Looking flustered and annoyed, Mrs. Osborne said, “I decided to scatter the ashes out-of-doors, as your father said he wanted done, and as you and Eric and Dan always said I should do. Well, I was finally going to let you all have your way. I called Slim Finn a while ago and asked him if there was any legal reason I couldn’t spread Tom around in my herb garden. Slim said not if it would make me feel better, and not if word didn’t get around Edensburg, and not if nobody ever found out he expressed an opinion on the subject So forget I ever mentioned Slim.”
Janet said, “In your herb garden, Mom? Mom, Dad wanted his ashes dropped over the mountains from the air. Isn’t spreading him in the backyard a little—shall we say—more domestic than what Dad had in mind?”
“It seemed to me a reasonable compromise,” Mrs. Osborne said. “In marriage there’s always give-and-take.”
I asked, “When was the last time, Mrs. Osborne, that you looked inside the urn and saw what appeared to be your husband’s actual remains?”
She grimaced and stared into space. Remembering was a struggle for her, and she seemed to be laboring almost physically “Quite a while ago,” she said after a moment. “A year or two, I suppose. It’s been a while since I actually lifted the lid and looked in. It’s true that all that stony stuff just looks like stony stuff, and it doesn’t help much in summoning up Tom’s memory and spirit.”
“Who has access to this study besides yourself, Mrs. Osborne? Who’s gone in here in the past two years? From the look of the place, I’d guess the traffic hasn’t been heavy.”
“No, no, hardly anybody comes into this musty old room. Just myself, and Elsie to clean. The children, I suppose, from time to time, to look at their father’s books and papers. Janet, you’ve been in, of course—but you didn’t get into the urn, did you?”
“Mother, of course not!”
“Dan comes in once in a while—and June once in a blue moon. June’s husband, Dick, perhaps. Chester? I don’t believe so. Chester generally comes in the back door, shakes his fist at me in the kitchen, and leaves by the same route ” Then she seemed to go blank.
Timmy said, “What about workmen or other outsiders, Mrs. Osborne? Have you had any electrical or telephone or other work done in this room in the last few years?”
Both the old black Bakelite telephone and the wall sconces, as well as the metal gooseneck desk lamp, looked as if they dated to the first Roosevelt administration, and Mrs. Osborne said, “Does this room look as if anyone has replaced a single item in it in the last half century? We should have done some modernizing—I always approve of technological progress if it frees people up to get on with what’s truly important—but I can’t recall anybody coming in here to fix or replace anything in years and years. No, no workmen stole Tom’s ashes, I don’t
think, and filled the urn up with cornmeal. It must have been someone in the family, is all I can think. Tidy has been in the house from time to time—and Tacker before he flew the coop. But why would either of them do such a thing?”
Dale said, “What about Eric?”
Mrs. Osborne’s face drooped, and she said, “Well, naturally Eric came in here often. He borrowed books—which he always was careful to return—and he read Tom’s files and papers. He liked being around Tom’s things, just as I do. Eric loved his father and enjoyed being around him so terribly much, and after Tom was gone Eric liked coming in here and regaining a sense of the man. But why would Eric steal Tom’s ashes without telling me, and what in heaven’s name would he ever do with them?”
Janet gave Dale a quick glance, and Timmy gave me one. Janet said, “Mom, did Eric know that you sometimes actually looked inside the urn at Dad’s ashes?”
“Of course not. There was no need for him to know. Not that he would have found it peculiar, I’m sure Lord knows what June would have said, or Chester—it was just too morbid, those two would surely insist. Eric, on the other hand, would have understood—as I’m sure you do, Janet And Dale, of course. But, still, there was no need, really, to tell him I ever looked inside the urn, so I didn’t.”
“Mom,” Janet said, “Eric was the one of us who was most upset when you didn’t follow Dad’s wishes and scatter his ashes over the mountains. Don’t you remember what a pain in the neck Eric was over that?”
“Yes, he was upset with me.”
“He nagged at you for months.”
“Years.”
“He saw it as some kind of betrayal of trust.”
“Yes, Eric made a moral issue out of it. He thought gravel tossed to the winds was more important than my mental comfort We disagreed about that.”
“So maybe Eric took the ashes,” Janet said, “and scattered them over the mountains himself. He figured—you know—what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.”
Mrs. Osborne’s face tightened. She said, “What a dishonest thing to do. It doesn’t sound at all like Eric “
“I suppose his rationale would have been that since you went against
Dad’s wishes in this one matter, he could go against yours.”
Looking hurt, she said, “But I’m not dead.”
Janet sighed deeply. “You’re right, Mom. If Eric did take the ashes, he should not have done it without at least
admitting it to you afterward so you wouldn’t open the urn one day and find this … stuff. That was wrong.”
“Well,” Mrs. Osborne said, “I suppose what’s done is done. If indeed that’s what happened. Is there some way we can verify that it was Eric who took the ashes? I do need to know that, if only for my own peace of mind. Eric I can forgive, of course, but I do need to know for certain exactly what has become of my husband’s remains.”
“Mrs. Osborne, I think I can do some detective work on the ashes,” I said. “In fact, the mystery of the missing ashes may be directly related to another puzzling disappearance I was about to begin working on.” Janet looked at me expressionlessly and nodded. She knew. Dale and Timmy looked my way too, and lightbulbs went on over their heads.
“I’ll eagerly await the results of your investigation, Mr. Strachey. For now, I guess I won’t be spreading my husband’s ashes in my herb garden. But I am going to put out some sweet corn and tomatoes on the table in a little while. I’ve got some barbecued beef in the freezer I can zap and heat up. And how would you all feel about some fresh corn bread to go with it?”
Janet said, “Oh, you don’t need to bother with the corn bread, Mom. I can pick up a couple of sourdough baguettes.” The relief in the room was palpable.
21
We wondered why Mr. Osborne’s remains glittered the way they did,” Skeeter said. “It was just after sunrise on a Sunday morning during the first week in April. The pilot circled around after Eric emptied the urn out the side window of the plane, and we all said, hey, look how Mr. Osborne’s ashes are glimmering and glittering in the sunlight. Isn’t that beautiful!”
Timmy and I were seated next to Skeeter’s bed in his room at Albany Med. Janet and Dale had remained behind with Mrs. Osborne with two Edensburg police officers watching over them, one in the front of the house, one in the rear.
Skeeter had been off the prednisone for ninety-six hours, and his sanity was pretty much back. He was also recovering well, he told us, from the Pneumocystis pneumonia, and he expected to be out of the hospital in a day or two. Some Edensburg friends of his and Eric’s had been looking after him and planned on taking him into their home until he was back on his feet. Skeeter had lost weight, but his strength was returning and he hoped to be back on the job with the park service in a few weeks. When we described the hotel robbery to him and told him of the likelihood that Dan had hidden the stolen jewels in the urn with Tom Osborne’s ashes, Skeeter was stunned at first. Then he remarked on how the ashes glinted in the sunlight as they drifted down. He also added, “God, I wonder if Eric knew.”
I looked at Timmy, who was seated beside Skeeter holding his big hairy hand. Timmy looked at me, and we both looked back at Skeeter.
I said, “How might Eric have known the jewels were in the ashes?”
“I don’t know, and I think he would have told me if he’d known
there was anything valuable in there. We always told each other really important stuff. But maybe Eric wanted to protect me from guilty knowledge that could get me in trouble with the park service. That’s something old Eric might have done for me,” Skeeter said bleakly, the grief showing in his face all over again.
“You two were really a great pair,” Timmy said. “I’m so, so sorry you lost Eric, Skeeter.”
“Eric was the great love of my life,” Skeeter said, his voice quavering. “Until I met Eric, I never knew how strong and real love could be between two men. If I’d never met Eric, I might have gone my entire life without loving and being loved by another man.”
Timmy colored a little, squeezed Skeeter’s hand, and said, “Oh.”
“Before Eric there was all that great sex, of course,” Skeeter said. “And I can’t say I didn’t love it. Most of it, anyway. But by the time I met Eric I wanted more than that. Jeez, I was so lucky I found him.”
Releasing Skeeter’s hand, Timmy said, “Where did you two meet, anyway?”
Skeeter chuckled. “Under a bush in Washington Park in Albany.”
“Very romantic.”
“It really was,” Skeeter said, grinning through his thick beard. “Winter wasn’t so great, but those summer nights were pretty wonderful sometimes.”
“Timothy and I met under similar circumstances,” I said, and Timmy smiled weakly.
“Was Don your first great love?” Skeeter asked.
Timmy stared at him and his lower lip twitched.
I said, “Not the first for either of us, Skeeter, but the deepest and longest.”
Timmy said, “True, true.”
While Timmy sat pensively, I told Skeeter I thought it was likely that Eric’s murder was in some way connected with the lost jewels, since their purpose had been to generate cash that would save the Herald for the Osbornes.
“Damn, yes, that must be it!” Skeeter said. “But who besides Dan and Craig would have known that Eric knew about the jewels—if he did? Or do you think”—his dark eyes hardened—“do you think Dan could have had something to do with Eric’s murder?”
I said I didn’t know, that Dan was missing and I was unable to question him.
“Dan is moody and weird,” Skeeter said, “but I really can’t imagine him hurting anybody physically. Especially Eric. They were different, but in a ‘way they understood and appreciated each other amazingly well. And I certainly can’t see Dan trying to get Janet run over by a Jet Ski. Anyway, if somebody tried to run Dan and Arlene off a cliff, then somebody’s after them too Unless he faked all that. Which, according to Eric, is the type of thing Dan used to do in his anti-Vietnam War days.”
I told Skeeter that Arlene at least seemed to be a reliable witness to the road incident. Then I laid out Craig’s theory that Chester had assumed Eric was in on the jewel-theft plot and killed Eric when he refused to acknowledge his complicity and turn over the proceeds from the heist to the conservative side of the Osborne family.
Skeeter’s face tightened and he shifted angrily in the bed. “Chester! That jerk. Maybe it was him.”
“Craig thinks so,” I said, “but this is the speculation of a son who has apparently despised his father since childhood and isn’t as objective as he could be.”
“But Chester was always violent. You must have heard the stories.”
I reminded Skeeter that Chester’s outbursts had always been spontaneous, not premeditated, and I asked, “Would Chester have been out on a hiking trail where he might have run into Eric? Or would he actually have gone hiking with Eric?”
Skeeter shook his head morosely. “As far as I know, Chester hasn’t been out on a hiking trail in years. In family pictures you can see him in the woods as a kid, but that was just because he had to. Chester was an Osborne, so he went into the wilderness. But as soon as he could choose, he headed for the country club.”
Timmy said, “Skeeter, is there some chance that Eric was in on the jewel-theft plot? Not that he would want anybody to get killed. But maybe Craig had promised him and Dan nobody would get hurt and the robbery was a foolproof way to keep the Herald out of the hands of the bad chain, and Eric was naive enough to believe him.”
“Out of the hands of what?” Skeeter looked deeply bewildered.
Timmy forced a little smile and said, “There are two newspaper
chains competing for the Herald. One’s a good chain, and one’s a bad chain. One’s a daisy chain—that’s a metaphor for the more socially enlightened, pro-environmentalist chain—and one’s a chain of fools, so-called. The chain of fools is purely profit-oriented and environmentally and otherwise socially indifferent. It was you, Skeeter, as a matter of fact, who first explained this situation to Don and me and pointed out the likelihood that one of the Osborne factions competing over the future of the Herald had concocted a murder plot that resulted in Eric’s death and presented great danger to Janet prior to next month’s Herald board meeting.”
Timmy fingered the two crutches—his own—leaning against Skeeter’s bed. I wonde
red if he might pick one of them up and swat Skeeter with it, but he didn’t. He said, “You were heavily medicated when you expressed your concerns to Don and me Tuesday night, Skeeter. So I guess all this has slipped your mind.”
“You’re right, it has,” Skeeter said, looking embarrassed. “I remember that you and Don were here on Tuesday, or whatever day it was. And even though I was kind of out of it, I also remember from when you and Janet stopped in on Wednesday, I guess it was, Timmy, that you told me you and Don have been helping out around the house. And also, Don, that you’ve been playing detective. Hey, good for you. Thanks a lot from all of us. And Timmy, I want to tell you it’s really great to be in touch with you again. Since my folks moved to Arizona, I’m hardly in touch with anybody back in Poughkeepsie. But you were always one of my favorite high-school classmates. It’s really nice to see you.”
Timmy smiled just perceptibly. He said, “It’s really nice to see you too, Skeeter.”
Skeeter had given us the name of the air service Eric had used for scattering his father’s ashes over the mountains, and as we headed back up to Edensburg, and to the airport there, Timmy was silent for the first ten miles.
Finally, I said, “I think he was just being considerate of me—of both of us. Or maybe he thinks you never told me that you two were once a red-hot item.”
After a moment, Timmy said, “That’s pretty farfetched.”
“Why? Some people are just very discreet about their pasts.”
He said nothing for a mile or so. Then: “Could I have imagined the
whole thing? Am I delusionary? Or was I delusionary in high school? Maybe my whole two-year sexfest with Skeeter took place entirely inside my own head. It was just tortured, conflicted, wishful thinking.”
“Not according to what Skeeter was saying Tuesday night when he OD’d on prednisone,” I said. “The drug seemed to be working as a truth serum on Skeeter, and the affair was certainly real enough to him then.”
“Maybe the prednisone worked as a truth serum, or maybe it made him temporarily insane too, and he was imagining it all.”
Chain of Fools Page 16