The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1)

by Alida Winternheimer

  “I’d like to find her son. I found a toy I believe was his and I’d like to return it to him.”

  “Is that all? You could have said that over the phone, couldn’t you?”

  “Well,” Jess ran through her options as quickly as possible, “I seem to have gotten involved in something. I didn’t mean to, of course, but I’m living in the Sykes’ old house. I found John Sykes in jail for the murder of his wife, but he’s innocent. Or so he says…” Jess trailed off, hoping Marlene would pick up the thread of inquiry, and she was not disappointed.

  “I never believed he killed Bonnie. Those two were crazy about each other. And he was at a job interview somewhere. Madison, I think. Bonnie and I talked about it all night. She was so excited. He would advance his career…they could move to a city somewhere decent…a place with some life, you know?”

  “Bonnie wanted to move?”

  “Oh, well, maybe not right away. There wasn’t much happening in Skoghall back then. Today it’s got all those artist types and the River Road traffic. It almost sounds like fun.” Marlene’s eyes sparked with some kind of mischief. “Bonnie and I were going to open up a little boutique there. Bring some class to the joint, you know. But, well… I eventually opened the boutique myself, but not in Skoghall. That place was dead to me, just dead to me.” Marlene sipped her cocktail then set it down with the sharp clink of glass against glass. “You must think me maudlin, going on about a boutique when you came here to find out about Bonnie. That poor thing.”

  “No, Mrs. Wilkins, not at all.” Jess picked up her drink, wrapping the edges of the cocktail napkin around the moist sides of the glass.

  “You’re being kind, Jessica. And you can call me Marlene. Now, I know that Bonnie and her husband were very much in love and doted on that little boy of theirs. He was John Jr. Johnny.”

  “Yes, but for some reason I can’t find him anywhere online. Do you know what happened to him after John Sykes went to jail?”

  “Of course. Bonnie was my good friend. I followed that trial all the way through to the end.” She tapped the side of her glass with a well-manicured nail. “Johnny went to live with Bonnie’s folks, down in La Crosse, or maybe one of those little towns outside of La Crosse, but definitely the La Crosse area.”

  “Do you know their name?” Jess leaned forward on her seat, a difficult thing on the deep sofa.

  “Eckles. Eckley. Eckland. Ecklund. That’s it, Ecklund.”

  There was a click and scrape, then the rattling of keys as Marlene’s husband come in like a blustery wind. Marlene looked past Jess toward the entryway, an expectant smile on her face. Jess had to twist to look over her shoulder at the rotund man who had just entered. The top of his bald head shone with sweat. A pair of sunglasses hung from a foam strap around his neck, and he was dressed in golf clothes.

  “Wilky, darling, this is Jessica. Jessica, this is Arlen Wilkins, my husband.” Marlene rose with ease from her chair and crossed the great room while making their introductions.

  “Jessica,” he nodded to her from the entryway. “I still have to get my clubs out of the trunk,” he said before exchanging a peck on the cheek with his wife. He emptied his pockets onto a tray on a catch-all table near the door. “Be right back.”

  Marlene went to the sideboard and mixed a fresh drink. When Arlen returned, he noisily dropped a pair of golf shoes onto the tile floor before joining them. He took the drink Marlene offered and sat with a huff of air as though the drop from standing was an exertion in itself. Jess understood now why a slender woman like Marlene would have such enormous furniture. He touched his glass to his wife’s before drinking. “Ah, this is just the thing after eighteen holes. Do you golf?”

  “No,” Jess said. “I write.”

  “A writer, are you? What do you write?”

  Jess shifted on the chair, aware of Arlen’s scrutiny and pending judgment. “Novels, but nothing you’d have heard of yet.” She smiled, hoping he would not ask the inevitable question: what is your book about? She couldn’t stand the idea of explaining her life to Arlen Wilkins.

  “I don’t read fiction,” he announced. “I like sports and news. That’s about it.”

  “Wilky, Jessica lives in the old Sykes’ place. She’s trying to find John Sykes, Jr.” Marlene pointed at Jess, directing her husband’s attention the way she would to some roadside oddity. Jess sipped her drink, sensing it was one of Arlen Wilkins approved activities. “Now, tell us how your game went?” Marlene said, lowering her hand.

  “Bah,” he exhaled some sort of disgust, his face reddening at the reminder of the recent past. “That Tom is a cheat.”

  “Dear, we have a guest.” Marlene patted his knee.

  “Well, Tom is still a cheat.”

  “Yes, but how is Sterling?”

  “Huh? What? Oh, Sterling. Sterling is as fine as ever. Still slices to the left.”

  Jess was thinking of graceful ways to excuse herself when Marlene graciously brought them back around to the purpose of her visit.

  “I’m sure Jessica needs to be going soon.” Jess thought she caught a wink with Marlene’s smile. “What else did you need to know, dear?”

  Jess tried to straighten up, but only managed to sink further into the sofa cushions. “Do either of you remember a Vietnam veteran in Skoghall around the time Bonnie was killed?”

  “A vet?” Arlen began. “A vet? Let me see. I don’t think…”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Marlene stopped her husband’s noisy ruminations. “There was a stranger lurking around Skoghall. He was filthy, a tramp. He wore this nasty old John Deere cap. Bonnie and I saw him hitchhiking on the River Road the night she died—we were on our way to dinner. Bonnie felt sorry for him.” Marlene shook her head. “Bonnie felt for everyone, trusted everyone…I suppose that’s why she died the way she did.”

  “Did the police ever consider that man as a suspect?”

  “Like I said, Bonnie and I saw him hitchhiking that very day. He was heading out of town, which is what I told the sheriff. Besides, they wanted to wrap this thing up fast.”

  “It was an election year, as I remember it,” Arlen added. “People were scared shitless…”

  “Arlen.”

  “She doesn’t mind, do you?” Jess shook her head, but she needn’t have bothered since he was already carrying on. “Nobody felt safe around here and the authorities needed to close the book so people could get on with their lives. They were damn lucky, I say.” He paused to swirl his glass before drinking.

  “Why do you say that?” Marlene asked.

  “Because they were banking on this being a one-time problem. What if that nut had killed again?”

  “You think they got the wrong man?” Jess asked.

  “Well, I never really knew John Sykes, but I thought they wrapped things up a little too fast.”

  “Did you ever step forward to say so? As a character witness or something?” Jess found it hard to believe their opinions were so strongly in favor of John’s innocence, yet they had done nothing to help him.

  Arlen burst into robust laughter, his gut shaking with each guffaw. He leaned forward to set his drink on the table. “She doesn’t know who I am, does she?” He turned his attention to Jess for the first time.

  She twisted the glass in her hands, feeling the condensation on its sides flatten beneath her palm.

  “No. I did not get involved. I was a circuit judge back then and for a long time afterwards. I had to recuse myself from the case because my wife was the victim’s best friend. We couldn’t get anywhere near the Sykes case.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Look here, sweetheart…”

  Jess felt her cheeks begin to color. She took a sip of her drink to conceal her face behind the raised glass and used the moment to calm herself.

  “…I wish we could have helped that man. I really do, but it was out of my hands.”

  “Maybe we can help him now. Do you know of any way I can identify that man? The ve
teran you saw?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlene said. “All of that was so long ago.”

  “Mr. Wilkins,” Jess decided to appeal to his sense of authority and standing in the community, “do you know of any way I could access records from nearby VA clinics, or American Legions, or VFWs? Any place he might have frequented?” She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, hoping Arlen was feeling magnanimous. She didn’t even know if he had any strings to pull, but she knew he wanted her to believe he did.

  He snorted. “No. No, I don’t think…”

  “What about Sterling?” Marlene said. “Sterling worked for the VA, didn’t he?”

  Arlen shifted around to face his wife. “She’s asking after something that happened forty years ago, Marlene. Sterling won’t know anything about it.”

  “Let Sterling speak for himself, Wilky. The worst he can do is say no. Now give Jessica his number. Please.” Marlene was smiling at her husband with her mouth, but her eyebrows arched, communicating something other than social pleasantry, something understood between the two of them.

  Arlen protested with several breathy little huffs of air that never actually amounted to words before rising from his chair. He went to the entryway where he had deposited the contents of his pockets and opened his phone. He began reading a number without any preamble. Jess had to scramble to open her purse and find a pen and old hardware shopping list.

  “Slow down, Arlen. She needs you to repeat it.”

  He obliged his wife, this time adding a grunt or two to his recitation.

  “Thank you,” Jess said, and rose from the sofa with some awkwardness. She turned toward the kitchen, her drink held out like a homing beacon that could lead her to the sink.

  “Here. I’ll take that.” Marlene was already taking the glass from Jess’s hands. She set it on the coffee table.

  Her husband was back in his seat, his work done, the phone out of his hands. Jess looked at him to say goodbye, but he was shuffling magazines on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding her.

  “It was nice meeting you, Jessica.” Marlene put a hand on Jess’s arm and edged her toward the door. When they were in the entry, Marlene stopped her with a squeeze of her arm. “You know how men are,” she whispered. “Territorial.” She winked. Then, raising her voice to more than a conversational tone, said, “Hang on a second.” She rushed across the room to a bookcase. Jess saw her stooping behind part of the sectional sofa, running a finger along the spines of the books. She withdrew a large volume and brought it over to show Jess.

  Marlene set a leather-bound photo album on the catch-all table beside her husband’s miscellany. She patted the cover. “This is from those years in Skoghall. Let me see.” She flipped pages quickly, scanning for something. Jess glanced back at Arlen. He ignored them, a magazine open across his knees. “There.” Marlene pointed at a photo of a young family in the community garden next to the spring. “Arlen had just bought me this adorable little Kodak Instamatic for my birthday, and I was snapping everything I could find.”

  “For about a week,” Arlen called out. “Until the novelty wore off.”

  Marlene dismissively waved a hand in his direction. “Ignore him.” She opened the edge of the sleeve with one of her painted nails and peeled the plastic away from the face of the photograph. She slid it out carefully and handed it to Jess. “This was in the camera when Bonnie died. For all I know, it’s the last image ever taken of her.”

  Jess felt a chill run down her neck.

  Marlene gripped her arm again. The wide band of her ring was noticeably cool, contrasted by Marlene’s warm hand. “Give this to Johnny, would you?”

  Jess sat in her car, studying the image. It had the golden aura of photographs from that decade. John Sykes stood head and shoulders above his red-haired wife, his arm around her tiny waist, their son on her hip. Johnny’s almost white, loose curls topped a baby’s round face, and he wore a short romper in a green and yellow plaid. The image was achingly sweet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jess lay in Beckett’s arms, stroking his chest with her fingertips while he dozed. The warmth of their bodies pressed together under the summer sheet felt so right. She mused over the possibility that she had found someone. The moon outside cast a cool light into the room, and Jess listened to the crickets chirping while her fingers rambled over Beckett’s skin.

  The back of her neck prickled and a breath of cold air swept across her bare shoulder. Jess rolled over so that Beckett was behind her and raised her head off the pillow. The red-haired woman stood in the corner of the room near the office. Bonnie held out a hand, beseeching Jess to do something. Jess rubbed Beckett’s chest to rouse him. He mumbled and yawned. “Look over there,” Jess said. “She’s here. Do you see her?”

  Beckett propped up on an elbow and turned his head to search the entire room.

  “She’s in that corner.”

  He looked, even leaning forward as though proximity alone could bring the specter into focus. “No. I don’t see her.”

  Bonnie swept toward the bed, gliding as though propelled by a strong wind, yet her nightgown remained eerily still, her hands at her side until she was beside Jess. Bonnie’s hands were about Jess’s throat, and she was no longer certain Bonnie had moved at all. She only knew the red-haired woman had her by the throat, lifting her out of the bed. Jess kicked her legs, trying to find purchase, but already she was above the bed, the sheets heaped beneath her. Her heels banged into something solid behind her, she didn’t know what. She couldn’t breathe. The force of those small pale hands was crushing. Jess felt her eyes bulging, her mouth open, a choking gasp ratcheted through her windpipe, catching on each knuckle of Bonnie’s fingers. The sound, the dry croak that managed to emanate from Jess’s mouth, alarmed her like a warning bell signaling doom. She wanted to rip Bonnie’s hands away from her throat, to claw them off, but her arms were pinned useless at her side. There it was again, the croaking sound. It was smaller this time, and Jess thought she was dying.

  But there was something she could do. One thing. Jess lifted her gaze from the small bow at the center of the nightie’s neckline and carried it straight up the ghost’s pale neck and face until Jess’s eyes met Bonnie’s. The irises had turned the color of lake ice and all around them broken blood vessels twisted and curled. Find him. It was an imperative, shouted inside Jess’s head.

  Jess fell to the bed, a great rush of air noisily filling her lungs as she collapsed. She knocked into something and thrashed against it.

  Beckett held her, his arms trying to contain her wild panic, his voice, suddenly recognizable, shouting her name.

  Her entire body struggled to regain control, to right itself, but before she managed to spring away from the bed, Jess realized the arms were Beckett’s and the ghost was gone.

  Beckett shushed her, his hold relaxing into an embrace. Jess pressed her back against his chest and began sobbing. Her body collapsed as the nerves and fibers that had been attempting flight now found comfort and safety. She still shook, her heart racing, but slowly, slowly, she calmed. Beckett smoothed her hair away from her damp forehead and cradled her.

  Jess wiped away her tears. She took a deep breath and released it, feeling at last some control of herself. Words remained unavailable, so she turned in Beckett’s arms, rotating herself to take further comfort in his face and caring gaze.

  Before their eyes met, his opened wide and he gasped.

  “What?” Her voice was hoarse, her throat aching.

  Beckett hesitated and took her hands in his. “Your…your neck,” he said finally. Jess tried to jerk her hands up to her throat, but Beckett clenched them tightly. “You have a mark,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

  Jess climbed off the bed and went to the mirror over her dresser. A soft shriek of surprise escaped her. Her neck bore a horizontal band with irregular striping. The violet-blue mark looked as though she had been branded by ice instead of fire.

  Beckett came and stood behind
her, watching Jess examine her neck in the mirror. She brought her hand up and it fluttered before touching the mark. “Does it hurt?” he asked again in a whisper.

  Jess nodded. “It stings, like…like a bad sunburn.”

  “I’ll get you something.” Beckett left her and returned a minute later with a tube of ointment. He squeezed some onto his fingertips and began to gently apply it to Jess’s neck. “Jess,” he said, “I think…” He was paying careful attention to her neck and the application of the ointment. “…it’s time to leave.”

  “Leave? As in give up my home?”

  “Yes.”

  Jess lifted her chin so Beckett could put ointment on the front of her throat. “No way.”

  “I don’t know what happened. You were lying in bed one second, and the next you were suspended over it, kicking me, choking. I was shouting at you and I tried to get you and pull you back onto the bed, but I couldn’t move my arms. I was frozen and you were choking.” Beckett waited for her to make eye contact with him. “Jess, she could have killed you.”

  “But she didn’t.” A long round of milky jelly had curled its way out of the ointment tube. Jess took the tube from Beckett’s hand and wiped the ointment over the back of her neck before capping it. “Bonnie told me to find him, and that’s what I need to do.”

  “Jess, you don’t know who him is.”

  She put a hand on Beckett’s cheek. “Don’t look so worried.”

  Jess pulled a shirt over her head and froze when she caught sight of the strange mark on her neck. It was ugly and angry and would attract plenty of attention. She went into her closet and found a fashionable scarf. She didn’t like things around her throat when the weather got hot, but she could hardly walk around looking like she’d been strangled. As Jess brought the scarf around her neck, she paused and stared at her reflection. She opened the scarf again and touched the mark. It was long, parallel to her collarbone, and had a ridge-like pattern running its length. She crossed the scarf over itself and took an end in each hand, then drew it snug across her throat, pulling the ends straight out to the sides.