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

by Alida Winternheimer

  Jess nodded. “I got it,” she said. “Thanks.” She unplanted her hands and relaxed her posture. “What do you guys need? Water? Iced tea? Coffee?”

  “You got a beer?” Dave asked.

  It took most of the day and two trips to the Skoghall Hardware and one trip to the liquor store in Bay City, but when they finished, Jess had a beautiful brick hearth in the music room. The stove shone in the yard, the nickel-plated trim and finial blinding. The curved legs ended in balled feet. Typical Victorian scroll work surrounded a sunburst on the potbelly stove’s door. As Jess restored its luster over much of the day, she got excited about her home and all the ways she was claiming her life. Beckett offered Jess some pressed tin ceiling panels salvaged from an old building to shield the walls behind the stove from heat. They needed a coat of paint, which she would apply, and in a few days when the mortar was set and the paint was dry, they would move the stove into its new home. Jess decided to trust Dave with her chimney despite Beckett’s warnings, then bit her lip and crossed her fingers while he cut a hole in her wall. Dave was fearless with hand tools and other people’s houses.

  They sat on the porch and clinked their beer bottles together. “A case of beer isn’t enough after all this work. I still owe you.”

  “Write me into one of your books,” Dave said. “Make me a villain.”

  “You got it.” Jess grinned.

  “Excuse me now,” Dave said. He ambled down the driveway to his truck and reached inside. He bent behind the open door of his cab and when he straightened, a puff of smoke obscured his face from view.

  “I didn’t know he smokes,” Jess said.

  “Only when he drinks,” Beckett’s face showed a certain degree of disapproval, which he shrugged away.

  After spending the day on their knees, scrubbing off soot or laying bricks, it was a relief to stand and gaze out into the yard. The woodpecker sounded his rat-a-tat-tat nearby. Shakti rolled in the grass. Jess thought, this is what I wanted. This is why I came here.

  “Beckett, I would like to repay you for all this.”

  “You’ll have time.” He pulled the hairband from his ponytail and let the straight blond strands swing toward his face. He looked at Jess with those blue eyes, holding her gaze.

  She thought he might kiss her, but like two magnets with the same poles turned toward each other, there was something between them—something like the fact that Beckett had seen Tyler kiss her. What Dave had said about a typical pissing contest rang in her memory. If that was why Beckett had offered his help, she was sorry.

  “Have you seen your ghost again?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. Not since we talked. Maybe it’s over.”

  “Talk to Lora in the antique store. She was friends with the last owner of this place.”

  Dave came out of the barn and up the drive. “That barn is fantastic,” he said when he reached them. “Solid structure. Needs some maintenance, of course. And you’ve got a regular critter palace in there, but they’ll be easy to clear out.”

  “Careful,” Beckett said. “Dave will clear them out with a shotgun.”

  “Naw. I only shoot what I want to eat. Clean that thing up, we can have a barn dance in there!” He shuffled and kicked his feet. Jess laughed and Shakti came running to get in the commotion. Dave turned and dipped, surprisingly agile for such a thick-muscled man. Jess laughed again and was aware of Beckett watching her, his expression lightening to the sound of her laughter.

  Chapter Seven

  Jess sat in her music room, riffling through the box of stereoscopic cards, fitting one after another into the wire holder on the viewer. Many were tourist cards of scenes along the Mississippi, or views from the Twin Cities. Other cards showed Native Americans posing in regal headdresses. She found one of a young man in moccasins and buckskin leggings standing atop Barn Bluff with an eagle draped over his shoulder; its wings spread across his back, their span impressive despite the lifeless languor. Behind that card was one titled “At the Races.” It showed a race track, the white rail shining in midday sun. The racers were not horses and jockeys, but greyhounds. Jess glanced at Shakti. The thought of dog racing seemed cruel, though she didn’t know for a fact if it was any worse than horse races or other forms of animal labor. “At the Races” was a set of cards, it turned out. On one, a proud couple stood in the winner’s circle with their greyhound. She held the dog’s leash, the trophy. From their wardrobe, Jess figured it was the 1920s. She sighed and put away the stereoscopic cards.

  She gazed out across the porch at the leafy branches of the sugar maple. A swallow swooped in front of the tree, its chevron-shaped tail folded and spread as it arced in flight. Jess loved watching the sky-dance of swallows. She sighed and opened her Macbook. The old man with the shed full of antiques had caught her attention and stayed with her, often populating her thoughts. She began sketching scenarios, free writing a page or two about his home, then exploring his marriage, then how he had managed to collect so many things over the years. Each scene she wrote opened new possibilities as it explored the character of the old man. She decided he needed an old fashioned name and stuck him with Orel. He was a widower, and estranged from his daughter. Jess wanted to discover why his daughter no longer spoke to him. She turned off her monitor so she could type without seeing the words, eliminating the visual, freeing more of the imagination. She wrote and wrote until Shakti whined to go outside, and she felt better about herself than she had in weeks.

  The fresh air inspired her; it would be fun to write about Orel on her 1931 Underwood typewriter. Besides, it was about time she displayed her prized possession. The heavy black case had sat on the floor beside the couch since she moved in, looking rather like it expected to up and leave at any moment. She hefted it upstairs and set the solid little machine on the writing deck of her desk. Jess put her thumb on the latch on the front of the case and looked at the lead cowboy. He faced the room, his six shooters aimed at Jess’s chest. The latch sprung open with a snap that startled her, as though one of the cowboy’s six shooters had gone off.

  Jess tried to laugh at herself.

  She lifted the cover and ran her hand over the shiny metal frame of an Underwood portable. It looked better here on this antique desk than it had ever looked anywhere, like it finally belonged.

  Jess positioned her hands over the Underwood’s keys, allowing the tips of her fingers to caress the rounds of glass over each letter. She took a sheet of paper out of one of the desk drawers and loaded it into the roller. She closed her eyes and struck a key. It took effort to bring the hammer to strike the page, unlike a plastic computer keyboard.

  Orel was an ornery old cuss.

  Jess looked at the words on the page, the way the keystrokes made indentations, the imperfect application of ink from the ribbon. Computers were like magic, with everything behind a mysterious curtain. She liked being able to see how the Underwood put words on a page in a tangible form of creation. Jess hit the keys again, noisily composing, the ding warning her of the impending right margin, followed by the click and ziiiiing! of the carriage return. When she got going, keys jammed, the W, A, and S clumping together. Jess had a smudge of ink on her fingertip from repeatedly releasing the keys. The words flowed without the internal editor she employed at the keyboard, as though her mind knew it was too much work to stop and make a change on the typewriter—the back spacing, the strike throughs, the occasional white out. Jess’s mind leapt into the past. Orel was a young man wooing his soon-to-be wife. His hair was long on top, slicked over his forehead away from a ridiculously straight part with a dollop of pomade each morning. It was 1936. Why not 1936? Jess smiled to herself, her fingers slamming keys, exercising all of her writing muscles, when she heard car tires on her gravel drive. Jess had to stand to look over the top of her desk and into the front yard. A black truck pulled up to the house. She watched Tyler climb out of the cab before going downstairs to turn on the porch light.

  Shakti stayed behind Jess’s legs while she ope
ned the door, her tail wagging with excitement, then dropping with a cautious uncertainty. When Tyler came inside, she dropped into a bow then sprang at him and pawed his legs. “Hi,” Jess said. She offered Tyler a kiss.

  “I called,” he said. “It kept going right to voicemail.”

  “My cell coverage out here sucks.”

  “I hope you don’t mind a surprise visit.” He held up a bag from the Water Wheel. “I brought dessert.”

  “Oh my God…” Jess let a forkful of flourless chocolate torte soften on her tongue. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “I told you the way to my heart was through desserts, right?”

  They sat on the couch in the living room, eating chocolate, listening to music. Tyler nodded, a clever, almost mischievous, look twinkling in his dark eyes.

  “This is unfair. This is like handing a junkie his fix.” Tyler had brought a tawny port to accompany the cake. Jess swirled her glass and watched the legs form before taking a sip. “You cook, you bake, and you pair wine with food incredibly well.” She shook her head. “I think I’m in heaven.”

  The look of clever satisfaction was replaced by something like deep gratification. Tyler pushed the tines of his fork through his piece of torte and only now allowed himself a first bite.

  “Hey,” Jess said, “I have an idea.”

  “Sounds important.”

  “It is. Believe me.”

  They made their way to the bedroom with Jess dancing and teasing up the stairs. “Can we hang lights around the café?” she asked on the lower flight. “Sure,” Tyler said, and she spun to face him on the landing, throw her arms around his neck, and kiss him in the moonlight that shone through the window. “I can make spanakopita. Do you like spanakopita?” She continued the ascent. “Mmm-hmm.” “If the weather is nice, which it will be, people can spill out into the garden. Won’t that be great?” “Great.” “I’ve hardly met anyone here. I’ve been holed up at home so much. I’ll finally get to meet the locals.” And with that they reached her bed. Jess tumbled onto it, giggling, her arms stretched out to embrace Tyler. He flopped beside her and they wrapped their limbs around each other and rolled their bodies together.

  “Why, is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” Jess said in her best Mae West.

  Tyler rolled away from her, his hand going protectively to his hip. “It’s a pocket knife.”

  “Awfully big, isn’t it?” She propped up on an elbow to study Tyler’s face.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s a lot smaller than my chef knives.”

  “But you don’t carry those in your pocket.”

  “Look, honey, it’s just a pocket knife. It’s not your average Swiss Army knife, granted, but it’s only a pocket knife. Lots of guys carry knives. If you don’t like it, I can put it in my truck right now.”

  Jess couldn’t believe Tyler would hurt anyone, but it would never occur to her to carry a knife around unless she was expecting to need it. “You don’t have to take it down now,” she said, “but I’d prefer weapons not come inside my house.”

  “Deal.” Tyler smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. Jess responded, softening her mouth and allowing his tongue to probe gently. She tried to regain her enthusiasm, pushing any thoughts of knives from her mind.

  Tyler removed his shirt. Jess stroked his chest and abdomen, placed her palms against his hips, a scar running under one of them, and drew him toward her. Her passion flared anew.

  There was a flicker of blue light in the corner of the room.

  Tyler pushed Jess’s shirt up over her breasts.

  The light pulsed and Jess felt a sudden chill. “Did you see that?”

  Tyler buried his nose in her hair and bit her lightly at her neck. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Oh. I thought I saw something move over there,” she said. Tyler bent his head to her breasts. Jess grasped his back, wrapped her legs around his hips, and stared at the red-haired woman who stood near the windows.

  So you like to watch, Jess thought. What? Didn’t you get any while you were alive?

  The red-haired woman opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. There was a flash of blue light and the raw pink torso—that slab of meat hanging in the smokehouse—appeared to Jess, looking suddenly more human in form than porcine. She gasped and shuddered, a scream caught in her throat.

  Jess woke to the sound of birds in the trees outside and sunlight coming into the room. Shakti had found her way upstairs and managed to scrabble onto the bed without help. She was curled into a pale blonde ball at Jess’s feet, her nose and ears twitching in a dream. Soon her paws flicked, and Jess knew the chase was on. She wondered if the puppy caught the squirrels in her dreams, or if she only replayed the events of her day, watching even these dream critters scamper up a tree and taunt her.

  Tyler lay snoring softly beside Jess. She rolled to face him, to press her nose close to his shoulder and inhale. She brought a hand to rest on his chest and played with the hairs curling against his skin. He slept soundly, oblivious to her touch. She scooted her body closer to his so that her nipples brushed his arm, her knees touched his thigh. She liked living alone, but this was all right, too. Jess raised her hand to Tyler’s forehead and smoothed his hair from his brow, exposing the pink line of scar. It ran back into his hair quite a ways and was not so different from the scar on his hip. Jess was frowning, wondering what sort of trauma could cause this, when Tyler’s hand shot up from the bed and grabbed her wrist.

  Jess yelped with surprise. Tyler’s eyes were open, staring at her, as wide with surprise as hers.

  “You’re hurting my wrist.”

  “I’m sorry. I was asleep.” He let her go.

  “I know.” Jess sat up and rubbed her wrist. “I was stroking your head.”

  “I’m sorry. I startle easily.”

  “I see that, Tyler.”

  He sat up and took her hands in his. “Don’t be mad. It was instinct. I was asleep, you know?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to shower.” She slid out of the bed. “You can make us coffee, if you like.” She tried a smile but was too disconcerted to put any sincerity behind it. Shakti followed her into the bathroom.

  Jess felt better after a hot shower. She was trying not to think about the red-haired woman or Tyler’s pocket knife. She told herself today was a beautiful day. May was going to be a beautiful month. She and Tyler were going to host a fantastic party. She was going to get tons of writing done today. All good things. She opened the bathroom door fully to let the steam escape and rubbed her hair in a towel. Tyler was across the hall, standing in front of her roll top desk.

  “You have an old typewriter,” he shouted across the hall.

  “Yes. I love that thing.”

  “Very cool. And what’s this?” He lifted the sheet of paper in the typewriter so Jess could see the top of the page.

  “Don’t read that. It’s only some free writing. You know, brain storming.” She slipped on some shorts and a shirt while she explained. “Like experimenting in the kitchen. It hardly ever becomes anything you’d want to share with other people.”

  Tyler glanced at the paper let it down without reading it. He walked across the hall and kissed Jess on the neck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I know.” She kissed him back so he would believe it was all right, and they went downstairs to make their coffee.

  Orel stopped believing in God after his wife died. He decided the only thing you could trust in life was a thing you could hold in your hand. So he began to collect things. All kinds of things. He taught his daughter to blaspheme daily and to put her faith in her sewing machine that earned her a decent wage and in the book in her hand that gave her so much pleasure. He refused to let her attend any socials sponsored by the church, even if they were the best place to meet eligible men. He believed he had convinced her and that she would spend her days giving him the comfort he found nowhere else. And then she announced, despite everyt
hing, that she was marrying a minister. find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find him find

  Chapter Eight

  Bonnie peeked around the edge of a plaid mini skirt and smiled down at her son. Johnny sat under the birch trees, his face mottled by dancing sunlight shining through the leaves. He played with the cowboys and Indians his father had given him, completely absorbed in whatever story his mind created around the figures that happened to just fit his tiny palm. Bonnie lifted a blouse with a frilly collar from her basket and pinned it up. John had recently restrung the old metal frame with new clothesline. It was a minor improvement, but it made Bonnie happy each time something in her life was made better, as though the improvement, however small, confirmed that life contained order and meaning.

  John came out of the house. He put his sample case and briefcase in the car before crossing the yard to see his wife. He grabbed Bonnie’s small waist and spun her behind a sheet. Bonnie giggled with surprise as her feet lifted off the ground. She looped her arms around her husband’s neck and gazed up into his face. “I love you, honey,” he said. “Do you think we put a bun in the oven last night?”

  “It is too early to tell, and you know that very well.”

  “I know.” John plucked one of his wife’s red curls from her forehead and moved it to better look into her eyes. “I just want Johnny to have a little brother soon, before he gets any older.”

  “Or a little sister.”