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

by Alida Winternheimer

  Jess stood in front of Lora, and Tyler planted himself at her side. “We met last week.” Jess smiled and held out her hand. Lora held up her wineglass and hors d’oeuvre plate. A short curvaceous woman, Lora wore her natural padding like an accessory she’d chosen, instead of fighting it like some unnatural burden the way most women did. If Lora had a complaint about her figure, you would never guess it. Her Asian-styled silk top had fluted sleeves that draped her pale arms and a deep V-neck that showed off cleavage deep enough to hide a rhinoceros. She had lifted her blonde hair off her neck with a butterfly clip, but left long bangs framing her round face, a complement to her dark-lashed eyes.

  “How nice to meet you again,” Lora said. “Great party, Tyler.”

  “Lora,” Beckett said, “was friends with the woman who owned your house last. You can ask her whatever you want to know.” Beckett nodded at the ladies, his duty complete, and slipped away to talk to other people.

  “So you have that old place.” Lora eyed Jess with new interest.

  “Yes,” Jess agreed. She didn’t know what to say with Tyler clinging to her elbow. She was about to ask something about the barn when a man she didn’t recognize asked Tyler for more ice, drawing him away. Jess worried her relief was obvious, but there might not be time for subtlety. “Beckett said your friend was unhappy there. Did something happen?” she asked.

  Lora looked over her shoulder like the woman she was talking about might be within earshot. “Lots of things happened. I don’t know the whole story, but Cathy sank a bunch of money into remodeling the master bedroom and had big plans for the place. She was a painter. I think she wanted to do something with the barn, make it an education center or something, maybe partner with the inn for out-of-towners.” Lora looked for a table nearby and led Jess over to one. She set down her dishes and gripped Jess’s arm with soft, manicured hands. “Some places are bad news. That house just about drove Cathy nuts, and when she left, she was flat broke. The bank got the house.” She let go of Jess’s arm and raised her wineglass to her lips. After a pause, she lowered the glass without drinking, then tilted her head and made a little sucking sound with her mouth. “But you know that, since you must have bought the house from the bank.”

  Jess decided not to respond to that statement. “What kind of things drove her nuts?”

  “I think you already know, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “Do you know anything about the history of the house? Who had it before Cathy?”

  “No, but if I were you, I’d cut my losses and get the hell out of there.” Lora looked around the room, perhaps seeking better company, but settled for picking up her plate and wineglass again. “Have you tried the artichoke dip? I think I’ll get some more.”

  Jess watched Lora weave through the crowd toward the food table without bothering to tell her that she had made the dip. She was scowling. Cutting her losses had occurred to her more than once this week.

  “Jessica?”

  She turned around to find Mike and Carrie Cummings facing her with bright smiles. “Hi. How are you?” They owned the Skoghall Inn on the other side of the antique store. A two-and-a-half story building built on the slope of main street, it was originally the cottage of a Danish shoemaker. Mike and Carrie lived elsewhere in the village, making the Inn a sort of off-site B&B with Carrie delivering breakfast to their guests every morning from the back of her Subaru.

  “Great party,” Mike said. “How did you get Tyler on board?”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  “Really? He seems,” Carrie lowered her voice, “like such a loner. Odd for a café owner.” She glanced at Mike through tiny oval spectacles. “I mean, we’re in the hospitality industry, too. Imagine doing that if you didn’t like to talk to people?” Carrie’s wispy brown hair seemed to float around her pixie face. When she wasn’t care-taking at the Inn, she sewed couture clothing. A number of her pieces were for sale in the gift shop next to the Skoghall Hardware, and she had a thriving online store that kept her in bobbins. Carrie had dressed for the party in a swingy blue skirt and ruffled top, no doubt her own handiwork. Her shoes had a couple inches of heel on them, making her taller than her husband.

  “I think he hides in the kitchen most of the time,” Mike said. A mass of spiraling black curls, the kind that made Jess want to slide her fingers right into them, bounced on his head he moved. Mike was a painter who had lost his parents unexpectedly in a car accident. The shock of losing them in their sixties, before they’d even had the chance to retire, had been the catalyst that brought Mike and Carrie to Skoghall. They sunk his inheritance into the Inn and began their lives anew, committing to work that fulfilled them and trusting that an income would follow. Carrie had told Jess their story when she delivered the party invitation, and it made Jess feel they were kindred souls. Her divorce settlement was just like their inheritance, a terrible boon. “He’s a great chef, though,” Mike said, as though making penance for his previous remark. “Have you tried the spanakopita?”

  Jess shook her head. She was beginning to realize that everyone in Skoghall saw Tyler as reserved to the point of challenging the social order.

  “Jess, we have a question for you,” Carrie grabbed Jess’s arm excitedly and gave a little squeeze. “We want to offer guests an arts experience. Something unique to Skoghall. We want to partner with all the local artists and offer people the chance to spend some time with a painter,” she gestured toward her husband, “a clothing designer,” herself, “a potter…you get the idea. And we were wondering if you would be our resident writer?”

  Jess was stunned. She looked at Carrie and Mike in turn and found matching expressions of happy anticipation. “Sure.”

  “We’ll pay you, of course.”

  “The guests will really.”

  “It will be so much fun. People will get to choose the artist they work with for an afternoon.”

  “Just a few hours.”

  “It’ll make our Inn experience unique.”

  Mike and Carrie talked excitedly, laying out their big idea and how it would increase traffic at their Inn as well as visibility of the local artisans with no up front costs. Carrie began telling Jess she would need some of her credits or a bio to put on the website, that they were so excited to have her involved, and the program would begin right away, this season.

  Tyler moved along the outside wall of the dining room, skirting the crowd. He held one hand out to touch the wall, while the other fumbled with his hip pocket as though rolling a worry stone under the fabric. Jess, however, knew what he kept in that pocket. “Excuse me,” she said. “That sounds great and I’m really excited. I am, but I think Tyler needs help with the food.”

  “You’ll do it?” Mike asked.

  “Absolutely.” Jess put a hand on each of their arms, “Let’s talk more tomorrow.” She stepped away from Mike and Carrie, then sidled between Lora and someone she hadn’t met yet, a lanky man easily six-three with hands like shovels. “Excuse me,” Jess said as she squeezed through. Near the doorway to the kitchen, Dave and Beckett were talking to Miss Jayne Grundi, an older woman who had grown up in the area and moved back after retiring from forty-three years of elementary education. She owned the ice cream parlor and wrote poetry. Although concerned about Tyler, Jess’s thoughts stayed with the Cumming’s invitation to be a resident writer. It could be the social in she was looking for. She hoped telling Tyler her news would distract him from whatever was going through his mind. “Hey, Jess,” Dave called as she passed by. Jess waved and motioned that she’ be back in a minute or two. Dave nodded and turned his attention back to Miss Grundi.

  Even with a party in full swing, the kitchen appeared immaculate. Tyler was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s stepped outside. There was an exit off the kitchen where he and the wait staff took their breaks. Jess walked past the stainless steel prep counters and commercial fridges. She didn’t notice that the door to the pantry was open until she was upon it. Tyler stoo
d just inside, his shoulders slumped and head bent forward.

  Jess stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder. “Ty…”

  His hand shot up from his side as his torso rotated toward Jess, the power of the strike coming from his hips and shoulders. Tyler grunted as his fist struck Jess’s face, his knuckles, those solid protuberances, impacted her cheek bone with shocking force. On the downward swipe, the edge of his ring caught Jess’s cheek. Jess stumbled back and fell into a prep counter, the small of her back slamming against the rounded steel edge. As she fell, she knocked into a stack of stainless steel mixing bowls that clattered and rang as they hit the floor. The bowls spun on their sides next to Jess’s head, and the world crashed down around her.

  Jess couldn’t move. Her body lay askew. Nothing seemed to be in its proper place. Then she felt the thudding of her heart and blinked against the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. Things began to throb and the first awareness of pain caused her to gasp for new air.

  “Jess? Jess, are you all right?”

  She turned her head to look at the person calling her name, her body able to again respond to her will. Beckett knelt beside her, his blond hair falling forward into his concerned face. She blinked at him, then looked past him at Tyler. He was stricken, his mouth moving open and shut like some fish long deprived of water. His left hand clenched the oblong shape of the knife inside his pocket. Jess brought her gaze back to Beckett’s face and nodded.

  Beckett put a hand on Jess’s shoulder and slid it under her back. “Can you move?” She nodded tentatively. He helped her raise her head and shoulders off the floor. Sitting up caused her to wince in pain as her back muscles seized. Jess looked at her bare legs sprawled before her and realigned them, then straightened her dress over her lap. She looked at Beckett and nodded again. He took her hand in his and also supported her waist as she stood. Once she regained her feet, she looked at Tyler.

  His gaze did not leave the floor.

  “Hang on,” Jess said. She put both hands on the steel countertop for support and leaned over it, her eyes squeezed shut. She needed to catch her breath and find her equilibrium. Jess didn’t notice Beckett’s hands leave her.

  There was a shout of surprise, then more shouts and scuffling. Someone kicked the mixing bowls on the floor and they skidded and clattered again, causing Jess to grip the counter and cringe into herself, braced for another blow. Dave and Beckett shouted at each other. By the time Jess was able to look, Dave was holding Beckett by both arms. Beckett still snarled at Tyler, but already he was relaxing against Dave’s hold. Tyler had his fists up, and Jess saw the silver end of the pocket knife where it extended from inside his fist. A trick, she knew, to add heft to his punch; thank goodness the blade was closed.

  Beckett shook off Dave’s grasp. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m all right!”

  Dave released Beckett and positioned himself between him and Tyler, his hands out like a traffic warden. Jess figured this wasn’t his first time breaking up a fight.

  Beckett offered her his arm. With his hands on her for support, she turned to leave and found the party had crammed into the kitchen. Her new neighbors stared at her, some with hands over their mouths. People looked away as she and Beckett moved slowly toward the door, parting for them as they made their slow retreat. Jess’s face began to throb, but she would not touch it or meet the look of those surrounding her, afraid of what she would see reflected in their faces.

  Beckett led her outside. The water wheel’s slow turning was a remarkably pleasant sound. Jess thought if she could only sit down that sound would soothe her spiraling nerves and bring her back to herself. She wanted to mention it to Beckett, but when she lifted her head she saw Mike Cummings and the tall man in the garden. The tall man had a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Mike had his hands in his back pockets. They both stared at her, impossible to imagine what they had missed inside. Beckett’s cargo van was parked in front of the hardware store. He guided their slow promenade. Jess felt the heat of eyes on her back and knew all of Skoghall stood behind her in the garden. Beckett opened the car door and kept a hand on her elbow as Jess lowered herself into the seat.

  Beckett drove in silence. Jess looked at her lap as tears of shock and pain welled in her eyes. A drop fell, landing on her dress. It soaked into the fabric turning an orange-brown. She put her fingers to her cheek and they came away wet with blood. “Oh my God.” Jess flipped the visor down in front of her and found a mirror. Blood ran down her cheek from the gash Tyler’s ring had made. She began to tremble.

  Beckett tucked Jess into bed and Shakti followed her. The dog sniffed Jess’s face and gave her a warm lick before curling up against her abdomen. Beckett shifted next to her bed, turning toward the door and back again. Jess reached out to grasp his wrist. “Stay with me?”

  He hesitated, then walked around the bed to the other side and lay down on top of it. When she began to tremble again, he spooned Jess and put his arm over her shoulder. Beckett shushed her, the way one shushes a baby to calm it, and rubbed her arm through the covers. Jess felt exhausted and wired at the same time, as though she’d been startled, only instead of a fleeting sensation, it was lasting all night.

  The red-haired woman stood in the corner of the bedroom. Jess’s skin prickled with the sensation of being watched and she turned and kicked at the covers before waking. When she opened her eyes, the red-haired woman touched a hand to her throat then opened and closed her silent mouth. Jess slipped out of bed and stood facing the red-haired woman. She turned away from Jess and walked through the wall. Jess followed. On the other side of the wall was a bedroom decorated with planets and spaceships. A twin bed sat in place of Jess’s desk with a rocket blasting into the stars on the bedspread. Navy blue curtains hung over the windows. The red-haired woman parted the curtains. On the windowsill stood a line of cowboy and Indian figurines. Through the window, beyond the sugar maple, Jess saw the smokehouse, eerily aglow, though when she looked up into the sky, the moon was hidden by a thick layer of charcoal-colored clouds. Jess gagged, her throat suddenly too small. The red-haired woman stood quietly, holding the curtains open, her gaze fixed on the smokehouse. Jess tried to get more air into her lungs, gasping and sucking. It felt like she was trying to breath through a cocktail straw. She put her hands to her throat and clawed at her neck, but found nothing there to release. Oh God. Oh God. I’m dying. She tried harder to pull air into her lungs. The room began shrinking. The red-haired woman stared at her, impassive.

  Something took firm hold of Jess’s arms. She swung around, her mouth gaping, her hands clawing at her throat. “Jess. Jess!” Beckett shook her.

  Her throat opened and she noisily sucked in air. Jess collapsed, sinking on legs that could no longer hold her. Beckett swung her into the desk chair. Jess’s chest heaved with the panicked work of bringing oxygen back into her body while she looked at Beckett, the room, the windows. It was her office. There were no curtains. No bed. No rockets. She put her head in her hands, but when she touched the swell on her right cheek she cried out at the stinging pain. She looked up, tears running down her face. “Beckett, what’s going on?”

  “Jess…” He put his hand forward to gently touch her neck. “You scratched yourself. You’re bleeding a little.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. She was in the room with us. She wanted me to see something.”

  “It was a dream. You were sleepwalking.”

  Jess stood up, suddenly remembering, and went to the closet against the wall shared with her bedroom. “I walked through this wall.”

  “No, you didn’t. Jess…”

  Jess looked at Beckett and noticed for the first time that he was only wearing boxers.

  “I figured I’d get comfortable if I was sleeping here,” he said.

  “Did you see me leave the bedroom?”

  “No.”

  “Turn on the light.” She had to stand still, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, t
hen stepped inside the closet. It was really two small closets, one to each side of the door with short hanging bars. Jess patted the wall between them. “This is where she goes. She walks through right here.”

  “Who?” Beckett rubbed his goatee.

  “The red-haired woman. The ghost.” She knocked on the wall. “Look at the closet. Why would someone make it like this, unless there was a door here?”

  “I don’t know, Jess. It’s 3:00 in the morning.”

  “The last owner remodeled the bedroom and bathroom. She could have walled up the doorway.”

  “I suppose.” Beckett sat in the desk chair and rocked backwards, then, noticing the cowboy, he rocked forward and picked it up.

  “That’s hers. Whenever I put it away somewhere, no matter where in the house I hide it, it ends up right there.” Beckett considered the cowboy a moment and put it back. “She showed me something tonight…”

  He held up his hand to stop Jess. “Look, if we’re going to do this now, I need a drink.”

  “Coffee? Tea? Cocoa?”

  “We are going back to sleep, aren’t we? You know, like at 4:00?” Beckett sighed. “I need a drink-drink.”

  Jess found she had to take it slow going downstairs. Each step caused pain in her back. She had avoided looking at herself in the mirror, but could tell from the feel of things that she had a solid lump on her cheek and a large bruise above her hip. Shakti followed them, pausing to scratch behind her ear on the landing, then whined, an alarmed squeak when Jess and Beckett got too far ahead of her. Beckett went back for her and carried her to the kitchen.

  Jess stood in the butler’s pantry gathering supplies. “Do you like white Russians or black Russians?”

  “Well, I try to be color blind when I meet people.”

  She stepped into the kitchen, a bottle of Kahlua and vodka in her hands. “Funny.” She smiled and winced. “Ouch. Don’t make me laugh. ”