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

by Alida Winternheimer

  Jess looked up to watch Beckett schmooze with his customers. He stood with his hands on his hips, his blond hair tucked casually behind his ears. When he talked, he gestured with open palms. The woman he was talking to appeared charmed while her husband picked up one pot and then another, examining the bottom of each one before setting it back down with obvious disinterest. Beckett and Lora, she thought. Hmmm…

  The old Carnegie library was small, but elegant with a domed atrium over the circulation desk and floor-to-ceiling windows that filled the stacks with natural light. Jess was admiring the ceiling when a librarian asked if she could help her find something.

  “Yes, please. I need newspapers from the 1970s.”

  “Those would be on microfiche. I’ll set you up with a machine.” The librarian came around from behind the desk. Her pleated jean skirt flowed over large hips, the kind that swung with each step. A cheery pink twin-set topped the skirt, amplifying her sturdy shoulders. The librarian talked as she led the way out of the atrium and down a stone staircase, past the main doors, and down another flight to the lower level. The temperature dropped a few degrees and the librarian snugged her cardigan closed. “It’s always colder down here, and a little damp. If you’re going to do a lot of research, bring a sweater, honey.” Jess followed her into a back room that had been modernized in the seventies or eighties with the unfortunate addition of a dropped ceiling and fluorescent lights that turned the librarian’s pink sweater a strange shade of salmon. “Here you are.” She patted a study carrel with a reader, then opened an old card catalogue drawer. “Here are the local papers. And here.” She patted some other drawer fronts. “Do you know how to use a reader?”

  Jess did. She had written a master’s thesis on the early feminist movement in Minnesota, focusing on temperance, suffrage, the radical American Costume, and specifically on Julia Bullard Nelson, a widow of the Civil War who left Minnesota to teach in a Free Man’s School in Texas. She found it exciting to once again face a wall of microfiche.

  Skoghall didn’t have its own paper, so Jess searched for newspapers from nearby towns. She began with the 1973 obituaries. One by one, she added boxes of rolled film to the cart until she had exhausted the entire year for both Bay City and Pepin. If Bonnie Sykes died in 1973, wouldn’t someone run an obituary in the local paper? Jess leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, then kneaded the back of her neck with her fingertips. Over three hours work and not a mention of Bonnie Sykes.

  After a lunch break, Jess stood looking over the row of small, square, cardboard boxes, each one with a neatly typed label. She had been careful to put them on the cart in chronological order. She stared at the first label: Bay City Gazette 1973 Jan - Feb. What was she missing? Jess pictured the house, the lead cowboy, the red-haired woman—Bonnie, she reminded herself.

  Bonnie was wearing a sleeveless nightie. “Ah-ha!” Jess moved her finger down the row of boxes she’d set out on the cart and grabbed the first one with June on the label. June was the earliest most women would go sleeveless and barefoot in this climate. She took out the coil of film and spooled it onto the rollers. The obituaries hadn’t turned up anything useful, so she began with the front page. A murder would surely make headlines.

  Jess was getting hungry again and the old tubular fluorescent lights weren’t doing anything to stem a creeping feeling of lethargy. She decided to push through another half hour before she’d have to call it quits and get out of that basement. Besides, Beckett was probably sick of the dingo puppy by now.

  She loaded up the next roll of film, the Bay City Gazette. Jess couldn’t resist reading some of the articles, despite her mission and fatigue. On June 4th, Congress passed the Case-Church Amendment, prohibiting further military involvement in Vietnam without the President first getting Congressional approval. Watergate was in full swing with reports on the hearings in every issue of the paper. On June 10th, NASA launched Radio Astronomy Explorer 49 into lunar orbit. The papers were full of articles about the space race and the USSR getting ahead of the USA. Russia and France were also involved in the arms race, and concern over nuclear weapons development and testing was rampant. Harrison and McCartney’s solo careers were going well. And it seemed a plane crashed somewhere in the world every week.

  With so much happening, so many things to raise the nation’s anxiety, it was no wonder local news, even sensational local news, didn’t make the front page. Jess turned the nob, scrolling past the sports section to the local section. Mostly, this section was full of news about weather, crops, fishing, business openings and closings, and the occasional feature on a local person done good: Jane Smalley won the spelling bee, Ritchie Price came home with a Purple Heart, and so on. On June 14, 1973, however, the headline at the top of page L1 read, “Skoghall Woman Found Swinging in Smokehouse.” Jess’s arm shot toward the ceiling, an involuntary, celebratory fist-bump. She began, then self-consciously stifled, a “Woo-hoo!”

  Her pulse quickened as she read the article. “Bonnie Sykes, wife of John Sykes, was found yesterday morning hung in the smokehouse on the family’s property. Mr. Sykes was reportedly away at the time of the incident. Law Enforcement does not believe it was a suicide and are looking for information about Mrs. Sykes at this time. Please contact the Pierce County Sheriff if you can assist the investigation. Mrs. Sykes is survived by her husband, son, and parents.” The article was surprisingly short, but included a grainy photograph of the property—of Jess’s home—with the smokehouse prominent in the foreground. A police cruiser and an AMC Matador station wagon were parked in the long drive. The wagon had a single round can of a light over the front seats and a label on the side. Jess turned the knobs on the microfiche reader to enlarge the image. A scan of newsprint didn’t yield the best clarity, but it was good enough to make out “Pierce County Coroner.” The house looked somber, the vehicles dominated the image, their proximity to the smokehouse an incrimination of it, confirmed by the headline. Two men stood near the vehicles, one in a sheriff’s uniform, the other in a white doctor’s coat. Jess wondered if Bonnie’s body was in the coroner’s vehicle at the time the image was taken. The thought of her laid out in the back of that station wagon gave Jess the chills.

  A female voice came through an intercom speaker in the ceiling, “The library is closing in fifteen minutes.”

  Jess printed a copy of the first article, then hurried back to the machine to trade out the microfiche. There had to be more news, a follow-up, something… Without time to read, Jess printed off everything she could find in subsequent Bay City Gazettes.

  The librarian appeared in the doorway of the microfiche room. “Miss, we’re closing now.”

  “Just one more minute, please,” Jess said. “Last one.” She fed quarters into the printer and it hummed as the scan of the article was transferred to paper and rolled out into Jess’s eager hands.

  The final headline was both sad and exciting: “Skoghall Woman’s Husband Convicted of Murder.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jess slowed her car as she pulled into her long driveway and searched the property, as though if she looked hard enough she would see the coroner’s wagon and the sheriff’s car sitting where they had forty years ago. She stopped for a moment to stare at the small, conical structure where Bonnie had been found hanging. Jess reached a hand across the console between the two seats and laid it on Shakti’s shoulder, a protective instinct. The puppy raised her head to look at Jess, then opened her mouth in a wide yawn, uncurling her pink tongue.

  “Bonnie is not your enemy. She needs your help.” This had become Jess’s affirmation since finding the articles at the library. It was meant to give her courage and had helped convince her she could do this without Beckett to hold her hand. Just now, looking out her car window at the smokehouse, she wasn’t as confident. She rolled up to the front of the house and put her Kia in park, then thought better of it. She pulled into the parking pad in front of the garage and turned the car around so it faced up the driveway, r
eady for a fast get-away.

  Here was the house she fell in love with at first sight. The woods surrounding the property made it seem an enclave perfect for a writer. A pair of cardinals, the male’s bright red coloring a beacon of cheer, joined the sparrows and nuthatches at the feeder she had hung from the sugar maple. Jess paused to watch the birds and felt sorry for Cathy Fenton, but she also felt Cathy hadn’t wanted this badly enough. Jess wanted it. It was everything she had dreamed of one day having, and Bonnie wasn’t going to run her off.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. It creaked as it swung into the vestibule. The house was quiet. The floor was as it should be with no sign of bloody footprints. Jess called Shakti out of the yard and they went inside together. Her heart beat fast with nervous anticipation. Jess walked through the first floor and found nothing more upsetting than a fruit fly infestation in the kitchen. She had left several ripe bananas to turn black and ooze onto the counter. As Jess headed upstairs, images from all the movies she’d seen flashed through her mind and she expected something horrifying to rush her each time she rounded a corner or opened a door.

  The house was still.

  Jess went into her office last and sat at her roll top desk. The cowboy stood in his usual spot, six shooters pointed right at her. She picked him up and turned him over in her hand, examining the wear, the tiny face with two black pin-dots for eyes. Jess didn’t know what he meant, but he was obviously important. She set him back down, turning him so his guns pointed at a wall.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone.

  Shakti ambled into the hallway from the bedroom, following her nose, then trotted into the office. If she’s not anxious, Bonnie’s not here, Jess told herself. She’d been waiting to read the articles closely, thinking if she read them in the house, Bonnie would know she was helping her. Bonnie would be pleased by that, surely. She took the articles out of her bag and flipped through them, ordering them by date, looking again at the photograph of the coroner’s wagon parked in front of her house with Bonnie laid out in the back.

  Jess set the copies aside so she could move her typewriter off the writing deck, making room for her research. She paused and tilted her head, a question forming in her mind. She didn’t remember writing that much last time she used her typewriter, so why was the page full? She lifted the paper that draped over the back of the roller.

  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 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 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 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 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

  She released the paper and laid it face down on top of her desk, then stood the cowboy on it like a miniature paperweight. Deciding not to think about it, she focused on her research.

  Being a small paper, the Bay City Gazette only came out twice a week. The first article was dated June 14, 1973, a Thursday. Jess read the article, highlighting certain details: Bonnie was discovered the previous day, Wednesday, June 13th, by her husband, John Sykes. Police suspected foul play, but had no suspects. She was survived by her husband, young son, and parents. The sensational article used the large photo of the property to pique interest and made mention that Bonnie was found hanging in the smokehouse three times, yet it was annoyingly slim on specifics. Jess wondered if the police had told the journalist, one Melvin Sharpe, not to reveal too much. Jess hoped the next installment would yield more information.

  Tuesday, June 19th. Four whole days had passed, four days of investigation and plenty of time to write an article. “Come on, Melvin,” Jess said as she picked up the next piece of paper.

  “Mrs. Marlene Wilkins, friend of the deceased, has told this reporter that she did not believe anyone would want to harm Mrs. Sykes. ‘Bonnie is just the sweetest person you’ve ever met…was. Bonnie was the sweetest person you ever met. I feel so bad for her little boy,’ Mrs. Wilkins said in our interview.” Jess highlighted the name Marlene Wilkins. She read on. “Baffling local authorities is the lack of apparent motive. Nothing is missing from the home and there are no signs of forced entry or a struggle, which lead this reporter to suspect Mrs. Sykes knew her attacker.” Jess scowled. She disapproved of Melvin’s inserting himself in the investigation. It was one thing for a police officer to say she must have known her attacker, another for the reporter to assume the voice of authority. Still, if there was no sign of forced entry or a struggle, Jess had to agree with his conclusion.

  A week later, on June 26th, Melvin reported that police had arrested John Sykes for the murder of his wife. Jess already knew he had been arrested, yet reading the article filled her with an inexplicable sense of grief. She lifted Shakti off the floor and held her, kissing her head while thinking about Bonnie’s little boy.

  It was a month later that John Sykes was convicted of the murder of his wife. In the final article, dated July 31st, Melvin stated, “Mrs. Sykes, a small woman, was hung in the smokehouse on the property while her child slept in the nursery. This reporter cannot help but wonder at the significance of the smokehouse and the natural associations it raises. It would have been an easy matter for Mr. Sykes, who, while no Hercules, is nearly six feet tall and a man of some strength, to overpower his wife and force her from their bedroom in her nightgown.” Jess was furious with Melvin Sharpe. The man, claiming to be a reporter, dressed every fact of the case in his personal flourishes. It must have been impossible for public opinion to be anything but hostile toward John Sykes. She read on, “Due to the heinous nature of the crime, John Sykes was sentenced to life in prison at the Waupun facility.” Melvin continued to editorialize, “It is a sentence fitting the crime and, in this reporter’s opinion, nothing less would bring justice to the loss of Mrs. Sykes.”

  Jess leaned back in her chair and gazed out the window into the branches of the sugar maple. Two squirrels ran in a dizzying spiral up the trunk and out a large branch, then leapt for another branch and disappeared down the trunk below the line of the porch roof. Jess was glad Shakti was curled on her lap, unaware of the frenetic activity outside. She probably would have launched herself at the glass. Jess let her gaze settle beyond the branches of the tree on the smokehouse. It angered her. It angered her that Bonnie died in that structure and it angered her that Melvin had planted certain associations in his readers’ minds, which were,
Jess knew, unfounded. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain, as though Bonnie was the source of this anger. Tears began to fall from Jess’s eyes. Tears she could not explain, but she let them come and wept silently until they splashed on Shakti’s head. The puppy looked up, saw Jess’s wet cheeks and rose. Shakti put her paws on Jess’s chest and licked eagerly at her face, enjoying the saline taste of her tears. Jess laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The anger and grief over Bonnie’s loss mixed with the joy of puppy kisses.

  The paper was now face up, though the cowboy had not moved. Jess stopped laughing. She hadn’t been paying attention to it, but she was certain she would have noticed the movement in her peripheral vision if the paper had lifted and turned over. And yet, there it was, row upon row of those two little words: find him.

  “Okay,” she said. Then louder, “Okay. I’ll find him.” She flipped over the last article and wrote at the top, “Find him. John Sykes: life Waupun. Little Boy Sykes: ???” She tapped her pen against the desk while she thought. “Marlene Wilkins?” She would know something, like the boy’s name.

  Jess had an idea.

  She set Shakti on the floor and gathered up the articles. She moved the Underwood to the center of the desk and inserted a fresh sheet of paper. At the top, she typed:

  What is his name?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jess and Beckett sat on his couch with Shakti wedged between them. When the puppy slipped into dream sleep, her face and paws began to twitch, paddling against Jess’s leg. She stroked Shakti until the feet quieted. Beckett reached over to pet her and his hand touched Jess’s, then settled on top of it. Beckett’s fingers laced through hers on top of Shakti’s soft fur. Jess kept her eyes on the television screen, but she wasn’t watching the movie anymore. She felt the pressure of Beckett’s hand on hers, the slightly rough feel of his fingers against her skin, and the warmth of his grasp. She felt her cheeks begin to color as she imagined what she wanted.