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

by Alida Winternheimer

  His head snapped up and he looked at Jess, his gray eyes rimmed with tears. “What? Bonnie? Now?” He looked down at the photo that he held so gingerly by the white border.

  Jess couldn’t help looking up at the dome in the ceiling, directly into the security camera. If she upset him, she had no doubt Marcy would bustle in and lead him away, back to the seclusion of his room. She hoped John was a safe subject. “Was John ever in Vietnam?”

  “Huh? No. He was a college boy. Like I said, bookish.” Mr. Ecklund said the word bookish with a pronounced snap on the K and an incriminatingly long sh at the end of it. “Bonnie’s high school sweetheart, Carl, he went to Nam. Left us his purple heart, yes sir.”

  “Carl? Carl who?”

  “Hi, Pops,” a man greeted Mr. Ecklund as he strode into the room with a big smile on his face and a Snoopy balloon waving about his head. He stopped short when he noticed Jess, his face transforming from pleasant expectation to rising anger in an instant. “Ms. Vernon.” It was a pronouncement, not a question. Jess knew Johnny, or John Ecklund, from his faculty photo on the St. Thomas website. The eyeglasses were the same, the hair was now long enough to look windblown, like he’d driven the River Road from St. Paul in a convertible, and the sport coat and tie had been exchanged for jeans and short sleeves. She didn’t know if he knew her—if he’d rummaged through her online presence after their exchange—or if it was only a hunch.

  “Dr. Ecklund.” She sat upright on the edge of her chair, bracing herself for some degree of anger.

  “Doctor? Are you here for my check-up?”

  “No, Pops.” Johnny came over and kissed his grandfather on the top of his head. “It’s Saturday. I’m here for our visit. Look.” He held the balloon lower so Mr. Ecklund could see it up close.

  He raised one hand and poked the balloon with his finger, setting it bobbing on its string. His creased face softened with amusement. “I like those Peanuts,” he said. “Remember you used to sit on my lap and I’d read you the funnies?”

  “I sure do.” Johnny tied the balloon to the back of an empty chair, then stared down at Jess. “You should leave.”

  Jess picked up her notebook and slid it into her purse. “I’m sorry this is difficult for you, but I need to talk with you. Your mother…”

  “My mother,” he snarled through clenched teeth, “died in a car accident. I don’t know what kind of sick thrill you get digging into people’s lives, but I already told you that I never lived in Skoghall.”

  “Skoghall. Skoghall. Skoghall,” Mr. Ecklund muttered to himself. He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop to his own erratic beat.

  “Great.” Johnny gestured at his grandfather’s hands. “He does that when he’s upset. Are you happy now?” His voice rose nearly to a shout. “Get out of here before I call security.”

  Jess stood up and put her purse over her shoulder. She glanced out the window at the geese, searching for the right words. They were slow to come and she was out of time. “Johnny, your mother…”

  John Ecklund raised his fist over his head and swung. Jess cowered, stumbling over her chair as she backed away. His fist struck the table with a smack that reverberated through the large room. Mr. Ecklund scrambled away from the table, knocking his chair backwards and falling over it onto the floor. Johnny reached for his grandfather, a horrified look of shame across his face, but Marcy and two large men in matching black pants and Oak Hill polo shirts rushed into the room. The men had radios on their belts and the confident air of night club bouncers. They divided as they approached the table, positioning themselves in a stance of control beside Jess and Johnny. Marcy went straight to Mr. Ecklund with an efficiency of movement that impressed Jess. She bent forward and gripped him by the elbows. Mr. Ecklund reached out, his hands grasping claw-like at whatever they snagged, catching Marcy’s blouse, clapping her head, snagging her pants pocket, all before finding purchase on her shoulders. Marcy held him, keeping herself steady apart from slight weaving movements to avoid his fingers catching somewhere painful, like her eye or ear. Jess now understood why Marcy didn’t wear jewelry and kept her hair secured at the back of her head.

  Mr. Ecklund floundered on the floor, struggling with his rescuer, muttering to himself, repeating the word Skoghall over and over like it was mere gibberish. It pained Jess to know the word triggered for him the greatest tragedy of his life. Marcy helped him get his feet under himself and, with a grunt, hauled him into the chair with the balloon. He immediately began drumming the table with his fingers while Snoopy danced above him.

  Marcy tugged at the front of her blouse to straighten it. Her authority returned with this correcting of her wardrobe. “I need you to leave now,” she said.

  Jess nodded and stepped away from the table, but Johnny stepped closer to his grandfather. “I just drove four hours to visit Pops. Marcy…” he appealed to their familiarity. “You know how Pops looks forward to my visits. He needs time with me.” Johnny put his arm around Mr. Ecklund’s shoulder.

  Mr. Ecklund continued muttering to himself, though his hands were now in his lap and his head bent, like a child trying to make the world go away by pretending he can’t see it. When Johnny touched him, he flinched and scrambled sideways, almost falling out of his chair. Johnny reached out to comfort Mr. Ecklund, but Marcy stopped him with a hard glare. Mr. Ecklund began to cry. “I want to see Bonnie. I want to see Bonnie. I want to see Bonnie.” His insistent plea chilled Jess. This place, for all its pleasantries, seemed haunted by the disconnected pasts of its residents.

  “Pops,” Johnny said, but Marcy held up her hand in a sharp gesture.

  “You know the rules, John.” She quickly returned the hand to Mr. Ecklund’s shoulder. She rubbed his arms and shushed him as she helped him stand and guided him around the table toward the door.

  Jess and Johnny watched Mr. Ecklund being led away, his simpering plea to see Bonnie a sort of torture. To not remember what happened was to experience a new kind of grief, one that seemed especially cruel.

  “You stupid bitch. Do you have any idea what you just did?”

  “What I did? You’re the one who punched the table.” Jess was about to say more, but a firm hand gripped her arm.

  “You two need to leave now.”

  “I want to talk to Marcy,” Johnny insisted. The other man put a hand on his arm. He flung it off. “I want to know why this stranger was allowed to visit my grandfather.”

  “Sir,” the man said, “you’ll have to come back later. Her first priority is Mr. Ecklund. You know that.”

  “I demand to see my grandfather.”

  The man clamped both of his hands on Johnny and shoved him with controlled strength, forcing a shuffling walk toward the door. The man holding her arm pushed Jess forward. She obliged, following the other two. Her escort kept a tight grip on her as they walked, too tight, but she didn’t dare complain.

  “We have the right to expel anyone from the premises who upsets our residents, including family members,” the man escorting Johnny recited company protocol. “You know that, Dr. Ecklund. It’s one of the reasons you chose Oak Hill.”

  Jess glanced at the swimmer as she was paraded by the reception desk. He stared wide eyed. Jess had never been forcibly removed from a place before in her life. If Johnny pursued his complaint, she figured the kid would be the one to get in trouble, and she hoped he had a good track record with his employer.

  “You can call Ms. Hinley this afternoon to discuss matters,” the man said when they were outside the building. He gave Johnny a slight shove, just enough to show he meant business, and Johnny tripped forward before turning to face their escorts. The two men stood with their feet planted wide in front of the glass door, their hands on their hips, the full breadth of their rock-hard pectorals obvious through the taut fabric of their polo shirts. Their intimidation tactics were clear.

  It was best to make her getaway; Jess turned from the scene Johnny was about to create and walked quickly toward her car. Halfwa
y across the parking lot, she began to laugh. It was nervous laughter, a shrill sound that would have embarrassed her if anyone she knew was around to hear it. She realized that behind her calm facade, she’d been in a suspended state of fight or flight, every fiber of her body ready to spring into action, and now with the threat gone, she was losing it in a fit of giggling.

  Just as she unlatched her car door, a pair of hands came alongside her shoulders and shoved it shut. Jess spun around. She was trapped with her back pressed to her car and Johnny Sykes seething in front of her. She watched a bead of sweat form at his hairline and begin a trickling descent down his temple. His hair had barely darkened with age, remaining an almost white shade of blond. Jess opened her mouth, willing herself to scream for help, but no sound came out of her throat. She looked past Johnny to the front doors of the building, but the security men had already gone inside.

  “What… What… What the fuck!” Johnny swiped his hands down the side of her car door as he pushed away from it, the metallic scratch of his wedding band sounding against the side of her car, a scar to remind her of whatever was about to happen. Johnny turned away from her and swung his arms, punching the air like an overgrown child having a tantrum. Jess put a hand behind her and groped for the door handle, keeping her eyes on Johnny. An orange Cooper Mini sat on the other side of an empty parking space. Johnny turned his rage against the Mini, driving his fist into its hood with a resulting clang that was less metallic sounding than Jess expected.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bonnie remembered his arms around her in the backseat of his parents’ blue Oldsmobile. She had let him unhook her bra and hold her breasts while they made out. He told her he had just enlisted and would ship out right after they graduated from Holmen High—Holmen High seemed so very long ago. He said he would be proud to fight for his country, like John Wayne in The Guns of Navarone. He was going to come home a hero. Bonnie had never seen The Guns of Navarone and she didn’t know how she felt about the war. But he was her boyfriend and he was leaving her to be a hero, so on graduation night they snuck away from a party and she let him have her on that blue vinyl bench seat. She justified spreading her knees because Carl deserved a hero’s send-off. And if he didn’t make it home, like so many of their boys, then she would have done what she could. She couldn’t see that proud, strong boy in this man before her. Not even a trace of him.

  Bonnie wished John were home.

  Come home, John. Come home!

  John’s supper had been canceled because the sales manager got a stomach bug, the hotel was already booked, and Bonnie had a date with Marlene. It seemed silly to drive home when he could get a good night’s sleep, and treat himself to some greasy hash browns in the morning before hitting the road. Getting regular breaks from family life and keeping the heart fond was one of the perks of being a traveling salesman, and John did not object to the solitude of a hotel room and his choice of the television or a Zane Grey novel before bed. He called home, of course, but Bonnie had already gone out for the evening. He meant to try again later, catching her before her bedtime, but he fell asleep with his book on his chest.

  After only a few hours, John woke from a bad dream. He lay in bed awhile. A light from the parking lot cut through the gap in the curtains and slashed the ceiling in half. He couldn’t shake the unease, even though the dream was just a vaporous thing he couldn’t name, probably caused by the cheese burger he’d had room service deliver for his lackluster supper. He grabbed the alarm clock off the nightstand and stared at it, waiting for the face to come into focus. Midnight. John rolled over and picked up the phone, his finger poised to dial. He put the receiver back in its cradle.

  Picked it up.

  Put it back.

  Bonnie and Johnny were asleep. If he called now, she’d have to wake up and come downstairs to answer. He’d wake Johnny, too. It was foolishness. Just a bad dream.

  He rolled off the mattress and padded to the bathroom on bare feet. He splashed his face with water and took a leak before getting back into bed. John stared at the ceiling, flipped over and punched his pillow a few times before dropping his head onto it. He covered himself, then kicked the blanket off. He turned on the television and flipped through the stations. Most of them had already gone off the air for the night and now showed either static or the American flag snapping in a breeze on some hill somewhere. The Night Owl Theater was still on. Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein lurched through a dark, rocky terrain, moaning, casting terrified glances over his shoulder. John shut it off. Almost 1:00 and he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to be home.

  John got back out of bed and threw his clothes in his bag, brushed his teeth, and left the room key on the dresser for the maid to find. There wouldn’t be any traffic this time of night, and so long as he didn’t run into any troopers, he could be home in three and a half hours. Three if he pushed it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There were more children today. While some played with the toys provided in the corner, looking much like little children on any playground anywhere, others sat nestled against their mothers, thumbs secured in small round mouths, taking in the strangers with wide looks of awe. The visitors were again by and large women—wives and girlfriends made up to please their men in this one small way still available to them. Wasn’t that the way of women everywhere? To present themselves as sexually alluring, whether to attract a man or keep him, whether for a special occasion or simply to maintain her worth. Jess was both repulsed by the idea of being reduced to eye candy and well aware of her own participation in the gender ritual. When she and Mitch were getting along they liked to go out, and she liked to wear push-up bras and dresses that showed off her legs. She couldn’t claim to be any different than the women who populated these tables, maintaining their relationships through the appearance of sex and the profession of faithfulness.

  A guard escorted John Sykes to the table by his arm, providing necessary support. John sat down with a breathy exhalation of relief. “Well?” he said before the guard had taken up his station by the wall.

  “How are you?”

  “Dying. My hip’s shot. I can barely walk…but you didn’t come here for my health report. What do you want?”

  “I saw your son today.”

  That made John straighten up with interest, but not without wincing. “Does he know about me?”

  “I…” Jess looked at her hands. She found herself once again on the verge of telling all, but thinking better of it as the words were leaving her mouth. “I tried to tell him everything, but he doesn’t open the emails I send or answer the phone when I call.”

  “But you saw him today.” John leaned forward with his forearms on the table, his knotty fingers spread almost flat. His eagerness was almost as painful to see as the way he had limped over to the table.

  Jess nodded. “He wasn’t happy to see me. He doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say.”

  “Why not? Doesn’t he want to know his own father?”

  Jess was slow to answer, but she could think of no way to soften what she had to say. “He says he knows who his father is.”

  John sat back against his chair, dragging his hands across the table until they fell into his lap. “How?”

  “I don’t know. I guess his grandparents told him…”

  “That son of a bitch.” John’s face lit with a spark of anger and then the life vanished and he again looked as yellow and faded as a piece of parchment. “I wrote Johnny letters. I never heard back. Not once, not even after he turned eighteen. I suppose that grandfather of his made sure he never saw a single one.” John turned his face away from Jess and looked over the heads of the other prisoners and visitors toward the windows. “For forty years I’ve been looking at the sky through bars. Marking time. That’s all I’ve been doing, marking time.” He looked at Jess again. “What does he look like?”

  “Johnny? He’s got that light blond hair…”

  “Towhead. That’s what his
mother called him. A towhead.”

  Jess nodded. “He wears glasses. He’s a history professor. He looks like the kind of professor I would have had a crush on when I was in college.”

  John’s lips curled into a smile of wistful longing. “A history professor. That’s fine. That’s a fine profession. Much better than traveling salesman.”

  “John, who do you think killed Bonnie?”

  “You think if I knew that I would have spent forty years rotting in jail?”

  Jess was startled by the vehemence in his voice. “No, but you might have an idea about it, even if you can’t prove it or even if nobody would listen to you.”

  John’s body softened. “No idea. I tried to get that damn sheriff to look for her killer, but he wanted to close the case fast. Open, shut. Put a man in jail, even the wrong one, and folks sleep better at night, then the sheriff gets his reelection.”

  “There was a transient, a veteran, in town at that time. I think he might have been the one…”

  “Are you going to find this transient? This no-name vet? Are you going to put him here in my place?”

  “I don’t know, but we can clear your name.”

  John stood on wobbly legs and glared down at Jess with a ferocity that came from some deep reserve of energy. “My name is shit. There’s nothing left to clear after forty years. I don’t give a damn about my name or the time I’ve done. My time is over.” His voice dropped to a hoarse croak and tears welled in his eyes. “It’s too late for that. They’re giving me compassionate release and shipping me to some hospice to die. So what’s the point of it now?”

  The guard who had led him to the table approached from his side and put a hand on John’s arm. He waited for John to finish, a courtesy that touched Jess.