The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1) (25 page)

“Swampy,” Johnny muttered, one hand reaching toward the car, his sleepy eyes barely open.

“I’ll come back for him, sweetheart.” Bonnie shifted his weight in her arms and got the front door unlocked.

Upstairs, Bonnie smiled while she took care of her son, marveling at the size of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes, the nearly-white blond of his hair, how much he already resembled his father. She had to lift each limb, supporting its weight while she slid on a sleeve or a leg. Before pulling his pajama top down over his torso, Bonnie laid a hand flat on her son’s chest and felt the warmth of his unblemished skin, the rise and fall of his abdomen with each wonderful breath.
Oh Life!
she thought, her heart dancing.

She softly closed the door to the hallway, then took her purse through the connecting door to her bedroom and shut that one just as softly. Bonnie tossed her purse on the bed and undressed. She added her dress to the pile of clothing on the chair, relishing the momentary freedom to be careless and watched as the orange sash slid away from the pile of clothes and coiled on the floor. She laid her belt atop the dress and it stayed put—for now. Her nightie was folded under her pillow. Bonnie retrieved it and slipped it over her head. She began humming again as she checked her bedside clock: 9:25. She had pressed flowers this spring and framed the prettier ones. One of her frames stood propped against the wall at the back of her nightstand, another on the floor beside it. A hammer and a few nails—she always seemed to bend one or two in these old plaster walls—lay between her clock and her lamp on the crowded nightstand. Bonnie decided to wait for John’s call downstairs, where she would be closer to the phone, and twirled toward the door. She knew John had a job offer. She could feel it.

She stopped in the living room to put on the Doobie Brothers’ album,
Toulouse Street
. She had just picked it up a few weeks ago and it was a current favorite. She set the needle on the record and listened to the soft
scratch-scratch
as it found the groove and slid into the first track. Bonnie shook her hips and danced into the kitchen. She put the kettle on the stove and got out her mug and a tea bag. Something to sip would help her wait for John’s call from Madison. Bonnie added her voice to the refrain as her water began to bubble.

Bonnie couldn’t resist a little shimmy as she got closer to the speakers. The tea she carried sloshed over the lip of the mug and scalded her hand. “Damn!” She switched the mug to her other hand so she could blow on her burnt fingers and suck on her pink knuckles.

Bonnie lifted the needle and set it back, starting side one over again. She turned the volume down and grabbed her book before settling on the couch. Marlene had lent her this book last week. The cover had an eerie painting of a woman’s face, one half lost to shadows, with the fine cutting lines of a jigsaw puzzle further disturbing the viewer. Marlene was into sensational stories, something Bonnie seldom liked because they always had to do with people getting hurt. Still, this book was irresistible just as Marlene had promised. Poor Sybil, the abused child turned fractured adult.

It was difficult to read about this poor woman, and Bonnie found herself taking breaks, thinking she might not be able to stand anymore, then picking it up again hoping for something good to happen. Bonnie got off the couch and stretched, rising onto her toes and reaching for the ceiling. She went to the turntable and lifted the needle, setting the arm on its cradle. The mantle clock said it was already after 11:00, and she was getting sleepy. Surely John would call any minute now. Or he’d had an early night and she was waiting up for nothing. Bonnie decided to walk through the house, checking the doors and windows the way John did each night before turning in. When she arrived at the front door, she remembered Swampy laying on the front seat of the wagon.

Bonnie went out, leaving the front door open in case the phone rang while she was outside. She jogged off the porch and over to the car, enjoying the warm night air on her arms. If John were home, he’d make them Brandy Old Fashioneds and they’d sit on the porch looking for the moon over the barn. There didn’t seem to be a moon tonight, just lots of clouds. A bat swooped by and Bonnie ducked, then laughed at herself for startling. She didn’t mind the night birds at all. In fact, she thought they were fascinating. She had wanted to put up a bat house near the barn, but John wouldn’t hear of it. He was afraid of rabies. She opened the car door and grabbed Swampy. The car door shutting seemed like an unnecessary disturbance on this quiet night, and she apologized for the sound, though there was no one close enough to mind it. Her nearest neighbor was a half mile away.

She locked the door behind her, then paused in the hallway to look into John’s office. The phone had not rung and there was no sense in waiting for it. At this point, he probably thought she was sound asleep and would be afraid of waking her and Johnny. She flipped the record over and sat down with Swampy. Another chapter of poor Sybil’s life wouldn’t keep her up too late.

After only two pages, Bonnie had to pee.

She came out of the bathroom to find a man standing at the top of the stairs. She jumped, a high, thin sound coming out of her, a scream she stifled because she recognized the man and because she did not want to wake Johnny. She glanced across the hallway at Johnny’s door. It was still closed. She looked at the man before her. The hall light lit the top of his filthy John Deere cap and caused a deep shadow across most of his face. His hands trembled at his sides.

“Carl?”

He did not move or even lift his face to look at her.

“Carl. It’s me, Bonnie. What do you want, Carl?”

He still did not move.

“Do you need some money? Is that it?” Bonnie’s voice rose involuntarily. Her father had once told her that dogs notice things like that. That’s what people mean when they say dogs can smell fear, that they hear the pitch of your voice change, they sense your heart pounding, they smell the sweat on your palms. She cleared her throat and tried to calm her voice while gripping the fabric of her nightie and drying her palms. “Carl. Don’t move. I’ll get you a few dollars. All right?” Bonnie stared at Carl, waiting for acknowledgement that he had heard her, that he understood one single word she had said, but he gave her no sign of comprehension.

Her first step away from the bathroom was shaky and Bonnie had to concentrate to stop herself from trembling. She went into her bedroom quickly, turning on the light and grabbing her purse off the bed. She was just opening her wallet when Carl rushed in from the hallway, moving with a speed that took her breath away and left her without a single instant to prepare for the blow he landed her. His shoulder connected with her ribcage and she flew backwards onto the bed, aware that her wallet was in her hands, caught between them, and coins had flown out of the open cavity to bounce and roll on the wood floor of her bedroom. She heard one spinning on its edge before it clattered to a stop. Carl flipped her onto her stomach and grabbed her by the hair. She cried out and was terrified more by the sound of her cry than by Carl’s rough handling of her. She did not want to wake Johnny. She did not want Carl to know that Johnny slept on the other side of that door. He jerked her around by the hair and she clawed over her head without catching hold of anything. He grabbed her black belt, the one she had worn to dinner, and looped it around her wrists then slammed her back onto the bed and bound her to the headboard. It happened so quickly. Bonnie squeezed her eyes shut as tears streamed down her face.
Dear God, please keep Johnny safe. 

Chapter Seventeen

Jess and Beckett pulled into Skoghall, tired from the morning’s visit with John Sykes. They hadn’t expected the meeting to be so emotionally draining, and they had driven back with the windows down and music playing, neither of them speaking more than a few words. After checking on Dave and Shakti, they walked across to the Water Wheel Café, letting their curiosity and hunger guide them. A string of bells hanging on the screen door chimed as they entered. The café was empty, but welcoming with the windows open, a breeze carrying the scent of the garden inside, and the sound of the water wheel slowly lapping at the spring as one paddle after another dipped into the water. Jess and Beckett took a table near the window and waited.

Robin came out of the kitchen and grabbed menus on the way to their table. “Welcome to the Water Wheel.” He wore the same broken in running shoes and t-shirt as when Jess first met him.
Lucky shirt,
Jess thought, or he didn’t have time to pack much when Tyler asked him to run the place in the middle of the busy weekend. “Oh, hello,” he said when he saw Jess up close. “I have your dishes in the back.”

“Thanks.” Jess smiled, making an effort to show him she wasn’t always surly. “This is Beckett.”

The men shook hands and exchanged introductions. Robin had a soul patch on his chin. Jess couldn’t decide if she hadn’t noticed that before or if it was a new addition to his face. Beckett asked about the wait staff, and Robin explained he was acting as server and chef at the moment, cutting staff hours whenever he could to recoup the losses incurred between Tyler’s leaving town and his own arrival.

“Think he’ll make it work here?” Beckett said when Robin had retreated to the kitchen.

“Hope so. I wonder if Tyler is ever coming back.”

“I wonder.” Beckett’s face darkened momentarily. He changed the subject. “So, what do we do next?”

“Find him.”

“John doesn’t think that will help.”

“But Bonnie does, and she’s the one I have to worry about. We know the killer was a Vietnam vet. Where do we find information on vets?”

“The VA hospitals? American Legion?”

Jess let her gaze drift out the window to the bird feeder. Several squirrels foraged beneath it and a blue jay perched on the top of the shepherd’s hook. “What if we find him? Then what?”

Beckett shrugged. “I guess we tell the police and a lawyer, see if we can get John out of prison before he…”

“Dies.”

“Yeah.” Beckett pushed his hair away from his face and blew out a long breath of air. “Jesus, Jessica. What are we getting into?”

“I hope we’re getting out of it.”

Robin brought them their food. The black bean burgers were beautiful, dressed with sprouts, blue corn chips, and a fresh tomatillo salsa on the side.

“Is this Tyler’s recipe?” Jess asked.

“All mine,” Robin said.

“This looks fantastic,” Beckett said.

“Thanks. Enjoy.” Robin retreated.

Jess gestured after him. “The café isn’t suffering any for his being here.” She topped her burger with some of the salsa. “Now, John said he was diagnosed with cancer fifteen months ago, right?”

Beckett nodded around a mouthful of food. “Oh man, this is really good.”

“When did the haunting pick up for Cathy?

“Early 2013, I think.”

“See?”

“See what?” He took another bite of his burger. “Aren’t you starving? Eat. Eat.”

“What if Bonnie knew that John had cancer? What if she started haunting Cathy because she was upset about her husband’s illness and wanted Cathy to do something about it?”

“I don’t know, Jess. That seems kind of far-fetched.” Beckett pointed at her plate.

“Why?” Jess picked up the burger and took a bite. “Oh…you’re right,” she said with a hand covering her mouth. “This is delicious.”

“How could Bonnie know about something happening over in Hadley?”

“Because he’s her husband.”

“Okay, say you’re right. Then what?”

“Then I move in and she puts the pressure on me, because time is short. John said the doctors are giving him a few weeks to a few months.”

“Then we’d better get busy.”

Jess carried her dishes, final remnants of the party, out of the café, feeling for the first time in days like she was making real progress and was on the way to saving her house. As she and Beckett started across Main Street, Lora came out of the antique store and called to Beckett. She waved him over and he left Jess in the street, hugging her spanakopita pan. Jess watched him bound up the steps and push his hair behind his ears, seeming overly attentive to Lora. Lora tilted her hips, a flouncy skirt swinging with the movement, then led him inside. Jess knew she had no right to be jealous, but she did not like the way Lora looked at Beckett, her… So they had slept together. What did that make them, anyway? He hadn’t held her hand or touched her at all since they left the correctional institution, and those touches now seemed like a friendly comfort more than an indication of a developing relationship. “Stop it, Jess.” Even on a quiet day, it was stupid to stand in the middle of the road, so she finished crossing the street and set her dishes down on the sidewalk.