The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1) (28 page)

“Beckett!” she shouted. “Beckett!”

She heard him thundering up the stairs before he burst into the bedroom. “What? Is she back?” His eyes were wild with panic. He had a mug in his hand and it was raised, ready to strike at something.

“No. Look at this.”

“Jessica! You scared the crap out of me. Don’t yell like that unless you’re in danger.”

“I’m sorry.”

He lowered the mug and shook his shoulders, releasing the adrenaline from his muscles. “What is it?” He came over to stand beside Jess and look at their reflection.

“The mark. It was made by a scarf. Like this.” She showed him the pattern and how she had drawn the scarf across her throat. “A belt would be smooth. A rope would be twisted. This mark was made by a scarf.”

Beckett nodded. “Couldn’t you have told me that downstairs?”

“I got excited.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I hope that mug was empty.”

He looked at it like he hadn’t known it was there. “Yeah. You’re lucky I hadn’t poured the water yet. Come on. It’s ready.” He led the way toward the stairs.

“I’m not sure how you would have defended me with that mug, but thank you.”

Beckett took Shakti into town after breakfast, freeing Jess to cross the river again. She entered Red Wing, this time going to a café a couple of blocks off the main street. She sat at a table where she could watch the front door, opened her computer, and tried to write. There was no point in it; however, since every time the front door opened, she looked up to see who was coming in. Finally, a man of the right age entered the café. He carried himself erect, with the kind of square shoulders that suited the wearing of tuxedos and heavy overcoats. His clothing fit him well and Jess had no doubt it was expensive, even though he wore it casually.

“I don’t suppose you’re Jessica?” He removed a cap to reveal a head of thick silvery gray hair.

“Yes.” She closed her computer and stood to shake his hand. “Dr. Devries?”

“We aren’t in a hospital, are we? You can call me Sterling.”

“Sterling. Nice to meet you.”

He excused himself to get a drink and returned a few minutes later with a mug of tea. Jess liked him already.

“I was expecting somebody, um, more like Arlen Wilkins.”

Sterling chuckled. “We go back a long way, but we aren’t very alike.”

“I’m glad,” Jess said, smiling conspiratorially.

“No doubt. Now, Jessica, how can I help you?”

After her meeting with John Sykes, Jess had prepared her introductory speech. “I’m trying to solve a murder that happened forty years ago and find the son of the victim so I can give him something of his. I think you might have a clue as to who the killer is.” Jess was pleased with how reasonable she sounded. Sterling sat back in his chair and observed her until she thought maybe she hadn’t sounded reasonable at all. She resisted the urge to fidget.

He grasped the edge of his tea bag and bobbed it up and down in his mug. “Why would I be able to help you?”

“Because I have reason to believe the killer is a Vietnam vet who was in Skoghall in June 1973. Marlene Wilkins said you worked at the VA Hospital back then. Maybe you encountered this particular vet.”

“1973. I started working at Tomah in 1973. That was a long time ago.”

“I know. This guy wore a John Deere hat and was seen in Skoghall. Marlene saw him hitch-hiking the day of the murder.”

Sterling looked troubled, his face solemn, his thick silver eyebrows knit together. “Everyone hitch-hiked back then, Jessica.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have a lot to go on.” She took a sip of her latte, hoping that given a few moments to think about it, Sterling would shake loose a memory of use to her. “The victim’s husband has been in jail for forty years. He hasn’t seen his son once in all that time.”

 Sterling’s expression darkened. “And you’re sure he’s innocent.”

Jess nodded.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“Please. Anything could help. I don’t need medical information. I just want to know who was in the area around that time.”

“But I wasn’t in Skoghall. I was in Tomah, and I saw lots of Vietnam vets.” He pushed his chair away from the table, but instead of standing to leave, he took his tea bag out of his mug and set it on a spoon. He blew on his tea before taking a sip. “Can you tell me something else?”

“The victim was Bonnie Sykes. She had curly red hair. She was hung with a scarf. I think she knew her attacker.”

Sterling nodded slowly. “I was still in my twenties when I started at Tomah. It was my first real job as a doctor. There were so many patients, so much work every day. I was cut loose to help people without supervision for the first time in my career. Trial by fire. It was a great way to learn fast, but it also meant there was more room for mistakes.” He looked at Jess, locking his gaze on hers. “I did my best, but…sometimes I didn’t know the right thing to do.”

Jess nodded her head, waiting for the revelation.

“There were a lot of messed up vets. Really messed up. We couldn’t help everyone. I’m sorry.” He stood up abruptly. “I need to leave. I can’t help you.” He picked up his tea and left the mug at the bussing station before pushing open the door and stepping out onto the street.

As exits went, his was not dramatic, but no less definitive—if Jess let him get away. She jumped up and ran after him. “Sterling, wait!”

He stopped beside his car, his hand on the door.

She caught up to him and couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder before asking, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“What?”

She untied the scarf around her neck. “Bonnie did this to me last night. This is what he did to her. I need to find him and help her husband, before…” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Before John dies? Before she’s run out of her house? Before Bonnie kills her? “If you know something, please help me.”

Sterling yanked open his car door. “I’m sorry.” He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Jess stepped back onto the sidewalk and watched him pull away.

The photo of the Sykes family—possibly the last photo ever taken of Bonnie—and the cowboy sat before Jess on the roll top desk. She looked out the window, through the branches of the sugar maple, at the smokehouse. With the scarf tossed aside, she absentmindedly fingered the mark, a strange sort of blue and gray bruise. Though the marks of a scarf were visible, her skin felt smooth. Jess was grateful for that. To have to see the mark was bad enough without having to actually feel the imprint of the murder weapon each time her fingers found her throat. It was depressing, sitting in this room. It was always depressing here. Jess kept a clean sheet of paper in the typewriter, but no further messages had come through. Just the one directive, over and over: find him.

“I’m not a detective.” Jess stood up and turned away from the window. “You hear me, Bonnie?” She shouted as though Bonnie were far away or hard of hearing. “I’m not a detective! All right?” Jess threw open the closet door and banged on the wall that now separated her office—in Bonnie’s day the nursery—from her bedroom. “You aren’t giving me much to go on.” She banged on the wall until her fist throbbed. “Bonnie! Damn it, Bonnie! You have got to help me!” She was yelling in an empty house at no one. Jess grabbed up the photo and the cowboy and ran downstairs.

Sparrows and the pair of cardinals scattered from the feeder when Jess sprang from the house and out into the yard. The yellow grass under her feet had stopped growing a while ago. A squirrel barked at her from a high branch in the tree, its tail jerking up and down as though the barks were produced by the pumping action. Jess lifted her face to the bright blue sky and inhaled deeply.
Get a grip,
she told herself and forced herself to look at the things in her hand. She had dented the corner of the photo. She smoothed it out, glad it was only a corner. The smokehouse stood nearby, strange cylindrical structure with that conical roof, and Jess hated it.

She had thought time alone at the house would do her good. She wanted to pour over her evidence and collect her thoughts, but instead she was unsettled and defeated. Beckett had already suggested they sleep at his place tonight. Insisted was more like it. Jess didn’t want to be brave anymore, so she threw some fresh clothes in a bag and locked up the house.

Shakti slept under the worktable while Jess examined her notes. The puppy’s speed was either zero or one hundred, and Jess appreciated every nap her dog took. “Sterling Devries knows something he wouldn’t tell me,” she called across the expanse of the studio.

Beckett sat at his wheel centering a ball of clay. The water on its surface emerged between his fingers and rolled over the backs of his hands as the clay spun, while centrifugal force created a stable form. He didn’t respond, probably hadn’t noticed that she'd spoken. Radiohead played through his speakers and Jess wondered how he chose his music, if there were different artists for different types of pots. Tonight, he was working on a set of plates, one of his special orders from the Memorial Day tourists. She supposed her talking to him now was the same as someone interrupting her writing time. She turned back to her notes and instead of talking, took out a pencil.

At the center of the page, she wrote “find him” and circled it. She added the names of everyone involved in this mystery and connected them to each other. Jess tapped her pencil on the table while she studied the mind map. Sterling was connected to Marlene and possibly to the mysterious veteran. She drew a line with a question mark in the middle of it between Sterling and the vet. As she stared at he question mark, she remembered that Marlene had given her a new clue: Ecklund.

She put her pencil on John Sykes, Jr., and paused before scratching out Sykes and writing in Ecklund.

Outside of the newspaper articles about Bonnie’s death, John Sykes, Jr. did not seem to exist. She had searched for him more than once and nothing had ever come up. Jess opened her computer and entered a new search: Ecklund, La Crosse, Wisconsin. There were plenty of Ecklunds, a doctor, a motorsports business, and dozens of individuals. Jess wished she knew the Ecklund’s first names as she scanned page after page of related search results. She was concentrating so deeply that she didn’t notice Beckett coming up behind her until his arms were wrapped around her ribcage.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Jess put her hands over his, enjoying the feel of his arms around her. His hands felt slightly damp after all that time at the wheel, and crescents of clay remained under his short nails. “I’m looking for Bonnie’s son. I think he might have been raised as an Ecklund, instead of a Sykes.”

“Geeze, poor kid.”

“The poor kid is older than us, but yeah, his mother is murdered and his father is in prison all his life. That sucks about as much as anything can.”

“Take a break? We can get dinner up at the Water Wheel.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to find Johnny first.”

“The café closes at 7:30, you know.”

Jess glanced down at her watch, 6:30. “Why don’t you go ahead and order something for me. I’ll join you as soon as I finish this search.”

“What about the dog?”

“I’ll crate her before I come up.”

“Jess.” Beckett pulled free of their embrace. “The crate is at my place. You won’t make it up the hill in time if you finish that and then go crate the dog. We both need to go now if we’re going.”

“Then we’re both not going. I told you this is important right now.”

“Why? What are you doing that won’t wait an hour?”

“Beckett.” Jess felt the heat rising. “I said I have to finish this and I just do.” She was emphatic, her tone sharp. It was a tone well-worn during her marriage and one she hadn’t used since moving to Skoghall. It surprised her, not only the sound of her own voice, but also the feelings that accompanied it, like Beckett had flipped a switch and instantly pissed her off. It was a switch installed by her ex-husband, Mitch, yet she couldn’t help her irritation.

“Fine.” Beckett turned on his heels.

Jess grabbed his wrist and pulled him back toward her. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll hurry and crate Shakti. It won’t take me that long. You can go to the café and order for both of us. I’ll get there by the time the food does.”

Beckett looked at her face, his eyes shifting as his gaze explored her features, determining sincerity. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll order dinner.”

Jess watched him through the window as he left the old livery building and quickly crossed the River Road. He didn’t deserve her prickly side, but if there was one thing she detested, it was being told to do something after she expressed a need to do something else.

She looked at her computer screen again. Six pages into the search results, Jess found it in an old obituary. “On November 16, 2005, Mrs. Vera Ecklund passed away in her sleep at Our Lady of Peace Hospice after a long battle with emphysema. She was seventy-seven at the time of her death. She is preceded in death by her daughter, Bonnie, and survived by her husband, William, and grandson, John, his wife, Sue, and her great granddaughter, Melanie.” Jess clapped her hands together to celebrate the discovery. Shakti scrambled out from under the table.