The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1) (29 page)

“Sorry, Bear. Did Mama startle you?” She picked her up and gave her a hug before saving a copy of the obituary to her desktop. She nestled her face against Shakti’s. “I’ve got names. I’ve got names,” she sang.

With that, her search for Johnny Sykes became remarkably easy. John Ecklund had attended UW La Crosse and kept in touch with their alumni association. Through their web pages, Jess found an announcement of his marriage, his daughter’s birth, and his tenure at St. Thomas University in the history department. “So,” she said, “Johnny is in St. Paul.” Jess went to the university’s site and searched for John Ecklund. At last, Johnny Sykes, all grown up, practically stared at her from her monitor. His faculty headshot showed a light-haired man of about forty. He wore glasses, a dignified sport coat and tie, but there was something about his expression, something almost impish, that said to Jess he was the kind of professor students love, the kind who makes education about more than the attainment of facts. If she were eighteen, she’d have a crush on him for sure.

Jess snatched up her phone and dialed the number listed.

“Hello?”

Jess wasn’t actually expecting to speak to him, not at 6:45. He should be home with Sue and Melanie. “J…” she stuttered, catching herself about to call him Johnny Sykes. “John Ecklund?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Jessica Vernon.” Her heart began racing. “I, um, I live in your old house in Skoghall.”

“I’ve never lived in Skoghall, Ms. Vernon. You must have the wrong person.”

“Wait!” Shakti began wandering around the studio in a figure eight with her nose to the ground. “Shit,” she muttered. “Sorry. My puppy has to go out. Hang on, please. This is important.” Jess tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder, then dropped it onto the cement floor with a loud clatter when she stooped to pick up Shakti. “Shit!”

She picked up the phone. “Are you there? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Ms. Vernon, I’m in the middle of some important research now. I really don’t have time for games.”

“I know.” She got the back door open with her foot and pushed through to the gravel parking area behind the livery. No park this time, Shakti would have to make do with the rocks. She put the dog down and sighed. “I’m sorry. Just listen for a minute, please.” John Ecklund’s silence was impatient, but hopefully intrigued. “I believe your first name was John Sykes, Jr. Your mother was Bonnie Sykes. She was killed in my house in Skoghall, which was your first home. I need to talk to you about your parents.”

“Look.” He breathed heavily into the phone and Jess heard the soft movement of papers on his desk. She imagined him removing his glasses and setting them on top of a stack of books. “You have the wrong person. My mother’s name is Bonnie, but she died in a car accident, and I never lived in Skoghall. Now, Ms. Vernon…”

“I can prove it!” Jess slapped her hand to her thigh and mouthed another curse word, this time at herself. She had no idea how she would prove anything to this man, she just knew she couldn’t lose him.

There was a pause, then another sigh. “How?” he asked finally.

“I…I’ll show you. Do you have caller ID? Do you have my number?”

“Yes, Ms. Vernon.”

“All right. We’ll do a video call. I have to go get something from my house. Just call me at this number in half an hour and I’ll prove it to you.” He was quiet again. “All right? Mr. Ecklund?”

“All right.”

Jess began to thank him, but he had already hung up. She pressed her palm over her heart and felt it thumping wildly inside her ribcage. This was it. This would put Bonnie at peace, but she had to hurry.

Chapter Nineteen

Jess ran inside the house with Shakti at her heels and straight to the coffee table where she had left the cowboy and photo. They weren’t there now, but she knew where to find them—on top of the roll top desk, where Bonnie thought they belonged. Jess set her phone on the desk and waited.

After fifteen minutes, she checked and saw that she had no coverage on her cell phone, so she got the house phone and called Johnny from her land line. It went straight to voicemail. Jess waited five minutes and tried again. This time she left a message saying that she had to use her landline. If he would call her, she would explain everything to him. When he hadn’t called a half hour later, Jess got his email address from the St. Thomas website and sent him a note.

Dear Dr. Ecklund,

I know how unlikely this sounds, but I believe your father is John Sykes. He is currently in prison, where he has remained for the last 40 years, for the murder of your mother, Bonnie Sykes. I have good reason to believe he is innocent of that crime.

He is also dying of cancer and is desperate to meet you. I would like to explain to you what I know and how I know it. Please contact me as soon as possible. Your father does not have long.

Respectfully, Jessica Vernon

She hit send.

His reply arrived within minutes.

Ms. Vernon,

I cannot imagine what you stand to gain from harassing me this way, but I insist you never contact me again. As I said on the phone, my mother died in a car accident and I know who my father is.

J. Ecklund

There was one more way she could get his attention—she hoped. Jess took a picture of the old photograph of the Sykes and emailed it to him. In the subject line she typed, “Is this you?”

She waited near her computer, refreshing her mail every couple of minutes. She imagined Johnny—she knew he was Dr. Ecklund now, but still thought of him as the little boy who lost his parents—opening the email and being shocked to see his himself in his mother’s arms with a man he could not possibly recognize as his father. And upon seeing that, he would respond. He would need to know everything she knew.

Jess continued her research while she waited for Johnny to contact her. William Ecklund, who would be eighty-six if he was born the same year as his wife, was still listed in the white pages as living in La Crosse. Jess copied down the address, then went downstairs to make toast and pour a glass of wine. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but she was so agitated by thoughts of Johnny and his grandfather that she didn’t have an appetite.

Jess stopped by the studio the next morning on her way out of town. Beckett was at the wheel, trimming the foot on one of his new plates. He didn’t bother to look up. She set Shakti down and approached him slowly, sensing something other than artistic concentration in his manner. He let the wheel slow, his hands resting on his thighs. There was an intensity to his look Jess had never seen before that fell just short of a glare. “Hi,” she said.

“What the hell, Jess? Hi? Is that all you have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry, Beckett. What’s going on here?” She stepped back from the wheel and set her purse on the work table, putting some space between them. Her hands went to her throat and her fingers played with the scarf she wore.

“Last night. Dinner.”

Jess gasped and her hand flew up to cover her open mouth. “I’m so sorry, Beckett. I found Johnny right after you left. I got excited and…”

Beckett held up a hand, the palm streaked with clay. “I don’t want to hear about it. You sent me on my way. I bought you dinner, like you asked me to, and then you never showed up. You never called. Nothing.”

“I know.”

“I’m furious with you right now.”

“I see that, Beckett. I’m really sorry. I got caught up with the Bonnie thing.”

“The Bonnie thing.” He picked some clay trimmings off the wheel and threw them into a slip bucket. The brown bandana that kept his hair back from his face brought out the blue of his eyes. Jess had never seen them looking so cold. “Is there anything else you can talk about? Is there anything more to who you are?”

Jess recoiled. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and watched Beckett, hoping he would take it back. Shakti meandered over to the wheel and sniffed his calf, then gave it a lick. He reached down to pat her head without taking his eyes off Jess. A smudge of clay wet  the pale fur behind her ear. When Jess had recovered enough to respond, she said, “No. As long as this ghost is haunting my house, there is nothing else I can talk about or take care of. I thought that was obvious.” She was hurt and fighting the urge to be defensive. “But there is more to me. A lot more.”

“You left the studio wide open. Anyone on the River Road could have come in and taken or destroyed everything.”

Jess closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. “I’m
really
sorry, Beckett. That was stupid. And selfish.”

“Okay. Apology accepted. I’ll get over it soon.” He put his trimming tool down beside the plate and climbed off the wheel. He moved away from Jess, and she did not follow. Shakti, however, did follow and jumped at his legs until he picked her up.

“She really loves you.”

Beckett grimaced as he worked his thumb free from between her teeth, and then with a twist of his wrist, his hand was over her snout, clamping it shut. “No,” he said firmly. “Yeah, she loves me all right. Loves to chew on me.”

“She’s teething. But she really does love you.”

“I know dogs, Jess.”

“Sorry.” If she apologized one more time, she was likely to scream. Owing someone an apology was one thing, being punished was another, and right or wrong, she was starting to feel punished. “I’m going to take Shakti out to the park.” She went to the back door and called the puppy after her.

They went down to the water’s edge and watched the Mississippi flowing by. Although early in the day, the air felt thick and moist. If they didn’t get some rain soon, it would be a difficult summer for the area. Already the riverbank extended farther out than it should and docks had to reach over strips of mud and sand, their pole legs exposed. Skoghall sat at the head of Lake Pepin, where the Mississippi widened considerably, which meant recreational traffic beyond what one would see on other parts of the river where the current, sandbars, and locks and dams factored into the boating experience. Shakti watched a powerboat pulling a water skier, alternately wagging her tail and barking as it passed. Jess had once gone swimming in Lake Pepin from the Minnesota shore. The water had been cold and murky. When she came out, she wore a thin coating of what she could best describe as sludge. She’d never had a desire to go in the Mississippi since.

She led Shakti back up to the grassy clearing. Shakti ran full speed in a loop, zooming ahead then darting in another direction altogether. Her tongue hung out of her grinning mouth and her ears looked like streamers, whipped back by her velocity. Jess couldn’t help laughing as Shakti tripped over her own big paws and tumbled in the grass. Jess ran with Shakti until her shirt stuck to the layer of sweat forming on her back. Then she remembered she had a plan and part of it was to look presentable. Jess put Shakti on her leash and led her back to the studio. She hoped Beckett was feeling charitable again.

The Cape Cod style home was a cute house, freshly painted and well-kept. A breeze moved the sheer curtains at the open front windows, causing them to billow into the rooms on the other side of the wall. Jess waited on the stoop and tried not to pry, though she was curious about the contents of William Ecklund’s house. She would be a fool to make the two-hour drive if he wasn’t even home. Of course, he could have given her the same reception Johnny had, and she believed it was harder to turn people away when you had to look them in the eye. She rang the bell a second time and waited. She could wait all day if she had to.

A short, wide-set woman in a straw hat and gardening gloves came around the side of the house carrying a spade and a bucket that overflowed with the broad, heart-shaped leaves of a hosta. She stopped and stared at Jess a moment before continuing across the yard to meet her. “Hello,” Jess said. The woman’s dirt-stained sweatpants were topped by a faded souvenir t-shirt from Lake Okoboji. Her face sagged on either side of her chin, deepening the creases that framed her mouth rather like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Her eyes, however, were nothing like a dummy’s, and Jess imagined her the life of the Legion Hall on a Saturday night. “Doing some transplanting?” she asked.