The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1) (31 page)

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. Halfway 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.